not sure where this is going

Can I imagine a ocean made of stones?

Where the feet of a lonesome little girl prance atop the rocks,

the granite stepping stones that align themselves for her,

she is wise, she is young, she is alive and she is dead

dead not in the way we condemn it but in the way nature does

like winter, a joy inside a spring bloom spent a summer growing

only to sleep in autumn, to sleep in life, to sleep in death.

Can't she wake for me?

screaming in a roar of lights,

speeding inside her arms

tightly wrapped embrace of soul

a sweet child who sings

who's voice is her own, whose voice is the worlds

but her words are hidden

the sounds that are drawn from her gut is movement

movement enough

waves that see through sky filled cups

inside her leaking wrists

inside her twisting heart

sky

the red yard which stretches between love and hate is thin

so thin it can break easy and fix easy all at once, and sometimes the feeling of sadness and happiness drowns both love and hate in a strange spiraling collapse,

not  like a taped vase collapsing into itself, but a bird greeting the ground in its last moments of flight it is sad yet beautiful all at once. and it mentions to the sky how much it will miss it and how much it will miss it back. How fast the wind felt and how close they were. What the bird wants to say is that it will miss the sky with its wind and clouds and small imperfections. It will miss the vastness and the warmth of its arms holding him up in the flight. The bird will miss it and he wants to say this most but all that comes out are gasps of a yellowed beak from the wrong bite of a fruit he wasn't supposed to eat. But the sky doesn't know, it wont know till it looks for the bird, when the sky needs the bird it will be find that he is gone. And the sky will search, desperately making the wind harsher, tumbling over leaves and snow in the search and it will find nothing, nothing but an empty sky. So the sky will be empty ,empty of the bird that filled its vastness, that added the warmth and movement of the world in it's eyes. what will the sky do now?

Roughing It once again

she paints his eyebrows with the murky  tan water

the color of the stems of poppies, the ones with the petals that extend into her hands, that cradle her river of braids and rose water cheeks, a murky pink along her mouth hidden behind a coffee soaked smile, just from that morning

a morning that the night fell asleep in her arms, inside her bed with the sheets of soften cream that warm the earth of her body and his body, a movement that stirs just beneath the surface, skimming the underside of the mind with the perfect skipping rock, that makes the 6 stone jump from feeling to action.

nearly there inside the walls of fluid motion not a second thought in sight

just simple raw real feeling, wild thoughts that please to express themselves with each-other.

the words of life that move together a community of thick poetic seduction.

his brush of pencils dulled with the written word, that he arranges along her spine to let her know the real him.

so he draws inside her skin the inspiration he grows from scratch

as he scribbles down expressions

her vertebrates make periods and her freckles form his commas, the birth mark on her lower back corrects his spelling.

a human instrument with strings and chords and life  wrapped in hand craved wood by a natures mother.

she is a running spirt within his wrist to his finger tips

creating inside his forearms and inside his shoulders

releasing the tension from his neck and spine

no worries, take in the inspiration let it rain inside you

your heart will flood with love and your soul will float inside

Blurb

the movement is endless, like swimming ,she said, her voice inside a thick manilla envelope.
an address stamped to nova scotia, someplace far and close, and close and far all at the same time. Imagine, she said, someplace where nightime cradles daytime with a knitted blanket made of wool and the northern lights. and the spaces between the knots are stars. beautiful.. Don't you think?
he imagined, taking in the smell of the movement and the feeling of tall Cedars, he could imagine.
imagine it so well it nearly took his lungs away, the space inside his gut empty where his organs used to be. They were already there, waiting for him.

Knowing Your Soul

I carry a card.
It's  for identification only,
With an address which places my soul-
Such an explosive and passionate thing-
Inside of a twenty square foot tunny
With one door to the "outside"
And the other to the "inside."
The weight of living on the inside is measured in
Tin capsules, papers of stained glass,
Which authority on the inside dictates I swallow.
I must, for if I don't,
The weight will not build,
And I will be weightless,
Untied from the groundings' of not the parent, but the people-
The iron links of bonds I forged with specters
Who purge the world of freewill.
The ones which force the weight to build,
To fling a torrential rain of steel pellets which plummet inside our bones,
Jabbing at the materials underneath our skin with an immunization for living.
A sickness:
They slump the dead believers onto the sleeping to make them dwindle from the weight,
To teach them how to sink into faceless disconnection.
We tumble,we faint, we pass out, we sink and we die in a trickle which
Runs from the seam of their stockings.
And the weight clutches the throats of every single one:
The soul forced to drown inside of a pill made of molten uranium.
It is disposable, usable, and expendable.
After all, the soul, to some, is only matchstick light.
Its roots are fresh and easy to pull from the frame of your pelvis.
They prod it with blazing fingers, thick with greed, fat from blindness
To wrench the soul from the very veins inside your muscles.
And they will shred it if they must, the will make lacerations inside your tendons
In the hopes it will cripple your mind.
Your soul will be deadened by the weight,
A precise amount equal to 63,045,911 lead-filled caskets.
All the people that held a string inside your body
Are connected,sewn into the fabric of your liver, heart, and lungs.
But the connection is weightless:
Energy formulated from spirits,thoughts,
And weekly trips to the loneliest place in the world-
Where everyone meets for the same reason,
Where no one speaks.
The sounds that come from our mouths are not the meaningful things.
They weigh 5 British pounds inside of a leather coin purse.
The consciousness weighs 640 pounds at the time of the choice,
But its weight lifts as the consciousness seeps into your soul
And wipes out the weight of a nation.

Partum Poeta

She was spotted.

Her joints creased with flesh.

Her frame mildly translucent

layered with stiff skin, shaved of all disguises

she made a wreath of lavenders, the smell soaking into her thin braids,

 flowing up her scalp  melting into her arched spine

vulnerability sighed inside of her

directly underneath her ribs

She underlined the clay in the dirt

caking onto her raw calloused feet

her hands danced with brilliance

separated the stems of thought into roots of speech

brittle sentences that could be torn apart

to make a body of sounds

the chanting of the earth moved mountains inside her mind

fog oozing over their peaks

heavy with sunshine and observation

the sky opened up