The derth sounds, heart and it is was is


The i

The  illiterate vagabond with a bag of gold

Fine tunery.

The angels ate the hairs of the mint caterpillars glistening
across a munch of mid-summer maple.


The derth doth sing,

“I am a penny in a sea-salt of slow, a dog whipped to the post by the pant of the moon.”
Adrenalin, then,

The pitch.
He payed is taxe doth droth….

A fairy load, the slaps of tar on the pitched atmosphere as the engines slowly blow
holes in the hills the size of seas and oceans.
I curse this land. I empty my load.  The season of suck is on.



Pillory’d the Janissaries lack the efficient fauna
to manage the shores of the Susquehanna, mentioned, and named and pondered

By generations of illiterate vagabonds with bags of gold.
The quaint atmosphere.  I bust you into the ground and I rise the sun with gold.
I bust you,

Son, work the load.
Mothers and children tied to the vernacular of the furrows of good, fertile soil, black,

Glistening with mint caterpillars under the golden sun.
Such a load.


The idiot took the plans and turned them into a Da Vinci sketch of a Renaissance simulated agency machine,

The damned thing.

I took my heart into the woods and I made a bride of the snakes and the deer.
I do not say these things in jest, friends,

America is a load.

The very thought of her spits on a hot skillet and wafts of sweetmeats and flours roasting in a brood of spices.

There are teams for these things, some drink mud and grind out in three score or less, some eviscerate their lives on haughty displays of “I am the ice that eats the grape.”

A beautiful jewel at a point, before cessation, but then…..

We see ourselves wrapped in whatever flag we’re born into.  Some of us wear green, blue, some black, some white, and many, many more, with mascots and agencies of the mind attached to our visceral load.

We are no thing that has not been seen, but yet…..

The moon touches the rivulet of coal clusters glistening across her face like

laced obsidian across opal faced girls with skirts in tall grasses mingled with mud and honey and a touch of tar.

The moon.

Not just any moon, the newest of news in the frost of the grape still in flow.

We see ourselves in the blood of the myths dripped with real bones and sinew and marrow.  The effort to undeath the death.

To un.

To death.

To the load.



I sing patriotic songs and I mean it.

Trapped in the I am that I’ve known, I take on the cloak and manage its affairs as unique,

Glistening with mint caterpillars like so many others, and yet….
The heavy load.

Life is death.  The body eats and a body dies.  The Is eats the Was.

We know this.  WE KNOW THIS!

We know this.

We do.

But we hide in the glitter of the frosted grape where the peak is the ponder of the not.
We do not choose, but we do, in this exchange, lest we choose to break the stake

That makes our killing further from the home, the load, the scene where we tore into the valley with steamed assault rifles and assumed the forever of the land.  LIKE EVERY OTHER HOME.

I am not letting go, but I am not giving in.

We do.  We imagine the song of the distance is death in its notes despite the stark similarities between the melodies of all the lands, where hawks and otters eat from the same death on the shores of the Susquehanna.

Our flag, our load.  We are that home.

There is no changing it.  The world hates the rabble.

To confront the diminishment and pragmatically  choose.
To black bear or tiger, the only load.

A distance built on patterns outside the frame.

I am distanced.  I am load.  I am home.