Weave through the roots
Mangroves alike.
A foxtail, catch it quickly.
The birds sing for you help.
Grapes fall from their vineyard.
You have run too far.
Don't give up.
A cacophony ensues.
The nesting hens are disturbed.
The fox is gone and along with his prize.

jaeger.
chasseur.
foxtail.
seduction of fascism in mind,
like tumbling autumn leaves
ever and always
on the steps of a country house.
always and ever
just outside the aix-les-bains dance hall.
his blousy new bride
and her old lover
aware of his sympathies and
  the danger he presents to them.

jaeger.
chasseur.
foxtail.
seduction of fascism in mind,
ever and always
on a deserted alpine road.
always and ever
one trail of blood,
remnant of the preyed upon.
she screams against the glass,
quiet devil in the backseat
haunted by the disorder
  of his own mind.

eyes opened to
his own mutability.
alienation is immanent,
bred in the bone.
a desperate need for gravitas,
built upon vaporous credulity.
and she is pursued through the woods
ever and always,
through iridescent fields
always and ever,
until finally in his crosshairs
  she falls.

those like him have not suddenly
vanished from the earth, but
  are merely lying in wait.

i came to you for a straight path
with no crossroads and walls at the sides
to lock in my free mind as best one can;

but you built my dreams back up instead
like collapsed buildings after a war
(which, in a way, they were);
you restored me at the start.

for pocket change, you took my soul
and folded it until it was an origami crane
that soared over mountaintops and deep blue seas
and lived off hopes and wishes and dreams;
a tiny piece of paper, flower print
that came to life to watch the foxtail valleys
and toblerone mountains of my mind
and it watched the memories of me riding among the clouds
and swimming in clear turquoise waters
and crying over friendships lost.
we will always remain that way
you form me, fold me, throw me into the air
while I remain, just cellulose, pliant, never my own -
yours to be ripped apart.

it was what i came for, after all.


cs

How to break an addiction. Decide to live.
What can I learn from my pain. Danger.
And friends are merely friendly, live on independent
of your injury. You will not be missed in church on Sunday.

Grass. ****, broccoli, burrito, stink, ***, skunk.
I'm talking blue grama, upland bent, smooth brome,
riverside panic, wild rye, fowl meadow, spike muhly,
sweet vernal, salt marsh, bristly foxtail, little bluestem.

****** is unhealthy, opens lesions in the brain,
wormholes into hell, yet should be legal. I'll vote that way.
It may ease the pathos into non-existence
well as meditation, bird watching, last will and testament.

Each joint hurts, rib joints, spine joints, skull plate joints.
The head and hip and heart will hurt, all three.
Insomniac I like the way bones crack and clack like
wooden wind chimes, an untuned piano, a tree rack of wornout
      shoes.

Never forget, the mind is the body paying attention
to what it's doing. Without that connection, each finger bent
or toe smashed is just added to the collection
of anonymous body parts of holocaust victims

in their mass graves. Better when every life saved
or lost is a front page story, an illusion of shared
sacrifice or joy, but that expresses only the surface
of our emotions. I'm mostly relieved to have survived.

On a ridge so nice,
Nest of Paradise,
Here come in the end,
Down the ***** descend
Three white flocks in queue
And three shepherds, too,
From Moldavia land,
Transylvania land,
And from Vrancea land.
And the second one,
With the Vrancea's son,
Well, they schemed a lot
And devised a plot
At the end of day,
Merciless to slay
The Moldavian guy,
Richer – cant' deny –
For has many sheep,
Which are fair and leap,
Horses trained for ride,
And dogs full of pride.
But that ewe, so cool,
With a gray-white wool
Three days in a row
Spoke in a voice low,
And walked to and fro.
– O, gray little ewe
And with white wool, too,
Three days in a row
Spoke in a voice low!                    
Doesn't the grass grow
Or you're feeling blue,
My beloved ewe?
– O, my shepherd dear,
Bring your sheep down here
Near the woods today
Where we have much hay,
In the shade you'll stay.
Master, hear my clue,
Call a dog to you,
Bold and of good breed,
True to you, indeed,
For when night is near,
They will **** you, dear,
The Vrancea's mean son
And the other one!
–  My ewe with meek eyes         
If you are so wise
When you see me dead
On a foxtail bed,
Tell the Vrancea's son
And the other one    
To dig me a tomb
In this pasture's womb,
Near the pen for sheep
To bury me deep;
Or behind the logs
To hear all my dogs.            
Tell them what I say,
Near my head then lay
A pipe made of beech
Its nice song to reach,
A pipe made of bone,
With a doleful tone;
A pipe thin and real,
Which plays with much zeal!
Wind will sweep the grass
And through them will pass
All the sheep will flee
Here to cry for me
Shedding tears a sea!                
If I'm killed, don't run,
But tell everyone
I married one day
A queen far away,
The world's bride, I'd say;                  
At my wedding, tell
That a bright star fell;
That the moon and sun
Held my wreath for fun.            
Firs and oaks with nests
Were my lovely guests,
Priests, the mounts with herds,
Fiddlers, the wild birds,
Birdies stood to watch,
Stars shone like a torch!
And I'm asking thee
If one day you see
Old mom feeling down,
With a belted gown
Crying in despair,
Asking everywhere,
Shouting in the air:            
"People full of joy
Who has seen my boy
Shepherd proud and dear,
Slim and without fear?
His face soft as silk
And as white as milk;                  
His moustache so sweet,
Yellow ear of wheat;          
His hair combed with skill
Black like raven's quill;
His eyes deep and droll,
Two pieces of coal?”
You, my dearest sheep,
Pity her and weep
Then tell her somehow
That I'm married now
To a young queen nice,
There, in Paradise,                      
But don't give detail
To that mother frail,
That on wedding night
A star lost its light
Firs and oaks with nests
Were my lovely guests,
Priests, the mounts with herds,
Fiddlers, the wild birds,
Birdies stood to watch,
Stars shone like a torch!

You can write your life in elegies, the culture still remains the same
Some say we can make the truth or zero-knowledge from song and dance
Old and aged, insatiable and satiate our addictions lancing us on horses hedonistic
If I were a psychiatrist I'd read you, talk of zero summers, in Hebrew biopsy and medicines, a free think of hope, dangerous thing
But, soon wildflowers will be writing about you makes it worth selling, trouble bed's made and occupied by ***** and mead
If I were a state of mind, I'd be a person of my lines of stares
I write these as an essay on the highs of cultural expression, Tanks can also be a form of cultural expression
Maybe it's oppression on the fire of the year of ten soldiers on the freedom of the nightlight and lively likeness if we were searching for lost gold
It's a way we write about the memories and have free will and fears too, truant about freedom often losing courage and killing kings, queens often make out of it really sad
Rarely, raffle, rabble fiefdom, caviling censuring frenetic energy, virile yelling, on the catatonic hall in the cat in the LA Alhambra hall, or maybe souls pass in that dark hall
It is in the falling stars, into the years as they go by on the fault line of insatiate desires, burning fires in the circles of hell
Arriving in this Le suiva drama or friends in our pallbearers of different friends married to different soulS
Hangovers and everything, black and blue, white and black I cannot tell that the kitten is following in its the prologue of lithe likewise following the battered suitcases on the ways, and long ago
Something like this friendship and relations, festering autumn, seasons change and the summers brings the music of the piano man, Billy Joel
Plays in the freedom that reeks of freedom in the hallway, reflecting in the drunk cigarettes, starched shirts often come in the forum of swarth men, in the frescoed building painted with freewill to achieve
Heights for freewill and tumescence in tempestuous objectivity, of how we look at life, grades of herons, Freud's animals degraded in this foxtail, a plant across the house
In yonder tempered mental gaze, it's struggling to solve these worlds in fewer drinks and more works
Works offered their dreams, we offer the night terrors and midnight mistreatment
Treatize odyssey, riches to rags, muses can call me in my sleep and leave me out wry
Dry