Anyway winds bow
To the ocean mists anyway
Voices silenced through
Eternities shout
Anyway meek inherit sunrises
Or sick all become well
Anyway the wind blows
Is all about life
You know
Anyway its all been said done
Before
No man bound in gravity can in
Anyway become godful
Anyway just a thought
A brief roundabout
A trip
Yes

Long
Has the song
Been in the trees branches
Over hills
Swept sweet in streams
Cascaded upon meadows
Fell to the ears
From heaven
Resounded angelic
Familiar cries in the woods
Depths of all seas
Valleys echoed
No mountain has missed
No lion has roared
Not a man, be he human,
ever ignored,
Perfectly the voices
Signing breezes
Of things
And all that
Can be

Absolutely a possibility the new know all that there is to be
Without rearing or influences
You see. They see.
From the beginning maybe
Experience colors the soul a
Bit pessimistic or routine is
It or reality that
Days add more than wrinkles
To our cheeks, perhaps, days add
Crinkles to your synapse,
A fold to your temporal lobe
Not temporary or extraneous that we learn evil,
Not a bite from some apple,
A reptilian representation, or
As we crawl skinned knees
Burn supple becomes calloused.
As It were, instinct, I can
Smell
Burning like incense in a swaying
Silver cantonment ritual.

make a great escape, when
You've already dressed in character
Ten years you can't all the sudden decide to play the main character when you're the author, right?
Having spent my writing career a failure, obscurly devouring other's failure,
I find it considerably immature
to, all the sudden, turn my back on my own lacks of talent, and write something brilliant.
Though, I wake up, middle of many nights, sweating,
Words on my breath
To change heaven to earth,
Conscience, like a time-traveller,
Of the butterfly effect,
I stay quiet.
**** me.
I lie.
I just can't remember
Long enough to put
Word
To
Paper

Diving
Feet first into boiling sky
Feeling bolder then my first time
Higher than I've ever been
Never minding how shy clouds get, they close upon your open eyes, in dewdrop drifts
Cotton puff mists,
to catch you when,
You"re about to cry.

And then, mistress mountain sighs, a layer of white crests below, wings of despaired tiredness, no longer need
To hold you up.

Diving again.
May I never come back.

Down

Whatever happened
        With shortening?
Haven't seen it in any kitchen
          Or recipe, in
Fourty-five years