the guts are the logs of a fire that burns thru every eye and ear hole
smoke pouring from my mouth
the whole house a home
ablaze
warming tired feet
but burning the toes
and keeping me awake

who is it writing poems at this hour?
surely the cinders grow weary
surely the morning has more life
ahh but the something in my guts
pumping the bellows
ringing the bell
and shouting up the chimney
"THIS IS ALL THAT REMAINS!"
and I understand
watching the fire wane

your kiss
is so distant
and try as i might
the mouth of this bottle
will not do

can you see your own face
in the television?
can you make out an expression
in the reflection?
is there some power there
holding you up
too high
to walk?

there is a string in my eyes,
and every
cruhed up bit or byte
or fraction of a life
is pulling.

there is a sting in my eyes.

with blurred vision
a screen become solid.
can I fold it into a kite to ride?
can I stand on it
and dance?

no substitutes for sure Earth
thru these curtained visions,
is there a future left to chance?

to walk out of the house
to see the moon
thru a haze
from wildfires far away

to step in
the crackling pile of
leaves
eucalyptus left by my brother

to pick one up
with a broken tip
and smell nothing

my brother
in another river valley
can you smell the trees?
can you see the wind
thru the smoke

river trail;
a breeze in every tributary
bend

river trail;
a breeze
(in every tributary bend)

i never metaphysical man