Dandelion roots slow into dirt.

Working past ages of dust and skin,
bleeding out ancients for the ancient energy within.

Blankets of ages wear into an earth built silk head high above heaven for the sort of life that can be instilled by a seed held above death.

Old energy never dies away,
it's the priming of the candle that lights the path for the next day.

I'd made a cathedral made of mud,
and the local pigeon was our dove.

Our mass of candles stood,
massive sticks stood in for candles with no wicks.

On congregated and consecrated Sundays with the local cats,
some were stray, and some were ours, and some just liked the snacks we held in reception after service.

Speaking in front of the congregation made me nervous,
Sure, it wasn't Sunday,
No one knew.

They just did what kitties' do.

All kitties do is watch and play, and that's what I did too.

I played preacher and prayed with my fuzzy flock everyday

Gasses last about as long as a mass of memories.

Moving about in space,
laced with acid
and
storied massive centuries.



Gloss is fragments classed into fragments massed about in sand.

Blandness stands still, blonde and on call.


Knots hold golden ships,

Slipknots hold not at all.


Stalling makes glass great in smaller pieces.

By breaking leashes, you must need harsher bits in your eye.


Stay still.

Don't try.

Lying will wear you out too.

Just don't breath.

Blue is in season, and it looks real good on you.

Flabbergasted by misguided altruistic zeal isn't appealing,

neither is kneeling next to a half-hearted neighbor,
and spilling your guts.

Nothing will work, and it's nuts.
But, making is like living without taking up more than you need.

And even then, it can suffice avarice, greed, by allowing the self
to make and consume one's until, with out outside help or need.

But, callous and canvas can't stand lack of work,
so the stork of labor swaddles on over and dribbles out a bindle.

Carrying a button, a bun in the oven,
an warm hearted creature in need of some lovin'

So, start shovin' your sorries and stories away in a heap,
because someone
might someday
rely on you
rely
on the silence and peace of your sleep.

When the sun comes out again

is when

I plan on calling all everyone,

because by then

everyone will be my friend,

forged over fields of fever posies and possies of angries.


So, please

Grease the wheels of progress by rounding your rough edge

and by doing your best to be and make everything easy.

Please allow yourself some bed rest for what sort of wicked gang are we.

Seven days have held heaven above my head, they took everything.

They took my robe, staff, and bread.

So instead, instead of feeling sorry and running my self dead after
the cliff had opened her arms for me.

The earth can shake, and I can starve.

Freedom painted on the golden hillside,

when I close my eyes
that's all that I can see.

Hassling pissants after breaking my face open

The world is blood red.

And the only thing protecting my eyes are my eyeglasses.


Stiffing and short changing beautiful women is only fun if they're just as willing to play along.

I could teach you how to play guitar,

we could write a song together.

And maybe even spend some time outside once the weather gets better.