From the 2019 Collection "2222"
In your gut is an empire— Spells, tug of war, Holy Days, ascent, decline.
Stay until the walls dissolve, problem solved. No Mustangs on this Mesa just a billion stars, a vendetta forgotten, secured.
If presented with the choice would the dinosaurs have allowed the asteroid or meteor to hit?
The cicada, once with the humility of a barnac… weeping beneath the fern, now screams its inane mantra, which
Mowing with the sickle I stop abruptly and remember crawling out the window to smoke on the roof
Formulate an agenda Make friends. Label enemies. Identify beliefs. Re-examine.
Finally alone, I lie with a volum… I venture again to hear the injunc… normally I savor their sensitivity… but tonight all I can think about
Trees poke from the earth like the mummified hands of the martyrs. Buried alive, they strained with last breath
Are we in the field or on the field? When I soar for the disc I wonder how that cloud got its shape.
There is a stream of what could have been which flows on with the same rate and newness of what is.
S, I gotta tell you, this sixty-five cents is worse than a lump of coal. I pray the remover of obstacles
Hell came through on battered wings, and thought to ask just one last thing. That If I could,
In Thirty-Four years I can count on two hands how many times I’ve been in my right mind. It is a small percentage.
Upon that special mound there is a cleanliness, a purity sanctimonious, something so perfect it’s numerological—
The Eye of Providence harbors no grudge, holds no thought of evil. Knowing this you may boil in oil,