impossible green

green, for foot paces.
all the way to the end of eyelids.
green is a necessary color
in flowering.

green is covered in snow.
now it is trying to shine from every corner.

Parsley wilts in arrows beneath the light
it’s cold hair won’t unplant
until all the garden is green, toothed and smooth
arching climbing clumping sprawling trailing
until all the garden is green, fuzzy and glaucous
carrying pods berries petals hips
until all the garden is green, it crumples

shrinks back into the garden soil
where all things are light, so bright
because your pupils are so small
in the snow. White and dead
but not lost for chances.

Tomorrow it rains.


What is up

clouds are low along the rooftops.
They’re grazing on lost bolts and dusty shutters
in the front lawn, muted by a dying orange heap.
We’ve gladly been offering up these nuisances
to the clouds, but seem never to evaporate.
It is gray, but after all
it is a good day, the last
of spring’s leave see-saw on branches,
crusty and rooting for snow.
Imagine it; a tilted gray cast
and perpetual indistinguishable silence
in a myriad of white flakes.
Motion seems still.
It is in this slow descent
that toeing shuffling comes
to a stop,
and looks up:

Internal Flight

perhaps song inside me will be played out
it will come,
when it comes.
of me is right
how can I help?
it is a forest
in focus,
how some standing branches
pass by the other
as you move by,
closer they go
and spread and change
only when you’re walking
Perhaps my song sings out
when nobody is looking
now, until we remember it-
Oh, that was -you!-
and whatever encompasses my wrists
does not matter
because you can’t hear those
after you’ve walked past
and I’m sitting below some green canopy
of rustling mind.

golden vibe
puts money to rest
I am the sunflower,
and you the stem.
Then I am the soil
and you the thin roots
and then I am a glimmering talon
and you the feathers
all in blue-

here we are
walking past another sitting song,
arch out and in and directionlessly smooth
dipping only with elasticity, saying
you are the sunflower
and I the stem,
you the soil,
and I the roots
thin and tendrilously smooth
you the talons and glimmering eye
and I the feathers
tearing at an unmeshable blue.
taddle, paddle
ear, here,

wakes the toes of giant
buried ‘neath a sloping mountain
that must never be moved
you sing in warning
knowing all too well
it will
when it will
at exactly the right
corner of time.
Pluck, pluck
the petals of your mind
gilded only to your eyelashes’ content

this is your song
as much as it is mine
and you know how it goes
as much as I know
how to follow
putting things
from the left
behind and
over to the right
and then nowhere at all,
our song is a cloud
on a mountain
and I let you wail
let you wail
let you wail
because it comforts us all
to know perfection is

and if we found it
it would be empty.
it would be a great chest
covered in the dryest blackest
and when cleared would reveal a
long broken lock
that perhaps had never been
perhaps had never
meant to be filled.

What have you found to love?
past fingernails?
past split ends?
I rely,
I decay,
I declare

Life will find you
in your happiness-most
that’s all I can

A little bit of motivation

I know I have potential for something,
because some slowly bubbling mush inside my chest
fills with sun,
The ray slows my heartbeat heard in my ears
and fills me inexplicably full;
With more worthwhile breath
than I think possible.

from the pith

Leaves forfeit after all, dismounting and falling away almost like snow,
their branches and buds are bare.

Red and yellow are the only pure colors left to die.
Blue shrivels up with the sun’s casting-off–

I have pushed lucid hints out
to sea, it is a scape,
a bull, a let-it-go-this-too-shall-pass,

I converse drought resistant Others
with you,
behind closed eyes of silence
and watch mothers, brothers, sisters, fathers and their pithy chlorophyll descend
finally to where we are.

Dear stranger, I have to thank you
for not kicking me or turning a green eye, cold.
I have to thank you, for dancing when I wish to pull the land around me, with all of its twiggy crusts.
And, dear stranger, I am sure now
there is no such thing as being lost, but
we must not let ourselves hollow away.

first, human, then perfect.

From beneath a sultry cloud
pokes a brown pair of Birkenstocks
and just above that,
on the side closest to me
joined by eminent bones and skin
exists an ankle,
wholly visible from the pue.
Who would have thought
something so human
such as a well used ankle
lives below Father John’s
white robes?

rainy day

Water only sits in the white chairs
on the back porch
because the clouds kiss the armrests
with their wispy bodies all caked together
instead of a summer sunbeam
or a singular butterfly,
I wonder what it must have been like
to travel in giant flocks,
all those monarchs following magnetic pull
or some navigation
so few of us want anymore.


the second pair of hands evaporates
above the always empty
passenger’s seat,
but the green flakes are
blooming again
after the caterpillars ate it all away.
And I’m glad
to see the gray tint
of spring in the breeze again,
glad to see the clarity of morning
down my own arms
and invisible in the blue.
What speed my feet have gained,
What patience I’d like them
to hold.

maybe wings don’t matter as much

There should be
holes in the sky, ashen.
if dry for the second; clouded
trees fill the space, dust-
y green and blue, for miles
of tinted land.

None of them call to me.
I’m an indifferent animal
barely crunching stones
lif/ soles
above branches
so as not to snap.

Voices without footsteps;
how the sound carries
across fields. When there’s
nobody to block it
but frogs.

I am watched by a moth
trying to get by
my larger shape.
me too, I think.
me too.

legs, lungs, and the ocean, again.

Legs are made of fire,
of a slightly differential black and
white tingle.
Ready pulse
while the I floats,
a broken packet of color-
for a moment spread in mid-air.

Then, there is the ocean.
Clear/black circle
from which everything with lungs
will crawl, perhaps.
Those in the ocean
don’t worry about the heat of limbs,
it flows in and out.
But it’s always in.
and it’s always out.

Lungs are large, almost top heavy
but like a perfect tide
air goes in, and out,
keeping arms from lightning
and legs from falling still.