let's imagine a painting on a hillside with a little boy making paint mistakes with his fingers over his ears and his eyes alive with his inside sight

in my dreams, i seem from what i've seen,
i'm an eyelid smear, sinking two.

sometimes the maples sputter.

what were we supposed to do without thoughts while we were lost within a wilderness.

you said to cut away at the lines over my eyes, and i
agreed with what was left of what you said was my mind.

that was a long time ago.

ASSEMBLY

in the deadpeal,
in the convent yard, saint
someone allot a fraction
of his dinner benediction.
for me, he laid the
pants out in the sphagnum,
to think of in my deprivation.

i held my breath, for years,
beneath the umber patina
of the pool. my volute hair,
a water-torch training
for what never, what maybe.

for you, plaster of paris
to be crazed, that previously
let you move, just enough.
you waded to the waist
and gave me a lift in your car;
as i drained ribbons of blue,
you helped me with the fly.

um. my new language of um.

screaming until i scream, the day
has yes as a con=
fermation says to night's light like
her eyes to his through mine.

oh

"i've a carpet and an arm. i've a
faucet and a yard. i've ta sleep
in not so long."

oh

and a walrus on hour ought
to sleep withly forever. or nothing
else has cast a silence more than

oh

i see the coming of wonder, only
after all of us have.

oh.

where

his work lies
above
down
with a
cigarette...

The almost-martyr.

I watch myself make the slightest of changes as I
travel back and forth from home; subtle as a
slight exhalation, a slow expelling of breath
helps me to shed a snakeskin layer of myself,
wriggle out of that extra defense and allow
my naked skin to breathe comfortably.
I rotate my head slowly, lit
hangs from my neck
resting between shoulder blades;
a brazen display of weakness;
presentation of a throat, the tender new skin
offered up. My head hangs
only to rise again;
to look upon the world
through lidded eyes.

swollen pond

i went a-skating last spring time in the old swollen pond when the rain was melting the antifreeze and the ponies crawed the morning to a morning where i was a-skating.

that was nice. said a little toothied man on the end of my foot. he said hello to the winter on that day and drowned in the muck and puke until i lent him my hand and returned a.... what was a favor for something?

he hadn't remembered and neither did i attempt to figure out the answer for--you see--we were witnessing the inevitable between us on that cold spring evening.

the air was clear for the first time in an anytime and no longer did we have to shed our rain coats for feeling. it was time--now--to search for something beyond our blueblack toes that burned away a fire.

it was time to climb abroad. to whistle the mountains until they stood prone and stepped us to the western most hemisphere of our expenses. when time anewed the night before and a gallop from her mare.

i want to breath another's air, he said to me as we crossed the swollen sea. i want to hear another's care. and i let him as i told him. old friend, roll aboard; and look on toward...

as a cheer. meaning: not as rah rah with a pom pom but a rah rah with a bee-eer. buzz.

i will not write no more. he said
and the people, sad, were mostly angry
until, for them, he scribbled pictures,
to witch they snickered until she wet her lips
and pulled away his nickers.

this was when i,
left, to solitude
my mind made crafts a knowledge.

and spent my ancestry sleeping
in the study of how he told me the frog dye
in sextants was keeping
me from having cancer. my panc-
reas is lonely.

and he, when found to not so olden age,
was put away-way in. deep.