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engorgement shuttle rides through park crevaces, and wanderings through long deserts (eatten too much mescaline a few times) but won't talk on about tiresome adventures or waking worries---we are all a series of movements, hand gestures...alive is how we are, belong and i tried, in quiet anthems, written past dust and thorugh sand pits, gravel beds, a home without dying flowers or swimming pools for floating in the daytime (the sun can be so harsh) it's easier to acknowledge when you're not really trying (we all should/shouldn't sometimes) knowing when to let go can take your arms from your sides and suck the breath from every socket 9i've got cranial injuries somehow, if imagined, i wake seared and i know that soothing stories exist somewhere, and i intend, mean to, on some level, bring them across (a cross) you can call it any color and i'll just scandalize or quiet down (the moment dries up and we are searching) but haste makes.... when you really look, slow down the auto shutter speed of your frame lens eyes we can be just so graceful (mostly by accident) and overeager follows us around for most of our days: i enjoy the work of so many modern day miracle-ists, workers of the old mines and day-job window cleaners (wisdom is everywhere) and getting that across is so slim a margin as to be unreadable it's a rant i'm leaving here and one day, in the shallow parts of your most silent mind you'll find the sense of it (how i ranged) from this star to that quagmire, so much ash behind: falling is so carefully drawn out but rebirth can be found anywhere we look---so why, then, why is it so easy to see the fall?
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