the sieve and the sand

water from a hose

hot before cool and passed

brother to brother—

the break worthwhile

untainted by man

like bottled water will be

and much much purer—

for guzzles earned

when I-25

reached one end to the other

my house to Grandpa’s—

places for play

virile and patient i live at best half a life: choose or not I prefer to feel than to empathize

stumbling throughout and

twitching past The World i dream i know I exist

i wake and

zone in My World lightly as to not let

my body on that i’ve abandoned it to be

humiliated and

tough out what I’m not sure, but must be life:

the medium Worlds communicate

today and yesterday sit still and smother tomorrow

you leave, yet breathe, creasing me with sorrow

slithers’ silence is soothing

(announcing too annoying)

it comes and calms, moving along, knowing that time spirals regardless.

you said run

            i’d fall behind walking

(not)

            bumble ahead, stumbling

(nor)

            slither like you meant

sweat

blood

cement

mud

coated with a day’s labor

            building a deck for my Nanny

i know that my hands

            are

            clean

mailed to maybe my baby’s death

            from his god

and i don’t condemn

and i don’t apologize for

            i can only hmmm:

i’m Him feeling cooked precisely here

he eats with his hands

            it’s more deliberate that way

                        cumbersome as it’s done

he chokes through his words

            and convinces his wives

                        robust as he’s along

he never borrows energy from the sun

            because he knows he’d only return it inconveniently

            though he looks just hard enough to see its worth

indeed, he is a mean old man

            as that’s how you start

            and he didn’t care—starting there still

courage in ethos, again in again

i sit when i stand, run when i play.

investing is caressing as human is on the line

and lie

and live

and try

forgiving the trial persecutes the judge

            and do it to be just

            and just because

simmering he looks up to his father’s crooked teeth

bounce as the world is explained

“two wrongs don’t make a right”

fixing his tie, the boy pays enough attention for the both

“you’re too mature to intimidate [your] obedience”

gathering the newspaper for the trash, startles the pet out the room

“and wise enough to empathize why you’ve been wronged”

brushing aside final drafts proudly makes room for robes of black

                                                                                or was it cloth of white?

standing up and seeming cheap the boy finds his way through his clumsy eyes

and away from home.

he knew that feelings were all that were important–

they are all that can be honest

always right

and forgetting hypocrisy and humility a cheek rises in effort to know that ignorance is all that can be accused

that stopping there is all that can be wrong

i chase same sun

            to work

            to home

i gaze certain stars

            at peace

            at leisure

i absorb pain, i imagine pride

                        overlook worthwhile fits

sharing my mom’s car

with

lugged voices

            (too many)

and

simple plans

            (waist-high)

i’d gaze through the fences:

backyards throw crumbs between each post

modernized men may haul their lives

            to escape self-importedly

                        his mediated conversations

                        the unconnected one over there that is his cog

                        the things that perfume for him

                        the sublime vantage of states of the arts

            (but records his popular shows)

talking in words,

looking in words,

thinking in words.

alone, eventually they’ll shut up:

one’s self feels

…and does

spring shivers aren’t because of blossoms

            it breezes year round

now clever lusting the all novel innocently

            that’s not sheepishly

lying and not busy later it itches less in the hustle

            numbed until you’ve waned

                        unless you forget

can only be coincidences if the philosophies are expressed along with any tools or forms: the schemes can be done on purpose, but then the ideas can be seen as reflections can be floating in the darker outside.  i prefer la dulce to its specter.

am i bold enough?

            i remember in feelings

                        and trust most events

            i sleep willingly

                        and assume unmonitored accountability

the sun slapped me across the face an hour ago

            and i pled for more sleep:

every one and thing must have a turned head at some point

            and not even on my knees i wanted that point

the integrity of the universe is great

            as far as i can tell

                        and the difference isn’t to me, but over my head