{Inverting the eyes of the road}

silently sitting surrounded by silence

our hero defied his owner of conscious

and into the ocean he would let his conch drift

if only he opened his heart to a prime fist

and so he eloped with his heart on a post

into ropes of his hopes hidden first on his most

treasured possesions and instead of escaping

he bent forward raking the caking of paving

over the last forest that he let grow out of his soiled soil

he wanted to toil but instead was foiled by a lumin and it was soon just sand that he was left surrounded by on his own private island imprisoned by the sirens giving him rising tides and sinking brides that washed up in a pile that killed his smile and left him filing his hold on the past into a brass box polished with silver and pressed with gold but arrested and sold for the market to grow in the name of the tamer of raisers of folds that can wrap and enclose all the things we compose and supposing the rights of the posing were chose? could we still entertain all the rain we expose? and can the lane that we changed still pain us with holes? and pots that sought out the cloud that we plowed in the sky with pride and all the chives that we sprinkled into the wind came back again in the shape of a child shaping his life and squeezing it dry of all the play dough that money can but in the shape of a plane that could push out the sky into the beyond the void that lies above the void that lies above our head that is colored blue by our imagination and our destination that inserts its rations into our booklets without stamps or clamps on our existence. oh no! this is not it! for instead of the pot lick we all stick to the the things we knew best and discarded our best for the things we can rest with comfort in public and faces saved for luck its a satin collar rubbed kiss with a vinyl coated love grip that is rotated at 33 1/3 revolutions per minute while we spin it we sense it has nowhere left to go so we let go and try and hold what we still dont know but at least we know that we know it for show and describe what they told us was bold yes the pleasantly coldness of our hearts as we old ourselves without the aid of a grave to remind us of our past and without a canal to remind us of our birth and our fertile beginings and our ferterlizer ends that our denyed to the cycle by steel we buy we steal our rye and then we die and cannot help but lie inside our house confined on all six sides and all six feet and underneath we moan and cry with mouths not eyes our tears have dried at last but side notes note that we still can find peace with ourselves and our pieces become preachers while peaches plant their seeds and grow into trees that grow peaches that plant their seeds that grow into trees that grow peaches that grow into trees that grow peaches that plant their seeds....

THREE OCTOBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE