Man not the less, but nature more,
Saithe not the lowly but a lord^,
And I not at all, and nature only,
Rather clutchest thorn of poison forb,
Then remain on path, and remain lonely,
And rather their canine tooth to absorb,
Prefer to stroll through ticks and toxin of
     hemlock forest,
And only the rat snake's diamonds I consider flawless,
Then their brownstones filled with horror,
Even the grey she wolf looks in scorn,
And with all creation wish their cities unborn,
Their mighty towers that mirror sky,
Only the lightning can afford,
Or the golden eagle flying by,
So let them mirror storm,
For their rallies are like rats under a hovering rough legged hawk,
Provoking much,
Or the swift^lawyer lecturing the rocks he stands atop,
Carving them away, until they split and gush,
Write a script, to heal thyself,
Better yet write a script for those you hurt,
Better to be a black bear licking your own wounds of dirt at least,
Than to listen to honking well fed geese,
And why do you boast on high, just because you can?
Look to the blue hills,
They will remain and you will never be again.

To think, this was once glacial till,
A million sabbaths to cure this ill.

Dearest, a fire warning just came out,
And the hills have columns of clouds,
The breeze does slightly sparkle,
And the curtains do twist in pain
Like before a thunderstorm with only lightning and no rain.
The pendants dim to nothing,
No matter that fluorescence,
'cause your neighbors shed is aflame,
It illuminates the art work,
And wets the long dried paint,
The wind now is streaking,
Outside the lonely hall,
over the phone, you can't hear her at all.


The dry fronds light aloft, and send out to the brush,
In turn they send to more,
Stoking more exhaust,
The ambience inside flows and moltens,
And lightens up the paintings,
As if now the meaning is open,
And have been long in waiting.
The wind outside now streaks,
To a burning blur,
The rabbit in the yard, runs in circles,
From the fire in her fur,
How can this be, a painting of a future fever dream?
Activated by the wind,
That streaks so emberly,
And what is this, a man in a valley with skis,
Wrapped head to toe,
As the sunset burns the trees,
And he coughs on snow,
Now a man with a bycicyle,
Next to an unsaddled horse,
Who now looks in haste,
The mare frightened by reports,
This! a drink on the patio with my dearest  love,
At once it looks,
As if Im reclined and they eulogize from above,
Now a man trudging in a blizzard,
And disappearing so,
It's time,  it's time to go,

Looking at the street's burning palms,
Now so intensely a'glow,
The streaking, ever increasing embers,
Canvassing the soul.

Kevlar plates much lead,
  Night vision sharks,
And a ladder to ascend,
The raft pulls on a cargo ship,
The night sea rips a hand away,
In the flash-lit night sea spray,
The prowler finishes what it begun,
He disappears grasping bottom rung,
And not satisfied with only one,
His helper sinks forever to the ocean bed,
With much kevlar, and Navy lead.

                            *
Three stare at a tidal pool,
A sighing then dying foamy gown,
Two in thongs,
That the foamy dress wants to wrap around,
Like champagne off the rocks,
The sea toasts aloft,
He let's her jump in,
Why not they are quite fit?
Tho the surging waves beg to differ,
They press, dress, and grip her,
Finally locking her in it's awful room,
To his credit he jumps in,
The pool lowers,
Revealing him on a rock trying to cling,
They disappear forever with her hand in his.

                            *
A cruise ship in Bahama green blue,
If there parents only knew,
That blacktips love their children more,
When pushed off from shore,
Much drink, much youthful pride,
Scheming hearts when it's girls and guys,
Someone takes up a night time dare,
Being followed unaware,
A splash and the night green blue,
" Bye Bye"
Forever separated from party in view,
Then gliding forms, like ghosts,
Almost spectral,
Tries to swim back, disappears,
trying to board a vessel.
                 *
85 on a winters day,
With a price in Waimea Bay,
The surfers are out there,
So it's safe?,
Surfers are ****** brave!
Only up to knees,
girls stay on the beach,
Every six foot wave,
the surfer takes,
Crashes 30 feet high shore break,
A separated shoulder,
A crowd and"no swimming" tape
out of breath from sets of 5,
Once shallow,
Now a chasm to the other side,
lay behind,  float way out,
want to die without a shout,
No father on earth,
and no brethren beyond the tape,
Without love without hate,
Then something in the water,
something spectral,
" Hey bra ya alright?"
A pyscho surfer aboard his vessel.

Chica Baca laca maca....et cetera,
Where the lady sunfish are gold,
And  are truth tellers,
And the chain pickerals are bold,
And truth be told,
Those chains could not hold,
For Chaca Baca laca maca... whatever,
As Lake Unabash is known,
Was more humble when it was cold.

Baca daca lacka Baca Goo,
In the native or Lake Unabash will do,
The green male sunfish had electric gills,
Like neon lightning went up through,
But now wear a pumpkinseed coat,
So fall color is always new,
And the lady bass jump in the boat,
To tell the skipper where to go.

Shooka booka lacha nooka....
Or just Lake Trudeau,
The old catfish still fly their whiskers,
But only at night in bubble whispers,
For all the show is during day,
When a mother musky eats a duckling on its way,
Then to a fisherman turns to say,
I am a truth teller,
And you men have had your time!

Chaka ooka alla moola,
Or just Lake ****** truth be told,
Was more humble when it was cold,
Now the water recedes the lake,
And with summer lasting later,
"Hey how ya doing" from a stranger,"
And now new to Lake Annoy,
The alligator fills the void.

Excuse me, its the law,
And it is on the sign,
As water flows uphill,
And your kayak is in my eyes,
I dial 9 1_1- just fine,
For what I cant stand,
Is lawbreakers in my land,
For my eyes are chimes,
Swaying to my closeted crimes,
If you ring my bell and run,
Dont think that you have won,
I will wait for the slight breeze,
And for a petty-crime you will be hung,
For upon the law, and to wit, I do tell you a truth,
I peer out a vertical slit,
But it is my chimes that gather my proof.

My room overlooks snowy hills,
On a house sky high,
I hear my father descending stone stairs,
my mother creaking up attic pine,
My father coming to pick me up saturday morning,
My mother in the attic on a saturday night.

I once saw a mans foot dangle from the clouds,
The roofer above my room outside
A discounted price no doubt,
Tho the roof is above the pines,
The front door is below the stone,
Cant build like that anymore, due to code.

Barely remember anything below 8,
I guess my father used to stay out late,
Sometimes i  would awake to the summer day,
With knocks at the door for brunch,
Down the stairs flying i would go,
Only opening to the night, the stone and the cold.
The meanest dreams I know.

The snowy hills can play tricks,
Like the day I saw a fox,
Outside looking over the pines,
Something distant, rubbing my eyes,
Coming so close I see it trot.

I know she is carrying memories,
When I hear those creaking stairs,
I snuck up to the attic once,
And those windows rattled in that jetstream air.
I found a photo, diagonally ripped in half,
A hand on the shoulder of a boy about to laugh,
It looked like the boy was smiling to the darkness,
Due to the album being black.

These snowy hills can be cruel,
From the attic I can see that fox,
It comes so close, in that leafless distance,
then it suddenly stops.

Ah, only to be an artic squirrel,
To sleep till the cold sword past,
Dreaming of green--
Below that cold artic slash.

Only rousing self when the sword hits my sleep,
It pierces my burrow,
Slaying the colors and the maiden,
With its merciless degree.

Ah, to awake to darkness, but with light coming from the door,
The cold sword is sheathed,
And my dreams are restored.