530 N 14th

has a sweet smell

(they say that sense

has the strongest

of memories)

this might be why

flowers are

such poetic

devices, and

although they are

the inverse of,

abundantly,

earth also grows

antitheses.

you can only

smell beginning

and end, which is

why you always

forget them.

in the air, hung

a speck of dust

swirls,

as i

'

m at the mercy

of a breath,

alive

while a slice

of light

projects my body.

so much yet,

all of it

in front,

the grass panned out

and the trees spread wide,

the hilled plains wait

to be betrothed

with the gem of

a tin-clad barn.

(some would wish

winter away)

then stills and stalls

nurture their kind,

all of it

speaks in growth

to us-

the field to till

then wheat to reap

seed to plant

speaks of birth.

there's a girl with a skirt

down at Aimee's

puffy tartan

blue and green

frames her beauty,

it's enough that

she works and

talks and smiles.

i relented

thanking her

on the way out,

it's better that way,

maybe.

there's a garden

between 10th and 11th,

lays with closed eyes

bathing in sun

between brick shoulders

wrought-iron rods

hold her safe

like a hand cups

a butterfly.

i've had no excuse

to slip behind

the fence and

sit in the green,

yet.

then there's night-

when boxes of

golden luminosity

grace the street,

flush with cold

dark stone and brick,

the wares inside

are weary

nonetheless.

i stopped wishing

i could have all,

or read every book

about three months ago,

but glass hinders

presence or response

anyway.

is silence

destructive art?

if you scrape

words off signs

sticking, black

triangles to fingers

if you cut

deep into earth

piles next to

your mines

and death is

no cure for life

but draws its lines

kansas, she is pure

blushes green

when the sun kisses

her cheek

and her shoulders

bare, and sky

so close, sans seams

yawning sun, later on

washes through the trees

and the scent of dusk

rinses off the yellows,

are now blues

nights, blacks, stars

tingling points of light

(turn off the tv colors)

before the sleep

carpet is the start,

basic, room is a yes,

when you walk in ,

you ask

and sitting now , listen

to guitars, breathing, voices,

condense into little clouds

then sounds rain down

you drink of the beauty,

of the beauty of the voices

of the passion in the strumming

of reverberations

dampening the carpet,

you want to lay down in the water

you want to stand in every corner

carpet becomes end,

and when will end when

eternalness of yes sings to

you, ask

flyers flutter, cling and clothe

something silent, wall is/was

fertile, seeing will of cull

and all over words, minds rove

(not to reference cliche)

but apiculture-like movement

rustling bits of hung-up paper

to reproduce an apt display

(all is futile, swallowing

dust and bitter fruits of flyers

"before the harvest comes about

we must become us"- singing)

hope someone to book my soul

photocopy it, in odd

flourescent orange tinge

to staple to the silent wall

before the harvest comes,

so to become us all.

sleep soft, tonight

we shared a storm-cloud

and nothing more

than loudness, both ours

and dousing sounds

same wet rains,

thunder, the lightning

and damp remains

in the morning,

soft light.

the stuff

no, the response

we call it 'matter'

you

(getoutyourelectronmicroscope)

need a preposition

to see it

= dialogues

and a question

i have is

who do i matter

to?

as i listen-

love&weather

here.

walked on the side

and carried the

other ams,

underneath my arm

stuffed into

a plastic bag

the fabric wet,

manifested ands

of collected "whos" or

the thought of me, the weight

that being, fills my hands

and pulling, sways my gait

but barefoot,

walking back

with unburdened pace

(the lightened clothes, or)

ams or ands

mattered less than

the who of place.