even though, blood become
               word. and the body
          continues to have to
     metabolize when slumbering,
till a future becomes
        some moved on
                                  parallel universe.
          (mahogany-stained oak grip;
                          she’s the better
               adventure, so don’t slip)
         and the Long Dark sweatings,
                     unusual;
             brambled-feet still stink.
     (it would snow
          in a raging roar)
        wonder, can the crazy
                      be smelled?;
        wonder, does the risen body
                      require metab.?;
        wonder, did he catch a ghost
                      between his teeth?
and now [SELF-DENTISTRY 101]
                     hold on –
         watch this guy
             pull his own tooth.
   (i’m too white
     to keep this a-flow)
but Paul spoke the red, (amanuensis,
    main-saint diggin’ the schizos)
and,            but wait,
       “Jesus spoke in red,” a lone
         cowboy sang.
and colorblind, remember
        and,
                  hold up,
     guy is still working
                that tooth –
     some paper towels,
     pair of pliers,
     someone to hold the light.
             “So I don’t get blood
                 all over my buddy’s bed,”
               [brake]
      “That was a long nerve.
           You hear it pop?”
               [brake]
           “If I was straight white-boy,
                   this’d be easy,”
               [brake]
   but what can follow.

first empty page; they lessen
                 and so on. a drawing
          closes distance, and
    to have missed that middle-branch
                     after searching
                         all the others, when
        thought-seeking meticulousness
                      flawed us --
             distracted by color.
be me some ******* keystone
       disturbance. all this
    *******, self-wrough, and
    seasoned by delicate hands.
                  (a bit of straggled breathing)
    a pale vessel to be burned; not
          so prevalent,
without some sided-suffering
         since denouncement of day-timer.
               cycle too fast,
       when the sun grows;
          burn-out right quick.
approach in calm and
    slothishness, chew nails
to nub, and move with a bit of
      caution. a drawing closes distance.

there was offered a cup
      of coffee to a hallucination;
   some test of disembodiment langors.
           then realizing, these dreams, --
     awaiting some metaphor here --
           are not all dream, and
you can sleep or
      you can ******* die
   as a drawing closes distance.

constant staring at scribblings
on the wall, wasting time. pages
stayed with tape and tacks with
words having found understanding
of how the Universe ticks --
*******.
thoughts scrawled before first
past life, put there by hand of
hopeful idealism. writ before,
then enacted through guise of
terrible excuses --
*******.
movement through with attempted
realization, and refusing quarter
for ends to selfish means. then
prying image to subjugate logic.
then onward selfish movement --
*****.
abated a time, then in the fourth
past life, perhaps sought retained.
though all lives cry out for adap-
tation. all crying out to leap,
to find the next waiting, the
one to find the prior salient --
digresser.
fourth found temporary per-
manence with excelling
from deceitful path traversed.
the changing of names follows
change from di- to noc-turnal,
with distance never relinquishing
hold that follows image of sub-
jugation --
metamaniac.

in disguised fashion,
and contemporary flair -
****-laden euphemism -
rushing thoughtless at
bricked wall.
knowingly, no way
through, though run
on tip-toes to
gain agility of ancestors.
pseudo rain-dance;
      is that cultural
      or is it racism?
no room at the bottom anyhow;
we'll linger here
developing emotional interlingua
as means to better,
to comprehend gaped chasm;
allusions, perhaps
it's a bit more magic
oriented than prior presumed.
            (the ever consumed)
then fretful sitting,
continued curiosities of death;
      (perhaps hyperbolic?)
feet still stink ten years later
while linger understanding
of sepsis; is this life infected?
is this a gangrenous growth
in existence;
was dead at birth,
and rehearsed the gurgles
prone to an actor's drowning
monologue. euphemism?
perhaps only rhyming to
schism metric longings.

Borges; this one
starts by your name.

fate did not want us;
fate wanted our words;
for yours to question mine.
to disenfranchise was its
goal on that July-ending day
in that smoke-fogged bar.
i shot true and drank with
heavied hand. you approached.
random-heaved spine, and you
were coverd by butterflies.
asked of life and responded:
      i owe the Universe some
           ******* poetry.
the question reciprocated but
you were found without breath.
time found us parting
with civilized talking of a
pre-determined clandestineship.
our fate quelled in that bar
on that July-ending day.

get ****** first --
    alright, where to now?

something's wrong, more so
different. brash-lashed
lethargy. biding patience
as its *****; not keen to
waiting. especially if there's
understanding of procrastination
when patience is non-necessary.
rush to waste; ****, that's perfect.
******* perfect poetic self-illumination.

there always-once will
lie anxiety from doubt
of the living without vessel;
only dies if it accepts
that kinda thing.
the less I know, the better,
with knees pulled to chest;
leaving small angles to
rest some paper and rest a wrist.
rest a forced stylus
leaving *******-blanks,
skanking up information.
[(like a harlot named Antounette)
I've never known an Antounette]
drugged and drawn, across tack-
board and it hurts,
but only till it doesn't;
rub salt into it till it bleeds.
there always-once will
be fawning for whom become
a character-study;
whom wandered along after
fingers were snipped.
swear, some joke of fate;
drawn in own creation, lame;
shredded over their creation,
fame.   constant pain of character
exuding into air, and, must be,
always downward.

proficient in professing,
       busted knuckle on top
   of burned hand -
             these, my penance
      for
  words are sacred; though
               words are wasteful
                    and haste-felt:
        "you're good," he said;
        "people are envious," he said;
        "i didn't even know
                 that was there."
                                             he said.
              this realizing
      now that actions must
                                    call to haste
           in order to catch words'
             promise of sacred verbal contract.
                  [ran long; try again]
always and anyway(s),
       this tongue
               distracted focus -
          thoughtless, stolen
   and marrow aches,
              muscles torn without time
       to allow a rebuild.
                             "you're good," he said.
  but,
              hands are
                        cut,
                            burned,
                 swollen,
       and so terribly winter-stiff.
          "you're good," he said;
"that knife is sharp," i said;
                  "you'll learn." he said.
     promise of sacred
        verbal contract.
                  [ran long; try again]

late morning -- pretty certain
i am drunk. three point; gotta
laugh at that.
     (there's something about you;
           seems to sync with the Universe)
                         light music,
with reminiscence of myth-
ologized ***** Den.
      (in silent darkness, walls
           vibrated in tonal quality)
***** Den; orange-light hazard
zone. occupied: white skin starving
African child.      (means you could
                              see the collar bones)
    GIMME THAT MOTHER
       ******* AMBIANCE
[(get in the background)
           i don't mean it]
      i do mean i want to sleep.
to be seeking destitution and
continuation of Self -- sac-
rificing wanderlust, genetically
struck?
      i do mean i want to sleep;
passed out a lifetime?    nah,
i lost my voice from recess, but
   **** that sixteen years,
though no waste. no waste,
and again i'll sing with you.

eatting bread to sustain
when days run head-long
and redaction of preservation
runs rampant. smiling,
season changing mentality;
that of slight insanity.
never stonewalled even
by sane and keening mind.
not leaving to spite the
long-dark's cyclical reaping;
to glide the ice this time 'round.

“train tracks claim Christian.”
starting with statement from
a dozen past lives’ back,
ruminating on his comment:
    “you speak as if your
      life is already over.”
and yes, my words conveyed
ring contempt of future seen
through these old-soul eyes.
seen – vision inters experience –
with a soul blooded by existential
understanding. and staring at
fixed point of cell’s wall,
questioning myself aloud:
    “what happened to
      this monastic wanderer?”
simply responded in thought,
response of breathless word:
     that is not your purpose
     in this rebirthing. and,
    “IT WILL NOT BE NEAT. POP”
that once barefooted vagrancy
in time of an innocent ideal-
ism, carried through years,
brought honest acceptance
that self-destruction is all we
can ever be certain of. and
if any rule governs the lives i run
footloose through, that is most
hopeful of all, for reconstruction
can and always follows in short
step. coming from vagrant bare feet to
hoping sight not being blinded like
the many listless eaters. and i sit
out, waiting for tracks to build
themselves in directions that in
end only led away from a pure
dawn’s rising sun. awaiting the
meticulous ponding where the
universe might provide haven for
this lotus eater. and once again,
in time of innocent idealism – again,
having learned falsifies – i choose
self-destruction so that i might
come to a reconstruction whose
foundation is not sole reverie.

to come back to this, after much
a long minute, feels like a *****
returned to brothel; perhaps the
harshness of the analogy is hype-
rbole. won't let a Crowley
****-block me; sun's
  too bright for that.
      should shower,
         but drink wine,
    and this is perhaps a poor
         reactionary response; ironic;
the ironned-iconic. pressed to be
           pre-dressed, and no need to cut
  a styled up-do;
                the hair isn't quite real,
anyhow. all-quite polyeurathane,
   or polysylvester, or
              never too keen for poly-
anything.          now hold up.
      nah, keep on the
          struttin' along, there's a better
one than you follows a
                 winger's lead.
             smoking cigarettes at the window
     while she sleeps; thine own eyes
        never stop in faltering-rest,
then restless-hoping that
                   pen-scrawls, window
   scraping sides when opened,
smoking a cigarette at the window;
           rattle-restless, hope
      is a beggar, but we are manifest;
                choosers can't be beggars.

a man once wrote
   ‘bout this cat –
         the hip cat,
   he said,
           one hip to the
                true scene –
then he wrote
   ‘bout this cat’s
             Tree.
      He hung there
   to cool –
         on His Tree –
      when people thought
          He was too hot.
             He cooled alright –
     in fact –
       that cat became
             so cool
He’s still
                 the
                            hip cat
          ‘round some parts;
               though,
      no parts remain.
some claim to be
       that hot –
          that hip –
     but only those
          truly hip to the
                 scene
        don’t share trees

two tough weeks ahead,
slept all day, the night -
time to finish off the schnapps.

H8412

now's the mistake; another 36thr. another of these
poor decisions, these stiff hands, and a once seventeen year-
old out in soul for remembrance of *******. and self-destruct-
ion. epochs ago to now, and in writ moment,
a loss of speech. isolation of a decade, but not always.
kinda like alonenness, but not always. kinda like the crossing of a des-
ert during multitudinal suns' rising; endless cessation
from night's innate lonesomeness. kinda, but not always, and
kinda breaking out with the freak outs. maybe there's become
a problem. (light's bleeding to the left) perhaps incite
a disconnection. perhaps that is forward by removal --
that all-evasive isolation. (unresponsive, compulsive) just touch
base again, but by this moment, may have slid right on by. grunged
pants, dirt streaks, to that tepid walk home as rains began. mud-
stains, and at least there's a good ******* cup of coffee waiting . .
        (broken thought)
                            when voice rings out,
                   "Cut your ******* hair!" as of feminism,
               always thought to be self-righteous ****;
                (again, breaking)
                   "Words are cheap, and breath is free." narrative
of own thought in anothers' voice. distracted; fatigued;
waking to coffee and toast. butter and jam, of course. realizing -- ever realizing -- that I will break every wine glass I ever own, and I will
leave it broken. avoiding the shards of shattered glass, at least,
until my foot drags the carpet. until my foot leaves inevitable blooded-trail.
and lips to wound, some kiss of peace felt from soul; after lips are no
longer of cheek, or of wound, they sing out for my life.
Always singing for life, when this voice always wails for the
absence of warming weather. And this voice is of perpetual
*******, often and forever repeating priorly stated words -- if only a line
back. If only there weren't this block. Past weeks, the past hours, have
been found .  . a ******* block. this voice is always falling deaf.

i remember being alone;
all done for sake of exploration.
plaster'd walls till copy paper
gain'd some ground, infinities
of translucent words.

Morrison mourning,
wailing quarter-century,
death puts forth footfalls.

did you know
there's an island where
you can hunt people?;
free-range of course.
cruelty free.
but there's not a whole
lot of sport to it,
you stay up in a tree -
for days and days -
so that the animals can
become used to your smell.
'cause you dont smell
the same as they.
and they tend to sketch
out with ease, and often.

again hot maca-
dame; sun warmed back. shadow leads
east. dewed fresh cut grass.

shot in the dark,
stumbling trepidation as
phantom bullets pierce.

H73112

and here had you to come
along again, to turn but
rut down-in again. why
of purpose bound-to-barter
by the wind in ragged
motion; trees don't sway,
but, more-so, break and fray
when antithetic priest-like
figures moan-chant away
the now, the new, that
coming for-into a wounded
day.  a channel/offair.

drop the anxiety and apprehension
face the chance at being reality
ask question of the forgotten memory
                     remember the Godhead?
allow a gaze to lose focus; to fixate
in open, fall back, point-for-point.
                     remember disconnecting from the birds?
recall the countless faces; those to fall behind.
                     remember the Great Mouse Detective?
re-encounter lone asphalt-walks. dewing Spring morning.
face the actuality of being reality
                     remember an ultra-blue sky in contrast?
***** spider; scared scree snake; melting with
polka dots; cats of demonic tongue; a mirror to drown
in; and familiar bed to end a return in.

i need to see the sun rise this day;
for feet elucidated of patterns
followed upon an earth. wearied
or aching, knees to find
rest on Katahdin's summit;
fictionalized place of birthed sun.
now mythos, now dawn and
an arrow sure to have missed
the moon's lover. fired
by childhood mockery
while birds awakened song.
i need to see the sun rise this day;
for eyes be witness of intri-
cacies entwined upon an earth.

i no longer need to be
here, if need there
ever even has been.
and now, most whole,
need precipitates con-
scious effort for to
better participate in
matters that shouldn't
hold my attention. but
they hold my attention.
maybe it's due to
constant lack of exis-
tence, maybe these
feet realize settled
vessel is dying from
need. 'don't fight it.'
their resonant voice
to this restless body
waning with waiting.

god isn't all back-talk,
but why do we ignore?
again repeated to save
the sleeper;
why not save yourself?
what may come after? and,
now writing by guided
half-light of morning;
purples hues, and
incandescent colorblindness
of a growing dawn.
drop your shoulders,
quit tying knots throughout
your back; how
can the Holy Fire strike
through layers of caked icing?
******* wash it away,
******* dust the flour
from your hair, attempt to
self-(lost the next word)
to remember
you came forth from nothing
to be gifted self-determination.
and realize, even god is cyclical
upon our dimension;
    wane to gain,
   return for praise from yearn.
there's fear, if only
because there's reality.
chills through spine, radiating
outward under skin; this is
melody's echo chamber -
hyperbolic time chamber in metre.

she grip'd my hand
in front of her boy. between the
two there were four kids,
she age'd in at twenty-six and
i never caught his. twenty-nine
he call'd me, and thirty
thrown at crony -
come on man,
just ask for a cigarette.
conversation ensued in air of
reeking oil and acrid smoke,
thankful for the backs of chairs.

fine, here we go,
and i hate my other
writers. thought to
words i wouldn't
have chosen; thoughts
i wouldn't have thought.
inferiority, and this drunken
stupor caused of imbibing
far too much noise. but
the noise is there, and constant
and constant and repetitious
fallacy spewed forth. accepted
as accepted, and there's the uniques'
flaw.
                      (no one needs you but Q)

writing, more than considered normal.
especially with the distraction i've
brought. reading back more, and
i'm surprised time-to-time at the
style and such *******. and perhaps
this is hell. perhaps. *****-driver
as only way out. think about it.
perhaps this is in truth Samsara.
perhaps. then the question why
this vessel is a failure. purpose and
reason for this reiterate. perhaps it
was the purple highlighting of some
sacred text. perhaps, but digressing.
thoughtless with head throbbing as if
coming up. lack of slaap, lack of true rest,
and the hallucinatory aspect has kicked
in. a bit late. though, the wind
looked awful wavey today. and red was
quite loud. perhaps only a hang over,
if only that logic weren't quashed by
absence of rainbows and unicorns.
perhaps if only, but digressing.

(making sure the
     crease is tight)

     bringing in massive amounts of
information in past few weeks; past
month finding excel for creative-effort.
     consolidation may be required; maybe
a bit of desolation left to wake. in wake.
had to specify; to make sure.
     quite some worded-path here-found
us our footfalls lay silent; untrodden
under-growth. the Void carries no sound.
     found Earthen-detachment after
land swept in tidaled-tears. seas colored
gray, reflection of vision lost from Light.
     retracted narration, refracted thought,
forcing pan-plane sight; listen, bones yet
vibrate once more. another time; now.
     pallet-hoarding bricks enough to path spanses in thought-memory. burn the
bridges while building; two birds,
one self-destruction.
     allegorical immolation; sat in silence a bit too far out there. synchronicity; some
perfect-hidden stalker.
     allegorical cave; words with no promise
of unison in conveyance. leading around
some Tree Of Flashing Visions.
     all-aligned eyesight as the sun dawns.
swimming head; mental-cud of knowledge.
at influx of Ones' differed perception.

                                   (making sure the
                                          grease is slight)

iconising by her walk
averting sight when shawled
female comes 'round corner.
on-ward, foot-looker, shaming
self due to abundance; shaming
self due to ennui of purpose.

ginning grins at end.
mind vacant, soul's been writ clean.
sins of pre-dawn bliss.

sitting on steps while
laundry dries. head aches
from time between last
rest and next; the concussives
haunted a skittish-dreaming
mind. hallucinating footsteps
while alone, but nothing
worse than demons seen
walking the streets of dawn.

I sighed and stared at a distraction --
             the ceiling, while one
    brought me tea, I confessed
to thoughts that ran
          the gamut "and time
     is limited." The girls gently
               cooed, and tattooed
                       Alaska
            with respect and an app-
                   reciation for the most valu-
                       able tears of pride.
    The message was pithy and concise
            just like me
        a few months prior, before
             a God-given resource that grew
          together, into
                heavy-duty materialism
   provided for the family. God gives us
        time to choose how
                 to waste it. He doesn't like
     to seem so much more enlightened
                                 than the rest of us but
                  He talked about respect
              for nature, and was adamant about using
   every part of any children with special needs.
                        As my mom had warned me years before,
       I wasn't listening. I remembered the
              Old Testament story of
    "There's nothing alive in there."

OH, sometimes we slip
cumulative experiences, missing
keys, but on and along some other's
new patterned-rhytms. just buy some
character; hit in hopes to stop
irking measures. we all end up
minding another. hoveling
the initial, and first-prime
enslaver, to rip free from Natural
objection in reality. static-cra-
ziness to me when joints,
droning ambient, crackle
like bubble wrap. pondering
on for far too long, and was I
even to speak, alongside
your falsified grace.

She went on to explain
   that I could go home and
        let hated prejudice land,
from litter to gossip
           and pretension. My face fell.
   Her bluntness shocked me.
          In the larger scheme of things,
     I also knew that unless I traveled
         without sweltering
                     in conditions that had my
           girls complaining about our priorities:
       fancy food,
         fancy clothes,
           fancy anything. Their efforts
   reminded me of the newly inked
                  tattoos and the mercury
soaring for the water of physical transportation;
       practical became apparent. The answer
   turned out to be yes. "Watch my artwork, Doc!"
                  Trust me,
                                   I know this stuff,
          they want close personal tragedy,
         a fleeting thought, my parents
               sick and hollow. We
   certainly had differences but I loved
        every part of the nickel apiece
                          and
        exotic sweat equity that
                                 was off-limits
                      for many years. Why?
   A sudden, "I'm out of town."
         that they cannot do for a split
               second. No one would ever
       have to know. Into tears,
   "These are really less-than-ideal circumstances."

we could sing some crazy half-
song; come, come on and along
and come harmonize. if not us,
then hunger-pains growling
can lead the line. and maybe
throw some stones to judge the
water sat tranquil; air
as other viscosity. breath-
less diving, racing stones to
bottom, yet vessel, feigning,
finds panic without gills.
hold breath till they find
their evolving times; die to
repetition, (along the way,
a few million times) we tend
to lose track, though. often.
always. another word here
to describe mans' deceptive time.
we could sing some crazy half-
song; come, come on along
and let us cease rocks thrown
through water at
the man trying so hard to drown.
the man hoping so full that
his organs be traded; skip
effort of a couple millennia.
like darkening skin without a sun;
evading darkness as well as Light.
striding on and over, bringing
prophetic words to forced-truth
on par servilitous, as
the mind's eye shuts another time;
perchanced final, no death knell.
we could sing some crazy half-
song; come, come on and along
and come see him float the stones
thrown to water's bed, on back
of he whom failed to adapt.
failed to rush the process;
failed to see himself as the first -
beginning, to start the queue.
the stones had long been yearning
to float as not to be
any longer thrown-judgement.

Three weeks, by now, of
constipated thought; of
hand cramped beyond stretches
of practice. Three weeks spent in attempt of detox. Of mind-numbing lack for inspiration. Mind-numbing words muttered, "I haven't been this ****** up .  ." (in a long time)
Always, ****** the feel-
good of chemical percentages.
Where the green grass grows, is all. Reflecting is all; standing alone
on warming winter sunrise. Slop-
made bed, the corneres left out. Stomach churning, smoking cigarette,
waiting for the coffee to finish.
That good ******* coffee that
held me through the rain.
Another night meant for day,
and this gracious vessel has never
been meagre in following along with the whims of some spongey tissue.
Of letting loose the general acceptance that a brain's attached to spine. 
oh   oh,    oh oh;  that brain'll die
easy some day. Not today, not now,
not but maybe.  (who knows?)
maybe the wrong decision been
made. No questions now;
(after so many cut hands and feet)
they're too small for answers so large.

steel gray waters past
               land and sea are
               lived much
               -- in fact,
               personally represented and
   hey,
           how divided are you now?
           coming off eight years of a
     hundred days missed?
                by ending breath,
             the air was taken in chord
             and mimicked some expectant energy.
   you're somewhere, getting there
   only by will of the day(s).

mornings grow longer;
another sun setting out for
a coming long dark. presence
of alacrity necessary. fatigued
by heat, no more macadame;
no more July. seeking spring
and the click-clack before arrival;
the walls are well-pinned and ready.
presence of focus sloughs away.

. . remember the Light. protecting what you used to waste. leave a legacy to ruin; acting a whole-while with lead-in brand, and one-night stand. HURRAY! running on, and always why cry to care and burden all with your emotions? how instatic are you? **** it; too quite. play a dealt hand for once; never be good enough. and **** whoever puts the cork in wine. and, no, you'll never be good enough; and you can sleep, or you can ******* die.

eighty-eight, light breeze,
dusk, gentle swaying branches;
balcony sitting.

impromptu drug adventure.
      (terrible incrimination)
              at an end, at least
enough to pass out.
M-dude hit me up, years
out; i'd given up.
      things fall apart.
shoulda trusted in time and
let allow what will.
      NEW AGE HIPPIESTER.
  been alone a while,
had lost faith. still doubtful.
            always aware of kindness,
         sighting with hoped deftness.
                 mind over matter,
                           just keep swimming.
           (Mariner's Revenge Song)
        to keep their nursery
               nice and neat.
   ***** Den
        of present has been
           christined
        to almost pinnacle;
   the list requires
      a few more things.

                   yeah?

scarred and marred of arms
and soul; waiting to heal
knowing can only flip on
owned heel. slip a bit while
rushing with lil' mlle in back-
ground smilin' imperfection
and seeing all loss possible;
knowing, as always, perfection
as the greatest joke. then laughing,
denying self-owned scrying eyes.
then another, her strut offset by
sky way too blue in in an early morning.
body contrasting,
blinding eyes long dead to vision.

i am a ****, yeah;
i am an *******, oh yeah;
to resume for all.

realizing now, real-
ized always. souls empty found,
eyes see not behind.

resting, cross-legged; cigarette
smoke rising - ***** lit den-
esque situation. nothing, up
from bottom but knowing the
superfluous. phoenix reference
and unnecessary adjectives
go here.
                                            (lapse)
body aches, lack of sleep.
vessel ill-treated with
absolute knowledge. all
this torn muscle must
rebuild stronger. penance;
words to get by.
                                            (lapse)
in-line, even when the lines
ran dry. clever with no more
thought, and patient always.
something certain about
breathless expression.
                                           ¡Salud!
and last sup of whiskey. and.

antithesis - night.
darkened Eastern sky before
revelation day.

gods will author great disaster
to empty plenty-enough vessels. man
has always known man; blinded,
and heretical vehemence, testing
flaws cited by narrator. listeners,
to ennui, while dust-devils rise,
and fall, with time
to unheard metric-rhythm.
(never did we start the ticking-pace)
too stubborn, feuding selves to turn
brand around and unto Deity's forehead;
wrists given to be bound, willingly.
as always done for a chance at conne-
action through-vessel-from-soul
to shunt the earth;
dead now, always, also again
to beckon me in two and along
lost thought with the words
left to draft, held in mind.

and to see your feet move upon the stage again
as the audience gasps when you take a leap -
no need for concern, your toes find you nimble.
to witness the fluid, the uninhibited, the Angel
you become when your wings are allowed to unfurl.
and this is how i remember you.

burn **** down, whatever,
don't give a **** to prattle on
in youthless connection;
shown fear in a handful of dust, then
a lotta life on their face.
at least not all go hungry.
transcend dead-time,
know now how to be alive,
to find decisions forgotten of history.
now, walk away with interest at zero;
     stronger than enslaver.
     trying to frolic without
letting time fly, but check it out,
where did these rings come from? like
basic-complacency, sprouted
like grain, like burial flowers
wilted and browned; death in a hand-
full of dust, swept
in circles. tripping
in the muddle-colored puddles
with curious thought,
'When did the line
          move farther up the path?'