standing,
in the mud of a new place
i may find the dirt too watery
or often times i feel as if
my boots do not stick
quite enough.
but now i have gone barefoot
and its henna lines have been traced.
the mud now clings to me
like a raindrop at
the breast of a sparrow, or
a coyote as it nuzzles a
great laugh into it's kill.

this afternoon i will
blow my worries into the hollowed/hallowed
out peel of a tangerine and lay it
carelessly upon the
flame of a candle.

My throat is apple,
it has reddened and blossomed in the moon
here tonite and the way of a spiders walk has permeated my
frame; Shaking and biting with my juts.
I am confident in one thing, my death.
When it comes, swift and deliberate,
with the unmistakingly simple
coat of the red violet ocean
through my heart,
the valves will stir and settle-
crying out into the void for the cough of
uncertainty, for the choke of
instance. I will die early,
clothed in significance from one thing,
a brown box,
a glass slipper,
an unnamed package that
walks the walls and hallways of a small dormitory school.
What if i have left a child behind somewhere through my youth,
or what if i have spawned the blossom of a new
Brown Shirt Ensemble who carry through the night
torches of unending uneasiness?
I have at least laid a wall
among the vines
and among the careless sweeping dirt of the yard.
The fountain pump is broken,
the cord has come unplugged,
the water,
it carries itself over the lip
on it's own mission.

You can hold my water in your
palms, but like the rubber-edged sword of
millions of ants crawling in distinct lines
tracing your name among the
sidewalk skin of Broad Street i will dissipate
and resume my life of uncockled
leisure within the fruit trees in the
dwarf orchard. I ache for the tinned
dents of the watering can and the feeling you have
when the ground breaks
and my water moves closer
to the sun.

real writers tell stories about horses
about who rode them and how they died and
who they loved and how wonderful it felt or
feels to win and i am a penniless monster who
writes stories about who rode them the worst.