monday

amongst all this toil, all       i want is to be reincarnated as a june thunderhead
blooming blue above them red mountains

in rambling,

longshanked highway runners
live to fix their vacant eyes on an empty horizon,
never holding nothin but a cheap butterfly knife
tween them and the dark wet places flying by beside the road.

apple & farmer

i got these tattoos,
electric imprints beside my breast, the skin surface changed forever --i will be drawn to rest someday as an old oak cut with the easy scars of verdant sapling youth.
any spring tree could tell you that nothing grows back quite the same after each frost. its new april-green chorus is shaped with notes of misshapes that are their own memorial:the freshly marred bark flaws mark the memory of fruit and leaves who already done breathed their last sunshine and let go of the sky and wind to fall

down there to them earth standin men who watch simple and hungry
with the moon waning in their eye, reducing to a scythe, their harvest beneath the blade coming up cold and colored red in its final phase