reception the out
sidereal book:
read define fine
with each star word glance
connective tissue soothes
soothsayers their runny eyes
feel and can’t see
pupils lately dilate
at the podium:
listless listening
for wind upon water

there were no words

she fits it fits her
the mountain trance
eyes bigger than
pregnant soil dearth

distances: cornea grain
again it were rain splotches
she watches for the small
of ranging drawl

she listens for the look
of stone upon face
makes love a place
for gazing

makes vision
a long way
the long way
back home

she is horizon-big
her fingers clench mountain
her voice still a vale
still, it echoes further

fear full pitcher pours
a damp idea of
into the sockets and eyes

you feel your brain
an organ Icarus tic tock
pastoral growth on a
nerveless range

a picture
of nervous longing
wholly spirit
it swirls in you
and drains

you move your hands
barely conscious
like lovers kiss
before they die

you might
be reborn
after five minutes of death

a poem is a seizure

oxygender makes sea, oh two:
look at resting nation respiration
an unsung penis in my lung
it wants to get out

my mouth is a girl and a river
and I am the ship shape
collapse the lapse in my lap
dance off my stomach

before I fill it with stranger substance
abuse and baby juice
and push out blood-filled sponge
my erectioneering makes his world

even if he is a she, and she is a boat like me

maturation is masturbation
follow grooves
to make more same
make more sane

evolution and degradation
a clever lever of a brain
in a good position

pray God makes Good
and no male leaves
his brain for whore moans

hope for wholes not holes
that needy need nothing
a quip is her fertile quick
and his power the dead

there were no whir in the
cog nation nor brain deigns
childish wild rapes
the land without landing

organize the heart
love the blood instead
young or old
and full of blue or red

anger death softens
the body and

that’s when other
thinkers come in and

without them
it would never
it would never have been
in the first place

they make me so

not me
living things

a thought lives
and dies
in a groove

shovels and holes
counters and units
units and units
a shovel is a hole

growth makes
an impression
and yet
somewhere is a giant hole

a thought lives
and dies in a groove

if bitter is
into the woods

sour then is
your self

and sweet
as your

content you wait
for new smells

linger then
swallow them


it ends
you start


it begins
a thought


it persists
you of you


flattened earth between paint squares
paint squares on bark
paint on bark
the trail litters
yet when
it is abandoned there
never was
a cup
it leaves behind
the trail makes virgin past
the trail makes
a simple declaration
this is not a trail
what is on the ground is
suddenly lifeless
without expiration
not on the ground
in the woods there is no litter
there is no woods
except for the trail