the tongue, like a spark

sets fire to feet, fire to hands

fire in wireless grass.

night, walking down the

campus old (or new?)

is the grass i glanced at

different than last fall's?

or the same, because of roots

i am from colorado springs, colorado

meaning color red, the dirt that

is.

still, the night named grass

and the moving morning did too.

at least the concrete is the same,

or seems. [ a layer was washed off

in the last storm ]

limestone is the old, weighs

the buildings down to place,

to the tannish dirt, that

is,

and was;

a sooty film paints itself

on the porous face

of each stone, and all together;

makes an imprint cloud.

walking, the burden of

reality rests on the perceiver,

like on the grass, dew.

i am not the same,

[ beads of sweat on my face

like rain, were in an instant ]

but my name is

and was.

brightness, said iconoclasts

(laptop dreams drowned in sun)

rectangles pregnant with

a thing that lasts.

semaphores, in the grass

name them as you will

signal flares, later on

a thing to grasp.

egocentric hands and lips

favored brands of transcendence,

thirst for water scarce as

the thing, a mist.

people with abstracted eyes

ears of ears that don't let sound

could never dream to get

the thing, a kiss.

i.

i am an easter moth,

waiting for the eastern sun

to pull my wings, unfurling,

out of sleepy liquid-tides

(on the cusp of waking)

'til sun-dried, for going up

soft thoughts, folded oddly

misty morning,

forming to become movement,

on the cusp of going up.

ii.

frail teams: waking, working

give heed to the sun's way

after falling, somnias

(last heavy instinct

kept from the herd)

in-betweens thought of-

we have a fractured vanity

at the crack of dawn

as true as skin, clear as glass

when we wake as human.

i am in rooms, or not

are what words amount

to, define and deline

inbox and outside.

modern mice revise

the city/country debate,

but rants against suburbia

betray the meandering

words that are as futile

as those cubic realities

they call homes or not,

lots and brain cells

filled with bits, bits of

colors, smells, sleep/awake

with addresses on the fronts.

whether or not you turn the

light on, and remember

makes them realer than

words that are as futile

as potpourri in screaming nostrils,

reminding me, i am in rooms

or not.

sequins on steel frames

light up, not negate the night:

sky with make-up on.

lovesick reader reads

into however he pleases

unadorned words of

love songs too simple,

for simple lovers.

like empty stomachs

wrought laden carts,

the adage warns us.

song of solomon

and transhumanism,

bought like a salve -

no- a placebo thought,

to drink up thinkings

in measuring cups,

unlike lovers, simply

they are unread, but

who did awaken

new meanings from

too simple words, but they.

stainless in deft hand

awakens thirst, softly skin

yields. fingertips drink.