hawk on crack

cryptic hawk on crack
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were things more real then
out side of time call it
poetry, not
living
?



the never that called it self
up from a mind on a harley.
or maybe it was a corvette some
concrete expression of worth
in the eyes of




what ever dreams as youth.
but she steadfastly onward
opened the crank case, looking for movement
and oil. the whys as machinery
substituting for miracles.


perhaps she could find chemical bonds
and fire. she blew into the funnel
clearing a path. time continued to appear
linear. she struck at the membrane
with the blue of a sky ,summer
at the lake . it broke
merely to reform
slick, impenetrable, yet tantalizingly
translucent as onyx
mined from the side of ptolyxacatyl
letter by forced letter scraped from the andes
the glow of the crystal
with healing claims exposed.


only 29.99 .




















*










june again she bundles
memories in her arms
out the door to shake them
air them out since spring
was full of inversion, bulbs
eating their roots,
shoots in estivation somehow
she missed the rebirth. might have
been her location. the past
continues to cling to the threads
refusing to get up and play
in this heat. considers moving to canada.















*













i was so god of you
to create the past here
in front of becoming.
one step ahead of my lines.

each moment could be the fire's
ruffle along sawgrass edge
seeking not
home
but
fuel. which is home to flame.
feed it. i am air.















*








definition and certainty
are pearls he wore, clouds
across his neck. if he was his older
him, when you were younger
then kindly remove the similes.
she understands the motives of growth.
the way the sky rips apart at lightning.
the dark rumble of truths tumbling
like seagulls deterred from gobbling
her picnic by barely perceptible fishing line.
but oh what it does to wings, flapping.
tomatoes however can be anchored
with the stuff.















*







each star was another hit
smoke rolled over the beach
from wildfires in the north
hundreds of miles away
they had sex within it
rolling in sand that didn't
grit into folds and salt
which spread like the folds of moonlight
over the gulf they created on the beach.
tippling into tomorrow.
towing tide from side to side. nyah.
the music insisted on being played
a winamped repeat she shook out

of her long mermaid hair. ulyses shattered
on the pole, becomes nixon and peonies
are poetry in her garden. or
horse dances in waka tama, north
carolina where something festers on the back of a harley
in a seven foot native american who thinks
of love but it's only the hunt.




































*










what does it mean
this certainty she seeks?
the wounded healing of a nine.
fragmentary contact with bolts.
paint across a canvas that infinitizes.
what she holds in her hands
become wings melted
as icarus' flight. the oval shadows
in your own memories creating
distances i embrace as the grave
is certain and nothing else.



































*9)(*















i like the guy who works on apples.
we seem compatible. he's a hardware man
with a penchant for art. half scientist
half gnome. or did i mean satyr. or did i mean
some risen seed i planted in your mind
you slick sheeting wind
you manipulative breeze
letting go thru movement
chaotic patterns in the clouds.
this is why i trudge.






































*




thank you for the beauty included
at no extra charge. one day i hope
to grow up like you, my tray of tricks
spread before me and a child's eye view
of time. slip the weekend's mantle on,
play with hobbes, set up the ping pong
table, grab a brush and add a stroke to
the big long painting going on all around.