With the Rest of The Dreams.

In the dream of redemption, the harshness of the dream is withered
And remains on the vines-on the herald of dreams, we walk among
The tall trees, and teach the Elk to stand proud and strong-
We teach them to communicate with the rest of the country that is
Not the country, and these houses are not tall, and stand tall as wildflowers;
Moving in the grass, the trees are barren and grown; this is the system
That is not known, all we have are other pieces of shadows made from
Taller things; all we have is the lack of speaking, and the speaking of
Shadows that delve further into the being; that these tides begin to move,
And everything moves in it and outside of it; that they do not understand
The swift, moving tide, and sparrows are fallen on the ground near my feet;
That the language of redemption is torn from roots and grain, and I talk
To the warriors who bend and strain and everything is ridden of the light
And pain;
The moon pours into the window; that shadows are lutes, and words are nothing
More the strain of colors; that people are stupid, nothing more than shadows,
And society is not what is meant to become,
We have our secrets and they are not the gold and the cold and the words
Are like whispers in haunted castles;
I live in a castle, it is outside of these walls, and reading things is nothing
More than the temptation of being-
That the temptation of being is a language of something that is something else,
And people are eager, and force other dragons to shape and move and turn;
That the shadows and tides yearn tomorrow, and we go with the moving train-

Overtakes The Sky.

I am the last. The wildflower runeth.
The dawn overtakes the sky.
The clouds rush sad as rivers,
And the cold is deep in things.
I wish I wasn’t the rushing tide.
The wind moans still in autumn.
You told me you wouldn’t speak
To me of mountains, rivers-
Blessings run coarsely through
Matted hair.
People are jealous of
Things that I say,
Jealous of my written words.
I can’t climb inside and outside,
Back and forth-
Your friendship means nothing
To me now. I never learned how
To speak. We don’t know what
Words are spoken,
In the language of suffering,
The commerce of suffering-
We yell at everyone,
And speak in songs,
Words too broken to be heard.
People are envious of my scars.
They bear the burdens of passion,
Of Zeus and his wings.
The light is heavenly in the sky.
We are aching in our words.
My thoughts are flightless.
My mother sleeps in her bedroom,
And a cat yowls outside.
No one hears me screaming.
No one hears the words, like blood,
Pouring from my echoed
Soul,
The long-lost soul of someone
Who says goodbye.
Goodbye to this world.
Everyone wants to fight, anyway.

Woods In the Forest.

The woods in the forest called my name.
Minerva was my crow; I lost her last week.
She ran away and never came back. Ran
away like my cousin Wilma did when she found
out her husband was sleeping with the pianist,
the man who thought Hitler was insane.
I thought Hitler was mad, but not insane;
insaneness is a different theory altogether,
a different thing, I’m sorry if my words can
connect together better than your words can,
I grew up being alone, grew up getting along
on my own. Some say we are never alone.
That little ghosts follow us wherever we go,
sometimes hiding in cupboards or underneath our
bed, where mothballs usually go.
The woods in the forest called my name.
I wish I could go home. I am in Chicago,
waiting for my uncle to stop drinking; waiting for
my dog, Hercules, to wake up from his nap.
I moved here last week with my mother, my
brother, the boy who fell in love with a stripper
and crawled onto the edge of the world to peer
down into it.

The Word, "Love."

The word love should not be thrown 

around lightly-

it should not be taken into consideration

unless you speak about the lions

in their dens,

about the genius of a blank page.

I guess you could say that I have

angered the gods.

My shoes are not on too tight.

My heart is broken and misused.

I could not stay away from

the cub,

could not believe the words

that drifted in the fog.

Being on tv will do that to you,

especially if your words are in the media,

especially if you walk in a straight line.

I come home every day after work

and kick back and relax and

look at the newspaper.

Sometimes, my mind is beyond my grasp.

Sometimes, I don’t know where I should 

land.

I see faces in front of me,

but they won’t speak aloud.

Winds Exhausted.

In the dark, my eyes are bitter, the winter winds moan
And beat at glass windows.
Hunting season has come to pass-the October nights
Are chilly and the water falls into the well.
Darkness comes. Shadows heave in and out of dark
Lights, space is continual as a drum-
I left you alone late one night in August,
Your heart is temporal as doom. Some nights I dream
About Sylvia Plath, toiling and tossing in her
Feather bed, humming dead languages in my ear.
She left me here, alone, like Poe, alone, like birds,
They shelter me like words of wisdom and whisper dead
Things.
In the dark, I cannot rhyme worth a damn. I think about
Vermont and Kentucky, where my bitches reside,
I think about simple promises and things I have lost,
And use my thinking cap like they taught us in school.
No one admires me. Everyone says I am a faggot,
A black sheep, something to be used and thrown away.
No one in Europe hears me sighing, only the doves hear me
Crying.

My New Story.

It is about 10,000 words at the moment. I hope I can get to 15 thousand.

Emotional Rollercoaster.

you leave me tethered, entwined in a spiral.
I shake your hand-
you say that the night is cold.

I wake in my bedroom, now.

I am alone, sleeping next to a cold pillow.
The days and nights are burning
with the putrid smell of rain,
my hand moves in front of my face,
the dog awakens next door.
She said, The cornflowers are growing!

To make conversation.
I agree halfheartedly, but I am not
convinced.

That flesh is flesh, and words are words.