what would it sound like
to walk out on the sound
gulls chase
gulls for a bit
that sound
breathing
needles
so I hope for green
through the still black
door to see color to
burst into bloom into
color burst and burst
what thoughts I would have liked
putting them on a shelf or
but what would it sound like
opening my mouth the way
the white heron hides its neck
am I too late
do I keep
taking notes on sheets of ice
it should be more than cotton
candy though I lack
a recipe my hands have just
this tiny pen filled with
latency and the ladder is rotten
how many more nights
the sun bobs up and down
I look the other way that burning
you say it’s the weekend well why
not warp the mirror a little more
I can’t remember
why I entered this race
and I want to go to war with
each slender shadow
my feet must be cut from my shoes as soon
as the sun returns some color to those skulls
from under a rock hear me sing and walk on
In the morning you can reach out and see on the breeze in the mind the damp stone tightening straps keep him in place the pain in his cell the confession conversion meaningless at this point or the life by the sea rough stone grey the children I pushed through and lined up in the earth and the cliffs so beautiful lonely one time one town on the frontier barely built I can still smell new cut wood that simple home sun creeping through seams in the wall another sunny place warm weather sweet breeze always fetching writing down his many thoughts the wine was good
something wants to burst but changes direction with every dollar store bass note from cars speeding past the red white and black opossum stinking the praised summer sun
before this morning just the blank blue
black before the sun fades it back to
the usual but now just feet above
the broken basketball hoop great Jupiter
and greater Venus inches apart and
though I don’t know it now the next
few black mornings in dark blue
cool they will sport in that spot in a
slow silver dance that even without
my glasses warms my hazy blue head
the sun silently deifying crumbs on the table
green sun on the grey stone of a crumbling week
it’s difficult looking for words to force into little gems (jams?) & not look out the window and write something about this shade of blue sky just before spring
weeks of precious concentration later how to know if there’s anything or a tunnel that collapses with the slightest shake
you want to go back even as you put one foot forward and choose a different color sock hat excuse though it’s best to keep walking and say you started differently
in the end if it lets you step into the dark more easily what would it be like but never mind get back to digging or we’ll never get out
tomorrow is the word you’re looking for which means both hope and hopeless the black of space the restless sun
cold sun
Folsom Prison Blues
one more time
other animals 