There’s irony
In our struggle to resolve
In our vain attempt to state
That if we decompose the world
And isolate
The properties of every element
We can construct it bottoms-up
In all its former glory

Yet nature still resists
For it is not made of the details
But of all that manifest between
It is not balanced on a needle
But emerges from the pattern sewn
From the answer, not to “Why?”
But to “Why not?”

If we just distance the objective
From the subject, that is subjective by default,
And take a glance from far enough
The universe unfolds
A whole
Much larger than its parts

The same way motion
Is not defined for isolated sole
Same as color
Is never measured by a single pulse
The same way poetry
Does not exist within a single word
Creation
Is not the grains, but the coast whole
That lets us know just where
The sea begins

Little brown sparrows—
Summer leaves of shedding trees,
  .  .  .  Wistful tawny breeze.

North cornered near the glass ain't gonna' last
Cause the money is running out
It's running out fast
Nickel and dimed' burning money burning pride
With the liquor stores all closing and mother mary praying whispering
"Sarah, sarah, sarah..."
No names in these streets empty touched' defeat
The meat is getting angrier surlier burlier
The heat is getting heavier breathier and touchier
Blankets burn in the Connecticut sun mother mouths something
But I can't make it out
With these posters on these white walls falling for their own droll
Committed to the picnic that is not life at all
Putrid in these notes that sail through the air never fail
With the heart that once was held
By a women that I thought I'd take the time to know
But then the winds came with the side ways rain
All that pain that I couldn't bare or understand to stay
There was the window washing maniacs pinching pennies
Letting go of their soul for another side dish and entree of dough
Ploughing through their TV screens which falls through their skin like
Love used to do but in the blue hue there was nothing
They could bear to do
Bear man breaks open the skin flecked electro heart machine
Shocking every last one of us past the point of divinity
Already through the heart and mind and limb of man
Into the skin and the blood and the beating eye lids
Of a brother I never had, that man named CID
Jesus named me no name so I wander wherever my feet may carry
Never had no religion only long lesions through the seasons
Cut wound bleed break breakfast dinner bird
There was a glint in the sun
The way she gripped and held Her sword
Graining through pages of past history *******
Seeing visions of kaleidoscope faker ***** with their blisters
Gripping their panoramic sisters
Beauty in the eye of the hair that twists
In the mid-west chilling winds of the whisp
Forests burning boringly gripping the last hope of
Mother murdering herself just to stay alive
In a stride of elegance tides of benevolence
Roaring rewind curb side b-lines
And a mix-tape that spins and spins and spins
But plays nothing
No nothing
At all

a quatrain is not a tomb. it's an altar of cellulose and low merchants chanting.
we sell the individual curses of our seldom mirth. songs sting as they must -
for they must not !  if they will not hurt...
if they will not be beautiful, for the asking.
a poesy is a feast.
a revenant of our choosing, unless you had no choice.
i am the receptacle of This voice; and solve ridicule with ranting,
just because.
i fuzzy the logic to inspire the haggard hopes of our refrain; unrestrained.
remaining on vigil,
i mark the stars passing in a waking slumber -
with a fool's mask. and a talent's masking.
i am the urge.
how my mind works is my heart's domain.  a wrench in the parsley we hardly; i daily.
i parsnip the rube barbs of a bards assemblage.  i revisit Atlantis.  Polaroid pics -
with graining.  with irony
i photo
shop.

a quatrain is not a tomb, but a rarity,
as we say new the old things
that make us
we.
for i, for one
am one.
i continue
from no sum
and eventually
add up
to something
because -

why not ?

I wasn't falling asleep.
My eyes closed must have looked like  it.
I was listening to your voice
Out of pitch, graining against the original voices.

The heavy oak door creaks before slamming behind me
Floorboards echo these cries with each pressing footstep
My eyes set upon a beige leather couch cracked and falling apart
As I collapse onto a cushion, I can hear the seams ripping and pulling
Dust billows up into the air and my nose, then falling to the table
Weathered and beaten, I lean over the table and it threatens to break
Two coffee cup stain rings carved into the wood graining as if they belonged
I trace one with my index and wonder where we had gone wrong
There is a moaning in the next room filling up the house
I recognize the tremendous groans of the stairs and look to their hideous song
Soft and smooth notes playing over them in a cautious placement
I listen to her humming and my core vibrates in congruence

I miss that song.

I lurch forward but my body does not dare to leave her again
Her dimples begin creasing, her eyes meeting that familiar motion
Pale arms outstretched as she sits beside me on the ancient couch
Threads between us tear and unravel as she pivots to look at me
“You came back for me.”

Take away their power
and ignore their pain.

But culture is perennial,
and no practice is in vain.

You’ve cut the line
but the call is still coming through.

Change is coming.
With or without you.

Take away their language,
but the land will teach them the way.

Knowledge and memories,
will always stay.

Try to obstruct their knowing,
haven’t you heard?

Your graining insistence,
is quiet like the blue bird.

The river is flowing,
the sun is still stirred.

Ancient lines of wisdom,
what are you afraid they might learn?

Your resistance to beauty,
beyond absurd.

When will you let them find freedom?
Surrounded by the colonial herd.

Losing the quiet for the sound
I wish all for nothing to be found
My lips aren’t moving till I see the one inside

The rat is where the moon should be
I’m such a ****, I couldn’t say
I’m a little noise in the sound
You are such a wonderful clown
So let’s go to wake them up
Our arms are winning at the spot

My elimination’s tropic sign
Spitting and laughter fill my mind
Carve inclinations beaming at the suit of sight

My illumination is writ
For the fun
Plotting every time in the grit
Lots of fun
Graining suffocation too
The room is having suffrage grooves

Guess all the times I haven’t got
Break to the air and leave a lot
Climb into nature with a sort of havoc spot