Monday, 17 April 2017


Click whores are getting clicks,
like the flower who wants more
water and sun,
The line of pixelated fields, and beyond them,
sound of guns stems bursting prevail-
the boom and crack of a forest coming down.
While she is in simultaneous water and sun liquidly sifted
Through starving leaves like hands that once did grasp and fight.
Symbols see their own conjecture;
projections of mountains
on deserts.
Gigantic myths of connection given some kind of protection
for a mind shaped against the curves of nature.
But you, you have an indwelling crystal in your head
and that’s how my mother righted her vertigo
and that’s how you know where you’re going, this night,
on the run.
An upright animal with a Nuchal ligament in place to keep the head still in a race;
Not made for spiritual enlightenment,
you were made for distance running.
The water smells you and seeks you out thirsty.
The teeth rattling full of magnesium from shellfish;
The steady and deep eye and its distinguishing 7 shades of green
Verdant horizon built for an iris, over which the systolic blood pressure
sets with that bleeding sun,
beating down  tree and tangle.
Following her is the smiling moon with his
frequency of earth,
density of freedom.
The water racing through hand beyond you
to petals’ wait,
and nothing sustains while we believe in gain.
Hydrogen, elemental, and bits of dirt
in the crevice of toes compounded in the night run.
The wind breathes you as you adjust for gusts;
It’s the smell of pine needles and broome

leading you blind and homeward

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