ghosts in glass vials
all the blood i’ve shed
those desperate pleas to the graves within me,
don’t reflect well in the light.
ceaselessly etching my bones with fire and rot…
i sit like ghosts in glass vials,
but the ink never sticks.
a trembling of limbs,
the uncanny hesitation like
hair wrapped around teeth;
bed sheets heaped on the floor;
shoulder blades growing heavy in the wake of oncoming storms,
that carry more than rain…
how must i be seen?
writhing under skins,
the lichen on the limestone
come from within.
let's begin with one small being
Come where she put sentences to grow and to work into something the same.
Songs with backs, spines, and tree bark,
Surfaces that may spell mountains or definitions of who’s not seen much of the sea.
He smokes water and more,
Needs songs while books,
Under set examples, under see pages
Soon place Together at another river.
And the songs keep time around him,
Keep her at three.
Four times below.
To down these, open even together,
They think sentences that spell differently must follow some paper.
Don’t good things come because often -
After a long sometimes while away among groups, large to each, making little things learn
-They may lie?
i build and burn bonfires in my bedroom made of incense sticks i’ve picked up off the trail through the commune woods,
where great sequoias people Amazonian amongst the pine and the birch interest themselves in native mushrooms. occasionally on blissful autumn warm mumbling days when a relieving breeze brushes the dust from my shoulders
i can take the moment to breathe with them. under willow trees on grass mats we drink tea and tobacco that the forest has blessed to the entish, telling gnarly lore of stars and eastern poetry and god, and slurring our own in prickly smoky puff puff poems:
like a haze of lazy buzzing and humming murmurs of mystic wisps of golden willow branches
like chick a dee dee dum whistles perched in thistles and burs, on my shoulders pecking bark from my ears fearing sing song salvations salivating day dreams and means of escape
like ink trees and long sighs in florescent moonlight, under polyethylene cosmic dances