there is a humble road that slowly goes up, inching into feral skies, rising high with conscious, living intent.

it is sustained by a preternatural order, allowing for, yet shaping, flux.

you must -first- be utterly grounded, rooted in, in order to reach these airy heights.

ancient scraper of skies old, babel-proofed from power grabs, confounding our words to capture this coveted ascent - convey

my sore
feet
along.

i guess i can do
a blue sky.
but i like mine

grey and
splayed out,
sleepily burnished -
yuh know,
that something that
brings out

monochrome feral tones,

with a few
exposed
crevices
every now and then

to polish
me off
good.

the only way that he could say bye
buying a red rose and watching it die
dying to find some other way
weighing his options to live another day

he couldn't help but to feel like a heel
healing was hard and the pain was real
reality soaked him like torrential rains
reigning over his will to remain

(I am trying to get back to following the ones who follow me, or take interest in my writing. The best way to "**** out" was to unfollow all, and then look at the list of my followers. I hate to be that way, but i also hate to see the ones who unfollwed me on my "home" page. Please bear with me, because it will only allow me to follow so many people a day apparently.)

crushed parts
flush limbs
**** mar

row

the felt
swell
of me

till it comes hard

onions and roses
pushpull fools
sweet something's

whispered

into your
torque

we'll endure
the shade of
spent flesh wakes

together

or
apart

collecting quail eggs
in the morning summer heat
eleven spotted shells

the blue sky
does not lie
down for anyone