Integrated Change

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. ...

I sync with anything the orbitals have recomposed in eternal autonomies. From effevescent, isometric lands outfaced by accordionists, accelerating notions, darling, wreath your reef of wheals. For though our cetacean bones called to another's we wait in silence. Co-written with Lilith Rose ...