BlueHalios

last night as i lay dreaming: the rain fell against the window, like birds flocking to the breadcrumbs of my heart and in my sleepless dream each one was an angel that took my self into their firey belly. my blood mixed with the ink of dusk, and the restlessness of my churning percepitated dawn like rain pouring from a spout i awoke, in an awakeless daily life. would that i could commit to my task and count your eyelashes, without being distracted by the splender of your eye, i would gather the you inside of me like birds to bread crumbs like water in a tempary vessel.

lately i have come to believe that clouds are the paddle boats of the sky. when their great wheel turns, water pours out from that basin. how else could you explain the blueness of the sky after a summer rain. or the attraction of mars, on the night time thigh. often times, i wish that i where a sunfish, that, this would explain my attraction to red like foolish cherry lycorish, hung on a fishing line rapped around a soda can. thrown back with each catch. Nabokov once said, life is a thread of light between two darkness'. i have seen the splash of the catfish tail, in the streetlight and know the river is no darker, no less madd

ugly man i love, do not conceal the 4 AM cracks that  trace the crevice of your eye, and jowl line. you real old, like pipe tobacco and long walks. i know by river you think ‘jumping in,’ and identify with dry delta cracked mud. your picture is a dust cover: that face a map, to the history of one man, which is as much the history of all men, as anything else recorded. you text book, somebody has used february as a bookmark, that milky spring moon folded in half. your tears are math periods paper footballs, rescued from the trash by a nostalgic janitor. sit there old man, reject me old man i am two decapitated deer, y

Last night, as I was sleeping, I dreamt —marvellous error!— that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures. –Antonio Machado (1875 - 1939) my friend, i had not yet cracked open the book, when i saw a monarch butterfly land on its regal milk weed, just above a cleft where its poisonous honey ran out. between those wings creation was perfect unseen, untaxable by the spreading of time. i thought of you then Machado, deep in your cleft, felt only now by Gods secret phrenology, that passes between the magots and forever. the sun had shown o

I does the wind make love to the peaks of mountains? spreading the cool mountain ecstasy through the valley. teasing the fragrant hairs of jealous flowers. ah, to know a flower song! always reaching for their Lover: songs for the sun.   their feet firmly hugged by earth, gossiping through intermediaries. even when the wind is teasing, rotating about the peaks of mountains, with promiscuous howls, that love making is only a song for the Lover. the blood in our cheeks reaches for the sun, speaking through intermediaries like thorned honey bees. in the valley singing songs for the Beloved, imitating the wind that tickles flow