The farmer and the poet walk side by side. 
The wind is blowing and with every grain of sand approaching their skin, the kettle moves closer to boiling. 
The farmer with his miniature mule in his palm sweeps in motion with his other hand, the one with golden rings and chewed nails. 
He shows the poet that the land must be toiled. 
And sweat must mix with blood to form meaning to one's life. 

The farmer combusts into ashes over the poet and the untouched bloodless ground. 

There is no anxiety. 

The poet and the glassblower walk hand in hand, shoulders pressed closer, finding rhythm in each other's differences. 
Warmth and love shine from their portrait. 

And the poet thinks as he walks. 
The thoughts collapse and the glass blower breaks into sheets. 

Furthermore into jagged shards and then, into pieces too small for a human eye to see. 

With each step the poet contains his winces and his groans. 
Walking his every step, a moment closer to suicide. 

I'm aware this is temporary. 
The solution is permanent. 
Stay as permanence, pouring as warm oil from the eternal lion's mouth. 

I grow uncomfortable. 
Distance yourself and twist language. 
Pull yourself together.

Never have I seen so many pentagrams. 
Hung silver, some in coarse thread. 
Thread still thin but not thinning. 

The wind blows. 
The pentagrams stay steady. 
Never wavering or moving as an ocean. 
Seductive stillness yet to be determined if satisfying. 

The cross above the suburbs is tangible. Yet the willows fold, bend and move in unholy patterns and manners. 

My eyes close. 
A moment ago they were open and burning, forgotten realms. 
A love affair with fantasy. 

From the prairie's apathy, the infirm stand strong on the jagged mountain. 
Sagging skin ***** over the husks. 
Weather the gusts. 
And the time it takes to say for certain. 
Their numbers fall with every grumble from the wet and shiny harbor.  


Miles above, the delta beckons. 


Farther below the road is beginning. 
With its paralyses. 
And it's warnings of approaching excellence. 

A pile of soil collected daily. 
The farmers rub their square white teeth in confusion. 

The universe with nothing beyond. 

When she thinks of death, she is sad. 
There is pride knowing there is no ever after, there is nothing after. 
I am sad. 

During the panel, words of observable importance betray her and flee.  
Betrayal found with the black mask, the semiautomatic fire and the only man who could make her ***. 
The singularity is denser now. 
Collapsing as memories of the father spark the misplaced tinder. 

They echo along her ******* and fall as the residue pools in her *******. 

Finding helixes without the tools to measure them. 

Speaking little of anything.

Afflicted he sways. 
He tells me this. 
Then his ears bleed. 

Again, she's coming. 

He too is there. 

Under the cover of tequila I slipped and moved into your shoes. 
The burning sensation and the multiple *******. 

So, alone I will move. 

This is proving difficult. 
To take this heart and find the metrics necessary. 
This liquid has no geometry. 
These coughs are nothing syptomatic. 

My throat it will bleed. 
And then I will sleep. 

Again the fluid makes its own level. 
So when the pens are counted and the ounce is shortened, feel comforted. 

This gesture. 
Pointing towards a technology. 

Become the theater. 
Be the vessel of integrity. 

Oh 
we see 
your stitches bursting

and

we hear you mumble unholy lamentations. 

I offer myself discipline. 
And to you I portray daffodils. 
Or a primrose if this act does not resonate. 

Applaud yourself. 
For asking is cause ways for approval. 

This is all wiped away. 

The storms so angry and fully misunderstanding their torment blew rebirth. 


And now the trains stop too frequently. 
The continental steel divide is voiceless. 
The more powerful elements;

Clicking of tongues. 
Wagging of yellowed fingers and floppy tails. 

Open your ballot so they may steer your children's fate. 

All I wrote of now belongs to you. 
My every step covers me in unapproachable clouds. 

Silvery leaves in the forest. 
All laying down, nestling my head. 

As depressed waters. 

Discipline here. 
On this barrier of shadow, light and shadow. 

I meant to change the tapes. 
Giving this entity a broader palette. 

The classics, they just screech when inspected. 
My gazes of the house divert down to my feet. 
Its contents remained. 
Holding still and lingering with hares be. 

But I have changed. 

I kept myself with company and forgot the stories and lessons. 

So you see, your raising is now just a sad story left to burn. 

I move my feet over, not onto the tarmac. 
Gliding into the private jet and spreading my legs for these buttery levers and cartons. 
Behold the cranes and doves toiling and rising in my heart. 

Soon to drown in the acidic memories your voice is offering. 
With the push of a button I destroy your misdirection. 

The afterwards is nothing. 


Searing pain from his shadow!
How wholely I am burned by this flare from across the river. 
A touch on my shoulder and there are not enough concubines to drown my anguish. 

Display your show of strength. 
Sit with me and listen. 
It is best for us both. 


Cotton picking. 
Leathered eyes searching for currency. 
The wait outweighs the risk. 
Be honest. 
They are lying and you knew. 
Shake my hand. 
Make it mine and learn the importance of minutes. 

Trip over me as I capture this moment with your flailing aperture. 

Your head straight and your spine back to normal strength. 

Masters. 

The old emperors in comfortable clothes full of invigorating erections. 

Be tasteful with your removing a. 
Leave the droppings and soak in as much as you can. 

Who am I, young skinwalker?

Remove this part and hear his sufferings no more. 

Some lady sheds for the rest.

Southern mortars and northern pestilence. 

You should do something today. 
And stray from the strange. 


Bring your mountain stick and walk. And this is the third of your final lines. 
This, the second. 
And this is the last of you.

Did she love already?
The one who chewed Wrigleys the way it was meant to be. 

The American way. Home made agony. Boots of leather. 
They don't taste bad. 
Tonight the chickens broth is thick. 
An egg floats. Rancid or not it will do. 
Dreams of liver and vegetable broth. 


What takes the longest is needing the girl. 
See her shoes to her feet. 
It is a sign of hope. 
An action to lessen her breakings. 
An action to lessen the breakings of the war. 
Please wear those items. 
Where we do we go from here? 
Can you say for sure?
The *** was not pinched?
Is it not your way?
Leave the seasoning in the cupboard tonight baby. 
I want not for a whole lot of nothing to happen in the morning. 

Feel this mole. 
Should it be tested?
Should we invest in hopes the dark spot will be removed?
Or should we invest in machines with their brains tucked neatly away?
Are the visits at the beach something we should forget?
So as not to scorn their little hellish handles?
I do not know the way of our Lord. 
I do not know the reasons for reason. 
We have not moved. 
Where have we moved to?
And why is this language without accents?
Their features so tropical and mountainous but with not a tongue to sway, what is this love?


Very good. 
Your lips taste very good at night. 
But they are filthy now. 
And you are going to pierce them. 
Wet hot saliva but we are not strapped down. 
Olive oil and the extensions thereof. 
Claw at my chest. 
Find that there is literally nothing here. 
I don't think that I've quit working.
There are cases worse than mine. 
The flowers I smell.
Some of them have scents. 
And I do frown still. 
When the men exit without washing their hands. 
And I get it. 
I understand that you're not spoken of in quite some lines. 
There was guilt. 
And forgiveness. 
Yes I can express it. 
When I was three I thought of four or five. 
Significantly better in my stride. 
Yet going stir crazy. 
Now that age is staying my hand I focus on the lines before and how indecently they were spaced. 
I've been trying to be appreciated. 
It is only a chest wound. 
A flesh wound I mean. 


Free returns. The only car keys I've not returned. 
She'll find it though. 
In the span of an hour we will be right as rain. 
Drowning in normalcy. 

Happiness and our talkings on the phone. 

Are you Hess?
Or are you Heathcock?

He smiles as his eyes close and he looks away b

Read his book. 

I do. 

A plate of lentils framed his words. 

As follows:

"Aha. Ha-ha ha ha ha. They are rebels without a cause. I went into his office yesterday. And laughed at how the effort meant nothing. 

The end."

Wicker basket. Demand no more of me. I am but a lowly burlap sack and refuse your requests for fruit. 
Furthermore, I love you. 
I love your ******* in all four seasons. 
The cleavage in Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring. 
Open your ***** to my embrace.
I love you. 

The feeling of you resides. 
You, black and fallen under stones. 
Now the melody darkens. 
Who am I to leave this place? 
A lite strange. A little town. 

For the man holy brooding I do not lack. 

Hello all. 
I am returned in a greater state. A place to relax is my. 
This means nothing. 

Are there lions and sirens or are there bears a color unspeakable with speech impediments?

The flattening of this moment. 
Hesitation pulls by and the years fill this second. 
The asphalt opened by the recent pattering burns our noses. 
In this coffin of olfactory citizenship, the town's halls are burnt. 

I am asked by the labels of stewardship how my knot is. 
My response multiple times heavies is the same, it is a question. 

My mind, behind the glass left behind in your watching, our gaze ritualized. 
But now forgotten, our love, now torn, our complete identity hidden, pulled away,set alone as the flu pushes it's way towards iur meals. 

Your intestines will **** down. In irritation, you open yourself for infection. 
The ants begin their flood. 
Bereft this skyscraper. 
And with them, my years of servitude, past, future and present. 
My future of, stripped away. 

Visions of my hands clasping the aluminum and moving the volume closer to its max. 

And this is gone as you begin to bubble. 
Inprisoned in your pearl green coffin. 

Your ears balloon and your eyes sink further into your skull. 
The air is not completely escaped the vessel grounding you. And transporting your cell's cessation onto more fertile ground. 

And I have lost you completely. 
I have questioned your love for me and I burn now. 
Spittle falls to my Oxford as I ponder my future.  

To move you as sworn. 
I. 
To say I love you. 
To move forward and forget all. 

To recognize the coal's glow. 
And to cover them, forgetting their resonance when combined. 

I will push this lie further into my future. 

You. 
Radiating tan. 
Covered with the sliver of silk. 
Red with the corpses of lives more exotic when crushed and heated. 

Did something happen? Was the cause your own?
Or a drunks from long before?
A shard of glass from the struggle of some prior Saturday?

I can't stop drinking. 
I dress in blacks and browns. 

And greys. 

The terrible muddled cover of a color neither masking nor portraying my innocence, my shame. 

Much hotter, I am told. 
The depths are. Ur I got away all concepts of torture. 
A new anguish from the ashes. 
Without absolution. 

Convicted that the cog's smoothness is a feather in the wind. 
I step into Time's antiquated machine and perform the rituals to spark its engine. 

The combustion, neither burns clean. Or soiled. 
It tells no story of the future I will hold. 
My rings burn in its power and my teeth chatter in the when-after. 

Hello mother. 
Brother. 
Lover. 

You. 
You who are bones. 
You who is the primordial soup. 
With ever hatching infant eyes. 

The most difficult part of the cold is not knowing what is dry or what is wet. 

Be it these eyes or this heart of mine. 

I transform and hide no longer. 
When my answer is given, the answer is;

"Which?"

Ourselves or the wounds she'd obtain?

Oh phantom city, believe not the lies of these citizens. 
Steer your smile away from the sun. 
Remain in the fog. 
In the morning gloom and groans. 
Continue breathing. 

The sea breathes in then out. 
And this repeats for all those who near it. 
At night or in the cold afternoon. 

Stricken with guilt your waves recede. 

For years you've swallowed our children. 
Dissolving our futures. 
Recreating them in images of hunters emerging with your translucent skin. 
With teeth so perfect and eyes free of disease. 
Raised in and given nothing but the dreams of silent death. 

She walks with child in hand.
I afflicted by his tug towards your loving grace. 
Eyes scanning the shore. 
For oiled bodies and gleaming eyes. 
A predatory stance. 
One to complete her suffering. 

Dreams dissolve and return me to creation's simple ground. 

Where are you now? 

Are you there in the bright lights?

Are you passenger?

Be it in the front seat or the rear, you've not forgotten where you are going. 

The sites to see are nothing if not with me.

Wash away tonight. 
Dear carcass with the flaxen hair. 

With the myopic eyes now colorless, stare at the bottom of love's sea. 

The endless highs and lows of a joyous grievance. 
Invited in tonight for the price of a glass. 


Sharing this bottle dear nursery. 


Change of tone. 
Change of pace. 


Focus on this moment. 

I am told to be a father now. 
Over the electric line severed and replaced with towers so empty. 

The news ripples and disperses in only me. 

What else could it do?

Stay my feet. Move me forward. 

I am not able to stop sipping from this cup of horrors. 
She envies my numbing. 
And I sip further and deeper. 

Every inhalation. 
And with every seed spilled. 

Onto your belly. 
Or into our womb. 

With every ecstasy. 
Your memories sink deeper. 

But what is to come when the pain spills here and there?

And when you walk alone in the cold, who is there to suckle with?


I can't believe. 
Of all the hearts I've consumed, yours floats here now. 

And there is no return to Grace with these seas flooding my heart. 

All my hopes and fears, bereft with the swit blow downward. 
Ascension performed and the mess is dropped. 

The blood spilled and a trail of me onward home. 

Am I?