Integrated Change

I guess I just don't understand why and how things colesce and what it means. If I go like this then what di fer en ce e does it really make? What if form is wind, like a flow or a feeling. Is it big or not? How do we know what we're talking about when we say form? There have been so many times I've just created, just made something without regard for how it looked or sounded or---and I was going to say felt but that's precisely what I regarded most, not the way of feeling but the bare fact of...

Give him a glimmer of your untold pasts in muted chorus; bitter windows to a new plateau where sanctuary rests upon the sill of epochs steeped hyperboloid for threadbare drapes of moody robes that hearken into mindful poise while reaching out to clutch the hem of ghostly, cobalt noise. ...

Her birthday, then upon the dawn I left my snowy mountain-peaks and headed through the plains, the town that has a body-name then icy snare that held me where mom's stories live and kids still rhyme obscenely with the monarchy. Slept that night on dad's dime and the morning slowed me down, but not enough to interrupt my upstream flow to Fox's run, with diesel and the setting sun, past flakes and flashing lights to rest where plow-trucks own the night. Where his trek ended, mine resumed: I push...

The simplest thing— peering into a pair of eyes— yet nothing less than the whole world held there in a moment, dancing through a mote of light. I cannot hope to know what led those eyes to me, or take on the way they see any more than a heart can sense what guides its pulsing walls. There is no thing so right as how the eye proves wrong both scientists and saints: the eye just sees, as poor as well, resealing self in every optic cell. Unflash, a trailing thought can blink its glassy glow: I f...

As with flux, so with the fires of our veins, bundled impurity roiling at receding shore. Coils could cool into puddles of pools and gather apart like the quicksilver smeared across non-toxic paper in the hands of learners lacking hazardous waste policies. The buckle of a chest is sometimes amiss not to the clothed eye, but known by a hand: each one of us, to a man, is brokener still holding the pressure of hearts underfilled, that limitless torment winking, blinking, thinking, stinking up the r...

Pale marks and figments of leftover meals enshrine each and every feeble attempt to start fresh. In the congregating din (so many children hammering nails into useless planks) long-abiding chaperones may touch an arm—softly and without rebuke—indicating available space to refocus attention across those misty billows of thought, movement, laughter. Take a part from that textile decay laying out on the lawn. Patch it into a worn field of scars where trunks and trumpets loop outward in golden-grey...

The drip-dim cellar of a star, where one story contacts another and the whole folds in on itself, breaking and remaking the chances. On banks of ice an eagle stands in wait of silver, now winging upwardly across my view and down to something still more promising. A gentle hum distorts some pain and echoes in an old chorus to beckonings providing space for other kinds of vital rhythm. And plastic, always plastic, never far from plastic in this tortured refossilizing realm, using and disposing ...

What a gorgeous nightmare unfurling there in front of me and further, a parachuting piece of instinct settling down into the autumn wind. ...

We are all novelists: for each and every strand that builds to an ink-ling, so honest composes other realms and worlds that give us ways to live: there is no truth that's not a lie but a wish could sow a brand-new home for each and every strand that builds into another truth. ...

I make away on teetering shelves of wind-worn stone to mark a new horizon all my own, saltpetering inward to the marrow of this globe's indecent bones, in hopes of carving a new home. Without a wing to leap aloft or fur so soft to move a hand toward my head, my back: I stand with arms outstretched and hugging still the wildest reach of mountain-sill, untanned. The marbled heights grow paler here, and in I peer to canyons with springs so boundlessly clear that harbingers of sons, of suns mirror...

Underearth: while rootsy rhizomes entangle from seed-casings busted and decaying, change emerges on sunless, twisted angles that coil in knots of fibrous chafing. Above such interminable depths those origins always flex, to once again imbue a sea of stalks that shivers as it grows with blades that bow to mottled, mulchy dew. These are the facts that matter for rot, vitality once again sustaining old dreams of compost weaving life from not, in heaps of vibrant, active, soggy mold. The new is t...

I'm on my way back after an age and a half spent without myself, for all that feeble loyalty devoured by those ungracious souls that cannot ever feed me what I need most or provide the solace I want within my own hard-baked soft-shell so brittle and ready to fall apart into your gentle, open hands. ...

You have such a rich inner life which bobs and weaves, past all those chained and whirring gears in lovely, seething incompatibilities and contradictions. Mechanisms can't hold the brightest blessings you provide, because they hide so deep inside within the dimmest recesses of your old abyss. When another soul contacts them, and makes you sparkle so brightly those passions explode from your face in beams of light, I hide. ...

How does anyone vocalize in ever-tiny escapades of thoughtful wonder and more in-touchness with all that means the most to me and you for now and always? ...

That unfamiliar knowledge of what it means to be whole, when the world caved in and nothing we could tell was left in place or organized. Then there, at the places where our hearts untangle and we feed our noble occupations with dreams of afterlives, of hobbled and steely imperfections that make their way to platforms of hardened hope unfurled and waving, beckoning to another settled thought and an other fetid, taut misadventure: nothing can make us immortal or even deign to take part in our gr...

Tiers of dusty benches, and all those whose skin and breath feed the film in the flickering glow anchored at the back of my head. Front, back, and all in-between are brimming with the being of everything I've ever known, in silence still waiting for a word. How did we find our seats or guess where we might belong? If only those in front would stand and turn, shadows dancing on their faces. ...

With grave concern for self and others, weaving some yarn may undo our covers. Yet when I come to offer the tale, mine may be selfish, yours off the table. What can be done from inside these gates, if nobody's truth is freed to take place? The wait grows long while discourse abounds, still doing its work on desolate grounds. ...

Looping cursive lines were never my strong suit, with unpredictable scrawl defacing ashen sheets. The press of a plastic key is nearly always the same. ...

Not a sigh or sight above those shifting bows of vapor trails that leave their form on eyelids, hopes our hearts. ...

To speak, to share: flightless wing on frigid air, caught in flapping flags moored there, yet left to sing. ...

That guileless throughput cannot reduce me to browsing still: a butterfly gone back to its warm cocoon. Open your eager ears to all those tormented, dusty burrs: lurking in the touchstones of a bookish dream. Resourcefully yours, ...

That swiftest mass with airy wrath, can fall and crash, make rubble of all or pass, of peaceful lines of a pre-planned path. Only the radar knows that the blip, with all its energy is just a blip, a ripple in an electromagnetic void with such immense awareness. ...

Those tapping fingers, unsealing the icy island of a mind. Thoughts slip through and make their way to little pockets of truth. One can know comfort in these basic limits, a winding contactlessness. ...

It could be fortunate: To struggle alongside in that twilight field and, at the impasse, with a wounded hip. Tightly holding on for that blessing in the balance with a flower close to the chest. A herald, or a spark relinquished in the dark knowledge of that tiny tussle. Now the hugest thing, incomprehensible yet nothing possible that could be more kind. ...

How could we know competence without finding it on the horizon, a distant pool caught by the eye of one who thirsts? As you near the mirage, remember: nobody can make you thirsty. Your body holds more water than their entire desert. ...

A shard of pink cloth framing a small face now blue, and still meaning without time or absentminded past. Instantly unconscious, perception stems from whatever carbons clung through these adequate limbs. Eyes roving amidst the moorland slumber, still jotting upon spent clay, depending on a new farewell. ...

Now write: Lay Easter eggs, flesh out collaboratively, say some shit, try to fit and change and add. Now transform: Switch a word, switch some words, swap a word, ̶s̶w̶a̶p̶ delete words, add nuance to cite and switcheroo. Now refine: Tweak a word, add some nuance in the form. Fix formatting, trade strictures for knots. Now decompost: Emphasize better, switchflip, reorient .a period Add three words, add 2 and find and mind. ...

Hope leaves somewhat quickly when proficiency dulls, though spines will those wishes that viscous thoughts produce. If we can preferably be together, old arrangements could sober us and give us new energy for our pliable kin, though all desires pace us slightly, finding our selves under bunching skin. Held in hoops of similar knots unalterable, yet not so dismal: not scientific but measured, your eyes and mine, biologic and ready to care. ...

Scratch yourself with a dull razor, in spite of the hankering for calm. Identities that make their way along lucid pathways intertwine in those difficult moments where you learn something. ...

How fortunate that anything can pleat along unhitched lines; these American movings at all hours, freighting those hard-won chances with whomever might inflammably persevere. Come, know anyone today: muddle your torqued convalescence, give them generous comparisons now here but not parroting another flesh, within the whittled stance of a fragrant heart. ...