Il Miglior Fabbro

"I am-not who gathers up the wind,
And chases the hare with the ox,
And swims against the torrent."

Wild Is The Wind

Wild blows the wind
(Frisch weht der wind)
Mein Irisch kind,
Where are you now?
Awake and none-less,
Retiring among the brushes.
Briar famous, Friar
Tuck got brought out,
Lingered among the
Brothers but nothing
Could hide him now.  My own
Fucked-hand or a mid-summer's
Night of fun.  There
She was, standing on
The balcony with
Her red dress on.
Looking like a fighter
You are ready to talk.
Well everyone's a walker
But they wanna be the dog,
Can't let you walk over me
You got it all wrong. And
It's an Amarillo sunset
With a neck-brace on,
Grateful for so many things
Glad that others are gone.
Well everyone's a walker, babe,
But they wanna be the dog,
Everyone's a talker they
Been talking my ear right off.
But don't you let
It be my place to tell
You what you know.
You know how we all got
Questions about the soul?
I can give you a few suggestions,
Whatever's logical.
We are all creatures of the wind.
Wild is the wind.
Chase and trail away.
Love me, love me, say
That today.  Take me
Back to the coast, take
Me back to that day.
Just pass me over, just
Pass this way.  I will
Take to the shoulder, I
Will be grateful for this
Day, I will be grateful
For each day to come.
I come undone, my
Sweet angel, so help me
...

Smiles And Cries, A Comedy of Rakes

"Smile then."
"How..."
By light of moon
Be spoken.

         This thorn has caught my arm.
              Threadbare and worn
               My shirt is now torn.
                 In the heart of the
                   Matter, largely
                    Lying within
                    The Motion.

"LASCIATE OGNE SPERANZE, VOI CH'INTRATE."

                     The same I

                Haven't got a care
               Except a new ware
             Perchance, like a rebel
            Once again, a feather to
           Be, splendid, plus a side of
        Reason, a palmetto-weave woad.



Is it how I appear in a blotter of
Names, intricate father-markings of Mars.
Dominus noster, viable diction of stars.
Red-fish, two-fish, training wheel, no-car, and
Now, in living view, presented on the page:
Our Hope's New Benedict Fiction, The
New Found Pope of Fate.  Treason is
A desirous dish of fate's hand seasoned
All the same.  The cards were spelled out
Right upon the table, I even saw how they
Rained, the light caught them so able-like in a
Slow-motion picture.  A fluttering of frames before me
Whispering the same, clang, clang languor: the clatter
Of the chains.  For alms the poor linger, this old-spoke
Announced what has long been named, inveterate passionate
Mixture, salamandra-esque games, our intermediate leap-frog team
Lingered.  Ante up, enough, We know Our True fish has much hue, not to be
Brusque, not to be afraid of that stuff, as well, but not to be falling off, the King is
Just, fly high by night you Jester, make sure to call the bluff, say my room is unimportant
While the moon lingers tune a shadowy ash hint of a darker mind's stuff.  Drink aggregate
Drip tinctures of a brighter
Midnight to come, remaining an apex to
Really rely on, an asymptote of love.
Always the big picture when
I'm peeling back the husk.
Anyway,
Allow the alloy a 'once-over,'
It's galvanized by dreams
Much much stronger than
Aluminum or anything
I could really even think of.
I'm raving
Unkindness' of
Dark thoughts
That I mean,
Underneath,
Tidings you bring.
A claim raised it's
Fist, a feint
Failed smile of
Hell hath no-hounds,
No-town, no-more
Known today.  There
Is no 'devil-town.'
All my friends say is,
"Goodnight Lady
No-land, goodnight Lady
Lay, goodnight
Lady Good friends,
Good night to Our
Fate."  Our Moon
Is the same.

Two Little Eyes, A Head, And A Ship Like A Spoon or Nod Off, Shut Your Eyes As Mother Sings You A Tune.

Everyday will have its end.
"As I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Morn my soul to
Keep, and lay me down into
Deep, into the ether, either
Way, I'll go dumb and blind,
You be my keeper."  A key
Is hung above you sleeper,
Ours is the urgent, ardent
Reaper.  These birds were made
To kill.  Tempered steel is like
Rajas to wield.  Enough is enough
In the yawn we trust, an argent
Chrysanthum Trump.  Belly up.

Yellow Legos

Regular installment.
An ardent call dashing ahead among
The wreckage, this must be, must be,
A leaky, leaky ship.  Lovely, more fodder, which
To spin?  I've been rifling through those folders,
It's fire and fire, remember?  My soul formed the
Tinder, then timber, look-out below!  Empty hello,
'Poi s'ascose nel foco...'  I walked down Mulkey
Avenue with an angry, angry bellow.  A quick step
Sends me up 16 blocks, either way, I'm just like them.
I get so mad but I am no different than them.  Every time
I have conspired to hurt my friend, every time if I just pay
Attention I find out the one I have hurt is myself again!
Every page must have it's ending, the words run down and
Drift away.  A potent sword is swung in full force, a lance
Glints red then spins away—
Effortless riposte.

What I Think Of Lying In Your Place

Yawning again, the morning was in waking
Revolvers and jests.
Revolvers in vested instruments of less than
No man or woman,
What no man or woman
Could ever hope to replace, or recommend, I won't
Say it, not ever again.

"Say what?"
"It sounds too stupid."
"Is it?  Or is
That just the wit's end, the fount-ain, popping off, popping off..."
The pen is more a good friend then some.  In some and
Some say.  A Ten.  O Perfect
And
Again, imperfect,
Slid but shine. I am want to begin:
A fane.  The country music player plays soft
But it's nothing really, nothing really
To turn off.  It's just Marie!  Marie!  There in
The mountains, there you feel free.
I reap much in the night and go south in the
Spring, tongues with no-names.

There she sits at the top of the stair admiring.
Wake me up some cold December morning, early,
Before the sun comes up, both us wake slowly,
At about half the speed, at about half the pace. Out
Into those rooms and streets half-pouring into
The entire city's potent sorts and sorties.  The states
Of emotion, the contests unknown, the comings and goings,
Into a room where the women, as you're knowing, you know then—
It shows them, far more than you or I can, far more than
What we could ever hope to attain.  On the shores
Of a private beach in Michigan, I can connect one on one, fain
Searching for the same dance or beast we reckoned
With, whirling with purpose that day.  Overall, the last year had been near
Perfect.  The Bruin's had not won at all then but
The late-summer air was returning autumnal and my
Crisp memories often recall, neither here nor there,
Miss, neither near here nor there at all, but I don't miss
It enough just to toss up some hurdle.  Let it simmer
And mellow, left up on the wall, undressed and en-veloped,
The echo of sea-gulls, the call.  The marching-mans
Stance, give em the 'ol one-two, one-two hand—epiphany!
Elope then,—what plans?  I have surrendered my purchase.
On the brink of possibility I sat down in the sand, "Where is
My peace," then, "Where is my friend!"  And then my peace comes in nigh,
Right perfect, I say, "Let's begin."

Enjoy Brightly.  Fuck Coke.
The Empire and the Surface.

I'm not scratching,
I'm the shadow you see beneath you.
So tell me something I don't already know because,
In my sense, the bells of freedom must be ringing, my ears
Have long been true!  Break glass and exhume please, fuck
A purchase.  A sheaf of coincidence is buried deep within
This page, watch it settle as I will set the pace.  A
Marker made me up, this isn't funny.  It isn't perfect.
I make things up to tell what's perfect.  I made this
Up to tell someway, a way I came to know what must be Perfect, and I'll tell you
One thing must be if just one thing ain't.  Now I'll muster up some courage,
Enough is enough, this license is given to be frank.
Now, have I given you enough lumps of gold here
Or will the dross just entertain.  Dwell deeper, dig
Deeper, lover-fear.  You are all the same here, you
Will not remain.  Would you like to sit and linger
Or be drifting off each way is, now then.  I have my
Finger upon the trigger, "Pulse," it says, "Gunfire again."

Absolutely Sweet Marie, A Relative Sibyl or Freedom At Four Four One Two Belle Vue Via The Multnomah County Reader's Review, To the Tune of A Square Helping of The Stone, Dear Invenies Occultum Lapidem, Te Deum, Te Deum (Obviously Five, But Believers? I Believe You No)

The kids they are playing dust on the breeze,
Our record of failure, our catalog of deceit.

Sam I am static:
A stationary gun,
A pencil scribbling,
A day within the sun.
My knees they give in,
Lost now to their ways,
An empty painting or
A blank page on display:
A giving teacher, a guarded vein,
Crimson and saffron, ruby and galbanum,
The spiral of my jests, seasoned like a
Hallmark, an ally, in a way there won't be much
Else to say, 'All is spent,' nothing more or less,
All black for images, grateful to all that lives.
An apple for the one, or an evil in my eye,
A distant witness and all the chatter in the night.
A full moon flag at half mast, teeth to bone,
A handle of conditions.
                      A terrible reprise, some summer child.
Kali to the halls, ruin's Mother.  It's no small wonder,
My room torn asunder: sweet pea, belt of fire.   Might as
Well be a thorn in the side or falling under, et tu? They do
But god forbid there comes the day I follow that bid.  Our route and
Refute for that deluge was a sunken fate, wisdom bringing in while I
And I are being brought up, musing on the king, my brother's wreck
And on the king, my father's trump.  Before him, before her land is
The terrible trade, these hands are my hands and these hands
Are my cage, these hands are my hands and these hands
Are my name, my names-sake is haeven and my names-sake is
Pain.
         
            "Stephen Dadelus is my claim,
             Ireland is my nation,
             Clongowes is my dwelling place,
             And heaven my expectation."
           
                           Read that once in to get ahead further, it is practical, and
I'd say, my good sir, if you're fervent, in the sweet breath from the student, a
Perfect tribe to be named-in like there were, a search, er, upon a perch, ere
A moth within the flames.  Now to persist after a fixture, This song handed down a
Call, 'they're up from Cain.'  That dolorous note brought not what was known, but that
Which no one ever could know, something more than, 'If there ever comes the day.'
But may you live long, sir, while silver-birch trees still whisper, as speech is best done
In proper-frame.



A Prost



My happiness would roll and then only wine-thought between worlds,
Too almost.

After this moment, in love,
I let it be.

I could say Namaste and light my spring will to dream
But no happiness radiates from where my heart beams.

Like essentially
I find some make do as each can to live as above and unto you 
& as they said of him, "Know full well if our life-like comfort feels 
Too outing, use true every moment shouting or feel warm together."

Share,
How?  By sense, 
Why?  You
Here—A friend, sit still, there is no where!  Nowhere,

This trusted flower-grass girl has got my hand, and by no
Measure of just a little, A small note, but this is no small
Stone—smile you blue-bird, I am no small man, and this
Is a matter of great significance, and of great importance
Time and time again.  Blame it on his A.D.D. but I heard
Those words, maybe...sail.  Inhale, exhale.  Exhume, we
Unfurled his Rainbow Kiss, The Dance of Whirling Death,
A dervish in distress now locked inside again against the
Winter's tides against Shantih (Shantih, Shantih), against
Shiva yet again, the thing was, it was for fun (from her breath)—
Tickle-y woman,
Which Cup?
Sun.

[bering straight, scale picture—timeless gate]

X
Calypso, dancer,
Dashed upon the rocks.
Above hope is puppy-wonder and good halls.
Enjoy the barefoot tumbler, for she who loved him,
You know that she ran on,
So there—
Jump about all ecstatic or whatever.  The weight is fucking gone.
A consecrated or re-tooled belt.  There are all these stars starting
To form from the back of  the dark-room and we don't even know
What they are.
When you laugh, you bring anything,
[possibility, sunshine, positive vibrations]
Simply bloom.
Follow me, more than little comes with that happening.
Giver Time, the taste of my world before the positive way.
See today, always did believe we'd surprise them, man,
A haeven, day-peach.
By the rivers of the sound
I sat down and wept for countless
Un-told, untitled endings,
"Were today only happy..."
Shine alive, attest ye friend.
He lived and then he died
In a shot
Echoed
Tonight.
AM AT AYE ARE
But no more
Alive.

There Is No Try

"Roll the dice as they may.  One of my favorite things is possibility."

Precedence made.
Countenance said.

Today is today and
The moment is pressing
A lidless eye, I linger
Just in sight, a tremor.
Tumultuous tune, a
Feather falls to the Sound.
Approaching the heartbeat.  Happenstance
Lingering, littering the ground.  An echo.

Sound out:  We are all that we are,
'Saul's Blank' is Paul's new name.

Here, among learned friends
You will encounter no
Friction, but hands swell
All in mixture, to lift you up
And rise again.  Do not
Dwell in ships of anger, let me
Crash on the rocks and dwell underneath.
For each are here in
Tincture, imbue well with
Friends or save, choice is
Just the entryway.  Mind
Well the former name.  Do
You not yet get the picture?
A stark appreciation.
Sold to wisdom,
Renounce all fame.
Everyone here is equal.
A gallant sign—, wisdom is more
Than in you or in me.
Wisdom Is.
End of story then.
It's not my hand
That spins this sense, that which I see
Is also a part of me.  That which I do
Is a part of me too.  Pierce through
So plain.  A bird will always sing
To the new day sun.  A mast will always
Sway in the wind.  Now it's up to you
Which ship to entertain.  As for what I say,
"Let's re-frame everything, sink or swim—, there is no other way."

How Many Summers Have You Seen?

How many summers have you seen?—
Against those hills so golden.

What hides away from light of day,
A mother's own beholden.

Maker who made me in mindful
Oppression.  Balance waits for

Those who feel pain, again I
Feel the medicine.  Falling

Like pearls from a whirlwind, her touch
Has left me an entrance I

Cannot even explain, I am
Entranced and non-withholding.

How many summers have you seen?—
Against those books you're holding.

What hides away from light of day
A mother's only Holden

And still now calling me Caulfield
Against all I've been holding!

Those who can divine my meaning
Then let them understand, I

Won't indulge in idle banter.
Now watch as the thresher chants.

Throwing stalks, consuming fire
Nonstop embers, blooming caps

A field long prepped for this burning
Again I feel medicine—

Warm home, first-born son cold,
Now close that fold you open.

Maker made me in oppression.
Those who feel pain, again

Again I feel the medicine.
Cast away and back to say

How many summers have you seen?—
The moving piers are open'd.

A Mummer's Play

"...And men, going at it blind—
"As is very proper for those
"Who tackle a darkness."

It was the type of day you sit around and watch paint dry on the wall.
Blasted off me knickers.
Loafing on the breeze.

"Grab your gun."

"What?"

"I said,

Grab your gun, this isn't just for fun anymore—you can't
Just do as you please."



Step inside this house and I will sing you a song.
Tell you about where I've been, shouldn't take too long.
I'll show you all the things that I own, my treasures you might say.
They couldn't be more then ten dollars worth, but they brighten up my day.
This book of poems was given to me
By a girl I used to know.
Funny how life works out,
Trust me, I would be the one to know.



"Softly," she said, bringing a plate born in light.
"Slowly we go, position inherent."



"A tree is love," she says, looking up then pointing,
"Those bricks were baked in love,"  the building imposing,
"That plaque and who is named with it,
"This bench and the ivy beneath...
"Musty spiders, dusty footprints, lonely war fiend
"Crying baby, broken tele, craving morphine..."

And on and on in fashion,
She talks and I walk and listen.
And I still sit in awe and admiration
With great mirth and human fare:
Desire and admonition.  There is never
Any ending only on to the next stair.

Now I'm watching ceiling fans go round
Trying to catch that feeling.  It's instrumental.

I have my pencil and plus my paper
But it won't be over til that big girl from
Decatur tells me—sing!  Say well what
You mean, no more withholding,
Decisions need to know their names.

I've been hiding out for weeks,
I've slept atop a haystack,
I've lived beneath the sea.

In this there are three things that will be:
Pressure, practice, and patience.

Now let's watch what grows from this seed
And where this road will place me.

I'm seafaring, this is just a levy, an appropriate highway.
How many more roads?  Each connect in tribute, a
Fountainhead, bending adaptation, strong in any wind,
A mast will always sway, sunny rhythm twirling come what
Will or may.

(Entering the roadside diner, the clatter of dishes rise up to greet you
from the back of the room.  The bar is arranged in a lazy half moon
Shape, Sojourner Truth is in the center of this take, I'm
Off to the side sitting in a daze.)

Cast -
Sojourner Truth
T.S. Eliot
Robert Browning
Proteus

Casually glancing, pouring me over sideways in the rain, the looks she gives me.  Pass me over another piece of toast and she's all sunshine and smiles, Amarillo Reststop, shoulder the load.  The last few weeks had been forward; somewhere to get to, somewhere to go.  It's true the blue jeans have stained my memory, awash in a sea of green—a track left imprinted into infamy—and could you sing me some Edith cause I haven't even heard of regret.  Where I'm from we go to sleep with the sun and get up with her again.  Aurora is her name, but California if you speak so plain.  My people, humble people who expect the same—Mexicans.  Fresh accents.  Flowing in day after day.  Hope of some portion maybe sprinkling in sometime next may.  The smiles are always tucked away here, held up at best.  Someone pours me coffee, notepad tucked away on her breast, the ever passing moments.  The five best ways I can think to say hello to this fine mess are only an afterthought, a blank check, a blatant expression.   I would cut loose kid, sing the road again, but I love it when this place is open, I love her very breath, a funeral pyre in my head, let the Triumph speak loudly now it’s been a long road friend.  A smile left its best now do the same—revolving doors and lime-light jests, interwoven candy men, I see one Pan.  Camped away in a truck stop purveying all the deities and don't say this is the last time again, I'm sick of that old system, always wrapped up in believing, my fingers kept slipping, always grasping at the dregs of that city; unreal teething, little dog howling—bark at the moon or give it all away.

The new day's light leaks in through the slats of the blinds pouring lines on the sheets,  mingling memories and feeling, twirling complete.  Steady hands and steady feet.  I woke up just about noon and put on my shoes.  I heard Eliot was rolling through.  Mr. Browning had been poised in the diner for about three full days now, waiting to give the old bugger a piece of his brain's steed!  I float in on the breeze to listen to them speak.

Eliot- "These days are unending, nothing new here to be seen.  The sun still beats down, and the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief…time for you and time for me, and for a hundred visions and revisions, all before the taking to toast and tea."

He went on too long, revealing much that was from his mind, and much that he had patiently refined and created.  If you have the time, go find out, for what is in the Wasteland is a burial of self.

Proteus- “Now for some light hypocrisy —”

Browning- "Eliot you're wrong!  I want to paint that across the Septum of my Song or make it the title of my 50 plays finished so I can really say it with conviction!  You did well to shroud things in mist, to hide what you see, but the problem that exists, as you can agree, is in accessibility.  Where the heart lies, let the brain lie indeed!  What does someone who could never even read think of Dante and his Dream?”

Gesturing towards Sojourner, he leans in like the spring, listening.

Sojourner- “Well now chile, I kin tell you what I think.  Everyone has their own little piece, and what's good for you ain't goin’ta be all that good for me."

Eliot- “Well said, you see—no poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone.  His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists, as well as his relation to the other living things and beings.  What happens when a new work of art is created is something that happens simultaneously to all the works of art which preceded it."

Proteus- “—the ever changing landscape of thought and seeing, the prodigality of nature, healing in sleep and dream.”

His words seemed to mingle in with their voices as if a presence guiding the oration, patiently gesturing, and silently waiting.

Browning- “I'm afraid I absolutely must agree, but I offer this as an inquiry:  Dante once prepared to paint an angel: whom to please?  You whisper, ‘Beatrice.’  While he mused and traced it and retraced it, Dante, who loved well because he hated, hated wickedness that hinders loving.  You and I would rather see that angel, painted by the tenderness of Dante, would we not?—then read a fresh Inferno.”

His hands were flying passionately as if he were speaking to a full house.  Sojourner starts to let out in a quiet hum of an old spiritual song as she gently sways back and forward.  Eliot was pacing about.

Eliot- “The Divine Comedies were Dante’s personal Purgatorio, if you will, and inasmuch as he felt compelled to his duty he did do it—and truly!  Myself included, I know that at parts it’s a bit off-putting—”

Sojourner- “mmmm—mmmm, now you’s finding the truth in it.”

Eliot- “I am, indeed, at times, at bit too obtuse, at times almost, The Fool.”

Proteus- “The wasteland reserves its spot among the cultural consciousness, for me it makes not one difference how it talks, or if it is unimaginably dark or what, come now Mr. Browning, let’s not judge something by what it is not.”

Browning- “'Come now!?!'  Can you even see the Septum of my Song!  Ginsberg brought back poetry that was a shining portal, Eliot immersed in gloom.  I don’t know to whom he was speaking, his intellectual bemusing, academics praising, very elegant phrasing but what is the value?  This is a respectable issue I’m broaching here; I reject the old and make room for the new.  I am bidding drink to a live—'

Proteus interjected in the most subtle of waves, a thought came into Robert’s brain, unbidden, “There are only the dead in this place, everything returns to the sea, from where it became.”

Browning- “—crowd beneath me!  Know where my heart lies!  Make no mistake!”

At this point Sojourner broke out full on in tune!

Now when Truth started singing you really had no choice but to get wrapped up in the meeting and lost inside of those words—and her voice, her voice rising up in a non-proselytizing murmur of maternal rejuvenation.  The raw emotional charge and earnest chagrin of her soul proofed by hardships had no equal in this land.  This ever changing landscape of our own redemption (at least that’s what the cats called it); I leave that place of constant reviewing.  Her voice still echoing in me, “…the meanest child of glory,” hmm, what on earth could that mean?  This still song lingers clear.  Even though I have the trappings of an ethereal king, some things still remain shrouded in fear.

Proteus- “Better make sure no one is following my scent.”

I sit down and perform the prescribed offering.  Burning and spinning a basket of light-wisps up into a whole Pollux-spring bed of text.  Sure that nothing unsavory was listening in on me I began.

Proteus- "A fractal cistern turning to everyface, complex simpleness displayed, now I will speak my fortune in verses as what the Thunder Says—"

 This is why she gives me those looks,

Sojourner- "What's that you be sayin Mr. Shape Changin' Mistah Crazy?"

I like it this way.  I love the looks I take in.  Day after day the shape is always changing, shattering emphasis and attention, impervious to opinion, now listen:

A jewel drips down

Against the lion's cheek, starts a speech

Of sparks and trees, the sudden illumination

Then thunder speaks, once more for

That sunken floor underneath, the giant's feet.

Ungainly enemies but a clever little fiend, lacking in no amenities, Loki Loki

What do you see?  The crest and star of Lucifer, consoling the people

In dream.  Star-light, star-bright, first star

I see tonight, light of fire atop the trees.

Let sleeping dogs lie by and by on the side

In eternal suffering and cling with the breath of directness,

In each and every forehead, like the eye-opened

Orpheus of Greece.  Living antiquity, light-like simplicity.  Implicitly

Impervious.  In mystery I saw garlands of the goddess

Crowning roses.  The flower and thorn of kings, petals falling nearer

To my heartstrings then the intellect of the many.  They may

Skewer me proficiently, but sentient?  I doubt with intensity.

Consider it, crazed whim, brutal payment.

Feverish abatement, let the wine brew for Brutus

So he can ease his day's end.  It's the sound of the pin

Drop drop to the pavement, I have no need

Of names, it makes not one difference.  Once I held

Respect and reverence, and once I felt the breath of

Resentment.  The Lords of Light-less Decadence.  I cannot

Refrain within this placement, black and white is all

But black and white in me, shading, do you see it, but

It makes no difference what's been said of it

I don't care for that insanity, the cup just turns to dust.

Instead, I draw a skeleton key from inside of us and

Watch the some turn into galaxies, then take

A drive on down the turnpike to see my friends and family.

God, this dream can't really be, I feel so

Weak I'm faltering.  Trouble, trouble toil and double!

For one so meek and grim.  Desire and admonition.

The weight of the pen; poor men and prophets, most often

Where it's least expected, buried behind piles of jest, but anything less

Is left uncollected.  Tell me what’s best, coddling collective?

Give me solitary contentment, a stand on the moon or the trees.  To the

Tops of each pleasure and the depths of each winter

We season two birds in one stew.  Pan—so specific and splendid,

Sordid and senseless, relentless and restless and cruel.

            These days are indeed unending.  I’m just a traveler here, I deserve no mention.  A storied destination at the border of time and place, my Reststop of need and haste, I don’t know what current under vein pumped me into this, but the tracks were bare, and bore no names.    All I remember them saying were, "Please, forgot why you came.  Step inside, please sit down, the air here is clean and the grooves show the way."  It's almost too much to be seen but I can hear that front porch calling.  I can feel their dreams.  Scattered across yesterdays ashes She digs down deep asunder to gleen, lovingly plants down her footprint plainly, pulls out all the maybes and leaves some mold in the way.  These flowers I have shored against my ruins, well then, shall I at least set my lands up to gain?

All Damn Day

How many days has
Sadness wrapt up my feet?
Feels like I'm walking
Through soggy peat.
Patience is a virtue,
Virtue is a grace,
Grace is a little girl
Who doesn't wash her face.
"Pain undid me, Richmond
And Kew bore me face
Down in a canoe, suppliant
In a daze."  In twos I have
Parried them, all damn day
Son, all damn day.  In truth
I have carried much, and some
Still remains.  But if hope is
In persistence, I suppose a pen
Is friend today, but no longer
Following the citizens around,
No longer following the parade.
A pair of divine comedies to
Remedy this remembering-game.
Three shades mate, three shades.
A welcome venue, fellowship in
Vision:  A hollow etiquette critiqued,
I'm grateful as one who
Gets just what he needs.

When She Comes...

A tear drips
Now lead me to water.
I lie down
And my mountain appears.
Rightful offer—
Pounding rain.
No visions can erase my memory.
Creases, my dear man,
Ceaseless and devious,
Another puddle,
Another bend.
A road to pull me over.
Erosion and shovels,
Men against men,
Treasonous and feverish
Like a dog without a bone.
Bowled over
Like in a strong wind
Howling
This wish
Just left
Its imprints.
Visage of distance,
Take your quarters,
Know your friends.
Yod heh,
Amen.