Craterous deep
I worry about your sanity
How many got it wrong to the one who got it right?

The sun rises early
There is no mind
It just bugs a little because night is so sumblime
I can see maybe 126 different points of existance
And have them twinkle twist with a thousand years
They hold their presence with confidence befit a head of state
Royal rocks of alienate


It is day and now I must jump into the stream
Put on my overalls and cross -pollenate with the hive
And drop a pebbled throw into the blanket of thought
Spark quick and be forgot

Black scar of earth shears bow out of sherbet sky
Brown forking river prongs swishing through dead underbrush
Glow of center console in twilight fields
Time steps carefully through this moment

The east sets in pale Earth shadow
Horizon sparkles with waking man-light
Starless sky fades imperceptibly to night
with tectonic indefinance.

There is fire in the west every sunset
And many days I did not look
Eyes hung heavy stone orbs
Articulated via earthen roots

All those roads led endless towards Rome
Where leather seats sweat sweet in steaming summer heat
And Late moon hemorrhaged pure silverlight in the desert stillness
Still my tallow hands flake against the looking glass

They say Cancer is a water-sign
That it is a mutable thing
And cleansing
and that it can fill any body that it meets with
Many feelings,
swirling typhoons
Like tea leaves
and chemical spills
Somewhere below the heart,
They said.

Cancer hangs in the dome of night,
Between the 90th and 120th degree
Where the sky floats like lithium on the tongue
Playing pick-me-ups with the other alkaline metals
Testing every possible reaction
So that one day another might have
What we lost.

Cancer holds a spirit in its claw
So that in the dead summer heat I can still see
A lovely winter leftover weather
You always hoped you'd leave for me

Sometimes I now look around
at night,
watching these celestial compositions flicker like
ancient candles, blues and reds and yellows.
I wonder what your tiny stars shelter, all those light-years away.
How beautiful you look to my unknowing eyes,
Burning violently, silently
In darkness, dying.

I do not understand this poet
Nor the glimmer in his mind,
and no amount of persuasion
Will ever make him mine

The great poet the world has known
The English Soul, the Bard of olde
Speaks little but of jests,
and not a word of happiness

But who am I,
forgot to time,
I all but simple words I leave,

I will never have
Shakespeare's memory

Do not sell your words to devils
who will trade your wisdom for gold and trinkets.

Do not sell your love to any random house
They have no interest in the maintenance of your meaning

Do not sell your heart to strangers,
if they do not have a soft hand

Do not jump into the sea,
If you have yet to find comfort on the land

Darling you know i love it when you play the black chords
Let them echo through the house for a long minutes time
and show me the god in your fingertips

a lover's hand you have with that percussive beat
rumble those strings with a heavy heart
give the dead ivory a taste of your lip

the ecstasy, the thrill
the trill and timbre
the infantile touch of a player's soul
strumming through that sweet sound

It is my youth, my zenith, my dying wish
my every happiness

to hear your musical singing string,
'till the very end.

When words fail me
(which is always)
perhaps I can find a way
to put them together lazy like a 8th grade
science fair

Still I have yet to finish a word that means more than a poetic dream
And I have no idea when that will be

So i will read a lot of books that say the same thing
and speak not in the class or in the boundaries of
common thought
and instead place my words in between alighted joints
or on deaf ears to feign interest



Again i tug on the soul-string and think
"maybe this is the way outta here"
but i dunno,
nobody i've spoken a word to agrees.