one hillside further the sky permits
too bright for the almost full
	 a corner to turn,       an epic to center
	     to decelerate an irregular mass of unstable balance
       less walls     fewer canyons       the hint of hidden topography
when only we can        pedaling at three-speed
	   through a mall of buffalo grass swamp 
         headers against the wanderjahr spread like a tincture
    wearing away,     7 grains at a time,      as many kinds of grasses
                    as beetles,     more than any language 
				  the sound of chitin underfoot
               sudden fleshy sky
			         rebound in them faded thightights
        crack open a split phone like a switchblade or future radio
							we want to whip it out and be loved for it
			  where flesh meets road    rivets geomertically spaced
								dancing in an uneven pit
		  to fall into whirling tar & dry ice clusters
						   	       almost an alphabet
						   	  with nine fingers , 2 stones and a stick,
			a river that rarely explodes, 
						      stable as we are, 
			  eating and losing,      falling down and smiling about it
	    where the air hangs like microscopic socks 
                                 pinned to invisible mosquitoes
		         trapped by massless threads of static gravity
	 	 keep slicing any stray auras, any metaplasmic thickening
			    still wont harden or take in foreign matter
       you can hear the wind in your calf              tho it wont be
                                            here for a generation
						   we're not frozen in
		      living 80 years on a photograph,        having a mile of
                                           mississippi for lunch

attempts to simulate or become the landscape
			  wallows a sling dancing among the boxtops never seeded or given up
		chewy not tough,        as the grass akimbo,        the urge to surge
                 glass in my hands scythes      reflects       
                                          misdirected thirst jumps til the rain starts
				3 months from now
		      ankles like palm trees,    thighs lifted from utah
	      where i land on my back to tune a valley from future waters 
				   sky damaging influx of
				   by not looking down we sink,   micronically,  
			           		       but seem taller coz-a what times doin
	   some unfathomable attempt to balance dark star capitalism
		pawning resources from 30 year old motorhomes
	         remind me of someone i will,      couldnt will, 
	      			   wasnt connected with the crossings
	       	   out of alignment   
				           into the blur