laying out the numbers figures stories in my
whump!
log falls in the fireplace.
keeping it together so as to understand the complex
ding... dong...ding...
windchimes tickle their way through the glass.
feeling all the subtle shades of
faint stab
stitch in my upper ribs, ate the granola too wolfishly.
getting it all wrong is the beginning and end
of my master peace, finding my home
in the constellations that have a space
waiting... laughter remembers me,
I am clothed in celestial
love
i'm mad for the piles of wadded up dreams
that give way to mundane chances
being kind creatively fires everyone
like clay. what is the taste of that
offering?
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