tangletown dreaming arterial roots weaving entwined, your eyes chipped onyx flecked and flint in the corners windows wide and riding the tall beasts fell to that old beat howl all mouths gaping at how beautiful you are
No. How could you possibly understand? You would need the books and coin-covered eyes to see. Crossing that river that seems a stream and, if you do, you could never look back.
you look skies, but some say prayers over a sea of sand in cities of dust come the ash driven like the snow
You’ll find me at moorwanders, following smalltrails and playing at touchstone for the only thing that is real. Here, elder ways draw to base: flame crosses chill, rain mists slick the stone, and the growl of winds between the ways. Here, the animals sing underhill, a call to slumber.
I know you tire at the mention of Raven, but they are here too.
The best magic is that which seems not to be magic at all, and it lingers here like it did in the old, doing a lot of nothing much at all: wind waves barley, skies trading slate for blue and then back again, small birds ducking in and out of the tall grass and the lone tree upon the hill. Them, big oak and me as all acorn, resting underneath and waiting.
her face in the mirror all mine not mine and there is rust washing to be done on old chains in the barren playlot
she the me locking unlocking six-paneled doors wood of ghetto apartments a gulag of memories jailed rape is not right not a right but we, me and she promise the no cry no more
come knocking, come knocking down the corridor and i hold she as me in our striped stained bed crying hush to those howling dogs of war
