Give it to me

The dead men dream but the keen men sleep.
The quiet woman pulls the cotton from the deep.
The deep is the reason why the green sea moves,
with the spinning of the people and the earth that it soothes.

The dead men dream but the poets consume.
The woman takes a break and stares at the moon.
The moon is the reason why the black sea turns,
with the eating of the shore and the mind that it burns.

The dead men dream but the mad men drive.
The woman pulls a muscle and does another dive.
The dive is the reason why the rough sea sings
with the swimming of a couple and their broken wings.

I will find you,
and somewhere down there the density
of words will crush us.

Separate II

In the deep sea the fish gather, blind but hungry.
In the trees the deep black green of the pines cries out
"pine for me", and a billion ants work obliviously under the stones.

In the cave the bats sing nursery rhymes
as they devour shrews and the words go
"sleep on through the night" as if to quell the hunger
of the lesser animals.

In the earth the worms spit through the soil,
aimless and divine direction until the sparrow swoops
and ascends into the sky in a cry
of "there is longing here" but the worms are warm for only a while.

The sun would smile but it is spitefully dense with the sea.
They would think it pretty,
but the apes are wrapped in their own dream.


To write, to shake the scenery of our mighty ghosts,
they shake us breathing,
they shape us seathing with the sap of the empty soul.
That easy dawn of thought the morning is not ours,
but the ten thousand birds singing in the tree
as they suckle on our souls.

The sea slips about our necks even as it glistens
in the second descent of the sun.
The trees, like toxic needles swift the smells that tackle us into the mud.
The mud, dense with the sound of the mad men,
making the tense more tense,
masking the fear in the old man's hospital bed.

These are the leaden dreams of the moving mud.
When our phantom begs us to dissolve
we whisper to it, no, not yet, we're not ready for you
as if it moved our ghosts to let us breathe.

a life of leisure

the synapse is dead.
though it shined like perfect dust,
the old man is dumb