You could pinch my arm
and I wouldn't wince.

All feelings repelled
like water to oil.

If you lit me on fire
I'd share a smoky
sigh before suffocating
without ever saying a word.

Clamoring words,
self-induced quiver.
Worlds, locked inside the mind
of a fabulous mixture of trance,
wisdom and a fearless anxiety,
suddenly, subtly, spat words
of endless drudgery,
spoken vibrantly,

Sleep.
Sleep?
Sleep!



,

"Really? A barrel?"
"Yes."
"What's in it?"
"It's empty."
"But still. It's a barrel."
"Yes, a barrel."
"I have 2 thoughts."
"I only have one barrel."
"What a rip-off!"

The way her bones glitter:
it is rather beautiful
The way she sines
The way she LIGHTS up this world around me
Inside each bone of her thousands of stars burning themselves to shine
To bring the hidden beauty out of her
She glitters everything around her

I heard of a man
who never owned a
television.  
Instead he bought
a set of solid oak
bookshelves stained
like mahogany.

With the money
he saved on cable,
he filled them with
classics like Plato,
Aristotle, and Dostoyevsky.
He studied Darwin
and Descartes, and
memorized poems by
Whyte and O'Donohue

Because he never
made the switch to
high definition, he
could afford trips to
Rome and Tuscany.
Walking those ancient
streets and resting
in those heavenly fields,

he learned the art
of attentiveness,
minding the
genius loci
of a place,
and setting
one's cadence to
the breath of the wind.

And in the end,
he had a few books
of his own,
but they taught
nothing new
other than
how to truly live.