and up and over a steep slope, pushed slowly, a boulder.  and upon your shoulders, a twenty pound bag.  it was even a much harder pull on the drag as it tugged you back.  oh, and with a bountiful of branches jutting out before your path poking you and prodding you until finally bending back.  their leaves falling.  birds calling out for your turning.  never once thought of it.  straight on ‘til night.  failing to function, and up and alright.  knowing the end is near: the top of the mountain is soon to be here.  i find it’s only a sign.  a river all mirrored to the skies.  and only the winds passing by.

situated on a dark, vast infrastructure, imported from the east and spent down, there is the preservation of a ragged, ritualistic lap of existence which takes pause without postural claims. it ebbs and flows with the wind and winds up to be wrecked upon the waves crashing beneath.
whenever there is lightning, there is fire amid the trees, punctuating the landscape with smoke, billowing through the sky like cattle and finally resting on the wind. there is a translucent glaze on the windows. there is fallen ash and soot. there is a mending of the rooftop. and wherever paint, there is a peeling off from siding never laid.
try to be plain eyes on the face of it all from the 82nd floor. there is a wish to be willed forth and a closet of bespectacled dreams, taking the form of the ancients. there is a soldering of two joints on the hinge. there is a broken in door.
there is a shouldering of a gun. there is the plight of the poor. there is water flowing south. there is a stream of consciousness. there is a common misconception. there is a watering can. there is a storm on the horizon. there is a question to be asked. there is a formerly featured frowning upon a feather dress. there is the sun.
there is, there is a cry to just be drowning in laughter and stop short with your breath.
and breathe.

my what a glorious sunset
across the sky with painted lights
on clouds stretched out before you
above the horizon

my what a quiet spectacle
the dust to settle now
with eradicated billows
of a rustling wind

move forth into being
channel the night
drop off and be dazzled
by a radiant light
no further, no waking up
crazed, but upright
toward the sun
and toward the moon
every moment
every move

drop out of religion
carry the weight
shoulder the discourse
bury the brave
bring out with the beggars
all weathered and grey
and remain
a bold account of living
day to day to day

good afternoon, he said to me. why are you among the trees? why are you beneath the bushes drinking coffee? why are you dressed as such? why are you to matter much? why are you a peasant, pleading and throwing stones into the river?

why are you so downtrodden? why are you so broken down? why are you all laughing, laying there? why are you all matting down your hair? why are you obscene? why are you dreaming?

why are you so cavalier? why are you to lend your ear? why are you not listening? why are you alone and wishing? why are you disguised in paint? why are you appearing faint?

where are you?

there was a beast of a mind caught from the ancients
there was a calming facade along the riverbank
there was a knowing reply to be facing
a cold, capped mountain

there was a former presidential passion
there was an incident regarding what was said
there was a falling out
there was a reeling in
there was a known reply to be facing
an insipid disguise

there was a lonely time
there was a passing
there was a prodigal son
there was his mate
there was a dire imposition
there was its spade
there was its slashing
there was its pain

there was, there was
a choked reply
there was, there was
a paralleled goodbye

play in the shadows of your once were
and populate your speaking with a prayer
to be a garden of receiving what the shots were
when they’d been thrown all out the window through the air
dismiss all paramount replies
forget all discerning finds
and regard your presence in a picture framed and lying on the lawn and glowing

doctor won’t you fix me of a fracture
of my overall demeanor like a clown
all turned around and down to be found about
with a fever and a crooked smile
and be glad awhile

there is a saying where it goes that where you’re going
is less important than the way you’re getting there
all encompassed in a dream
a portrait hung beneath the scene of a broken down train
where it goes is the same as where it’s gone
no passing rainclouds over lawns
no quiet taming of the song
played high and waiting for the time all wrong
flying high
and falling dry

behind a wrapped up city clenching in its hand
a key to nothing but imaginary lands
the captain climbs aboard
where every building is a billboard
the city shaking from the screams
in an imaginary scene
of a motion moved for searching down the american dream
i find it’s only what it seems
all locked up in landmines
all docked amidst coastlines
all patients to believe
all potions to conceive
all parallels prescribed and pleased
to a held up sign
a scribbled line about the free
and the cost of living cheaply
my, my you are converted, you’re a team
take to the streets