call me colophone
one more memory of me for the hole
one more kiss on the face of the deep
one more telling of our story

A bed of leaves, a peeling bark. The towers where we climb. Climbed and climbing into fragments, solid-souled rampage feet - the hardly there beat. Maybe all goes cartoon, cycles marked-in and apportioned.

Can we connect, us? That's what it really must be.

Patience climbing like a vine, the house where a child studies, the rock beneath the house.                                                                       -                                           Striations - birth. The bath of earth.

Not all things can be washed away. Not all things can be unmade.

Let god direct my path.

I've got to let go and let god, as they say. Let go of the need to control it all, and just let god in. Let god direct my path.

Let god direct my path.
Let god direct my path.
Let god direct my path.

I was lost in the wilderness of your longing, of your fear and lonely hunting. I moved past everything I know, into the clear morass of my meaning. Into the switchbladed horsecorns,
that sit together at the house dawn, make roses and pawns,
sit in silence while the love we left inside blares horns and toots fruit from stem to root.

Come the ragged windy perch that sits inside my sister self, and holds aloft a ragged bird, in wind that washes over.

Bye bird. I'll see you in my dreams. I'll see you at the seams of things. And when we meet again, I'll hold you friend. I'll make amends and sing again. In your fine company I traveled long. In your song.

Though I have no tale to let inside, I pride myself on masticated paws.
Broken jaws.
Give it some time, honey. We'll get back to the way it was, when the rains came, and we spoke of something but no name. Give me all prospect and harmlessness. Give me all righteous-caused chocolate bars, who tell me of the money most.
Of the money most!
Of the righteous host!
I was born out of jesus' ass, and I don't care who knows it.
I don't care which of my toe hairs shows it, and when the book is closed -- the one you already remember but haven't read -- I'll still be born of holiness.

The sudden and thunderous cracking of a split tooth rhyme game, grated into my headpsace by the growling soot of my unwindexed and unwindexable view.

Head on down to the biological market, find you some mushrooms, portabellas and doom. Hop on zoom!

Exsanguinated rat complexion, inner visions that fade to podcast in the june moon. The cherry on sunday, black and white and red. These keep me looping around and trying to find the next measure of angst.

When I foreclose on supplies, close my guy's thighs, walk down to the club and trade fetish for ties, trade powders for lies, at the chemical market. That's me at my finest.

This notion, of you and I and I in repose, laying gaily in the the atrium of our memory, I begrudge it. Cook some soup or don't, sprinkle in whatever -- I have always loved your sense of smell.