poems with use, real scription

Sweet Yonato

Ain't nothing better than a house
we had sayaizen in this house that is a home
world healing walls were the meadows where the animals orgied
and deer called in the night
on a flight from sitting stranded, you appeared like a sufi, caught glimpses of your smile
so now we lay and hear the drum, the ransack vibes
good from so long ago, the wandering tribes
all around, you were floating, called me back to heaven, though somewhere
this storm rages on
every direction is a lesson
is a mystery of reality
some singer dreamed a feeling and sang it so bright
we all knew it was right
a new feeling in the shade
it was the sunny moon page
everything placed just so and old Robert conducting
from the pulpit between the trains and the rivers
he went so far, but I never left, for miles the deer stretched and said they'd lead us out to death
sweet death, and return to your peace time
everything that ever happened and could in three lines

windy wood going deep
i'm all the time in love
spirit dance with us here where worlds can happen

its the twenty fourth step, heart riding the board of breath
sweet strawberry soul
and you call this emptiness?
haha, the funniest ghost
thank you, for your humor
your turn it all around

everything is the silly vibe of music, vocal chords
notes, ending on awkward deer sounds

Sweet, True Person

cow party taco heart bug playa moon chirp peanut bridge badger awesome branch yurt digging sunny pretty oar tree photograph conversation small movements eyes chimes breathing covers

naked closet shoulders wet comfy kosomonila pot love and oaks sporting neighbor mail puffy human fern poet lobster

shaking thing potato aroma constant road to pinto farm

goddess opening books on jung in wanti while eating healthy foods on a local holiday

person repeat juicer time

confused without friend
memory of pouring tea
we chat online, you have sent pictures of the mountains somewhere far away

im crying because of the world

roast pole interchangeable bedtime assuaging nativity soil

i met a strange doctor in an unfinished poem...

and her name is sunshine pillow



What is the Diffference?

yes my words are algamations
of strange places i have been
mysticism is the thing that i can no longer reach
being simple like a peach
being simple like a peach
I say go there, theres much better than this

so why did you stop here on the side of the road
lunching out quietly chuckling or something
because inside it was funny
and you say the joke went something like
have you heard the one about wanti?
its really just more of the same
different, like all the rest of those different ones

i am just exactly exactly exactly exactly precisely exactly like all the rest of them
far away someones out so different from this, ode to them


Rhymes from Dreams


i don't know why or how i love you, sitting in the dark
the universe something to do with this writing
its written and said
that we'll all be dead
the flames in our heads, the same as cold days
they all get written and drawn
all of us passing it on
through every moment, precious time
the headphones and covers where I laid
plotting infinitely, losing timidly
a line on the keys of the piano showed up and down
I held the leaves at my belly
there was no one around
so I don't know why or how I love you, who cares
love is wondering why and how
it sits on every surface fading not being lost
like math wiz dreams
it beams smiles and things, they don't seem to be what I said to the tree
they said you should not talk to the tree
I said I will talk to the tree,
I love her so
behind bark at parks
the moment sparks up again you can feel the ripples
up your legs, your back, the tip of your chin
and you forget about your things to which you held so dear
falling back and forth
rising up year after year
I steer clear of the fear in the bottles of beer
that you give me to clear the fuzz from the queer feeling I get
when I know that I'm you but I still feel alone
you're silent, you are the cosmic note ringing through the feedback of a microphone
and i woke up this morning, i was just born right there
a small i
a sound, then i moved around
and it came to me to be on this line
to right to find time to bring my heart to my mind
and shout love
and kiss rugs and give hugs
and watch shrugs, in a home in a house
outside i'm away... i'm out
you the feelings the clouds on the ceiling bringing healing reeling mothafuckas
on their own soul waves riding sure on Ys asking why to wise women
over longer times that minds will go on a faint whim
seeming unclear fuzzed out, every word is just naming you
natural rapper person who wrote books in my dreams
coming clean from the unsaid things that now ring
ding ding ding
dong ding ding
love is like love is like
can it not just be the very words, the very first thing
to cross your being
flo is this to me, thats why calm is peace is good is everywhere again sacred now



Flo


what is life? flo, is the source of the cowbell that brings dessert, the dessert of freedom of no mind from no intention and happening in stance for application in a quasi relative tree called life, the arden wind blows here, why?
silent knowing, poem reading in dark in naked stars
with things, ashes, distilled water bottles, from deer park, the significant, ocean in my heart on the frame of the couch where my sister slept. She was me as I was dreaming, days and nights in the real world, grass and willows and a whole open field where we ran, and made ourselves things from the clouds and the branches
the crickets still sing and what do they feel I ask, opening colors in my own book, lasting until the hill returns
back, back to the bottom of the heights where we lived, and gave things their faces surrounding us, us saying no people and nothing, us being replaced me, why? they fall on couches, they roam in houses, they are blown away, and again, my heart beats to the rhythm of the world, and the world is my soul reflected, moving me through dreams, pulling me closer by the seams by some dramatic clause, in this play on this stage, that is default that is forgotten, and returning every time to the memory of the story that he told me when I sat there
by the fire
hearing crickets
in the ether
blowing
invisible air
through pockets
of dry wheat
like an oars person who'd seen the light from the tunnels
and become a reflection, love flows
in every month on forgettings
your systems have show their insanity, we face the sky
I was high with butterflies dancing and it nourished the alphabet soup
that had spilled over the ground
again, you were there, quietly waiting, smiling and your eyes were pretty
when I remembered
the moon
the clearing, around us
everywhere, there was singing
we weren't here before
the mushroom ring where these spirits come
to join us in a metaphor
nothing like a good metaphor
to take you to the core
of an apple that is very poor
and rich like two men
who cannot see the simplicity
in being just dead.
alive, is the fretting bird
alive, is the roaring day.. and blazing sun and superstition
falling into your dreams that leave your fancies unwinding
like hunger without a thought of food
I love Flo she is the best

it all composed in the mess of your cities and defined in the den of your rooms
and left in a nomads heart, who only sways in every way
the pull could take him
unregistered magic mama, this is where I was born
the water I sipped at the roots of the hemp plant
I was a fairy, I was secretly the sun and moon
and telling every moment in bloom
she is the lark, the song they sing
one last time
and
one more time
in the subway, that looks like a cigarette, that brings us back to your center
where you appeared flung from everywhere
pomo child, now I remember.

and there is nowhere to go but still we will make it there
everything is possible
following heart and dreams in ness
on a wanti picnic table, where the ants came once to feast
delusional and mad love God gave us
made real
runoac and sitting log
sayaizen, sayaizen
made it real home in our souls
yonato, water bowls and the formless reaching far into our lives
in every word on all the trees and doorway portal upto slinks through them all saying
i am a poem of you

 

the ransack vibes of the wandering tribes, beautiful