not in rooms, and from the earth

designed and written bylevi wall

the stuffno, the responsewe call it ‘matter’you(getoutyourelectronmicroscope)need a prepositionto see it= dialoguesand a questioni have iswho do i matterto?as i listen-

i am in rooms, or notare what words amountto, define and delineinbox and outside.modern mice revisethe city/country debate,but rants against suburbiabetray the meanderingwords that are as futileas those cubic realitiesthey call homes or not,lots and brain cellsfilled with bits, bits ofcolors, smells, sleep/awakewith addresses on the fronts.whether or not you turn thelight on, and remembermakes them realer thanwords that are as futileas potpourri in screaming nostrils,reminding me, i am in roomsor not.

i have sense(vector) noform. i willwake up tomorrow changedas the dayceases at every footstepand born againare we. i amnot the same

night, walking down thecampus old (or new?)is the grass i glanced atdifferent than last fall’s?or the same, because of roots i am from colorado springs, coloradomeaning color red, the dirt thatis. still, the night named grassand the moving morning did too. at least the concrete is the same,or seems. [ a layer was washed offin the last storm ]limestone is the old, weighsthe buildings down to place,to the tannish dirt, thatis, and was; a sooty film paints itselfon the porous faceof each stone, and all together;makes an imprint cloud. walking, the burden ofreality rests on the perceiver,like on the grass, dew.i am not the same,[ beads of sweat on my facelike rain, were in an instant ]but my name isand was.

kansas, she is pureblushes greenwhen the sun kissesher cheekand her shouldersbare, and skyso close, sans seamsyawning sun, later onwashes through the treesand the scent of duskrinses off the yellows,are now bluesnights, blacks, starstingling points of light(turn off the tv colors)before the sleep

sleep soft, tonightwe shared a storm-cloudand nothing morethan loudness, both oursand dousing soundssame wet rains,thunder, the lightningand damp remainsin the morning,soft light.

don’t you (umbrella!)simplify a storm(s)[television specksof fluorescence;northwest! sputters outfive o’clock]as if a namecould smooth, smoothpuffies and cornersinto a pillto take, to take youinto knowingthe fact (the fact!as if all ofraindropssssssshowersbursts/swellsanddrinkingsthe tinklingson roofsCRACKS andand clappingsrumbles, the drumsof pressureful boomswafts of foreduring and afterdirt clods leptin the air, allwere under yourthe same) a roofto keep you dryfrom it (all)or you’llinsult the sky;so did i(thirst)

thirsty

but aquick dipinto pool

‘s mirageafter all

iam

eight-thousand one-hundred twenty-eightdays to write realities, and sleepin those given to me.words are the residue, crumble intomemories behind my head risingin the morning.(8128) in a cocoon,in the meeting room, i could almostpeak out. when voices congruentgive illusions of flight and thewords drip residual offfabric soft, but stiffeningwet, like the sheets waking upon kansas august mornings.over eight-thousand and some-numberthoughts i had todayabout the essence of emergenceand what we leave when we’ve saideverything, and go away,about the nature of our natureand the ultimate transience ofeight-thousand, one-hundred twenty eightdays in the thing we’ve called existenceas a thing whose nature crumblesevery morning when awake.

in the air, hung

a speck of dust

swirls,

as i

‘

m at the mercy

of a breath,

alive

while a slice

of light

projects my body.

if we are not awakened by light,we are by wilt;knowing even living thingsloose their living to the wind,feeling cusp of shifting ground,suddenly the planet tilt.you were worried by the car,its noisy power steeringbroken and leaking spotson the ever-curved ground.i missed fireflies.the signal flares in the grasswhispered “God is light”or something else.did they lie?where we’ve been,we don’t need cars, orhalogens, driving to seehands-in-pockets billboardsoffer odd transubstantiation,new wine cupbearerslying without consciousness.awakened leaves tell the truthwhen they die to treeand live to air; we areobsessed with our own impermanence,clinging to tense.fading fake colorsin the suns of our imitations.

the secret under mybutton-up shirt,nothing above, onlybelow (buried darkin the dirt (shreddedpapermarkedoutblack)) prayer to hasten theworms’ transfiguration.

a flying man caughttheir mind tobuildsteelandshootstraightkeepthelawandbebraveclark kent caught thehearts in the convincing way he buttoned his grey shirt

archetypal guiltturns a man toG-D (maybe),(freud would say).elijah was caught upin glory per se, butother hearts wereconvinced of the ineffectiveness of vermi-compost to grow upflying men.

it’s no grave matter thatyou write fossil poemsunderneathskin-soft facts andclothey dross giving wayto their own kinds ofmutability.i want to read your bones,to boil you down tostuff found inhistorical fiction,check you out ofshelf-death, hard coverpressing dirty hands like those before,hard corners leavingtriangles on my palms.i want to know you liveand dig down through your whensto trace behind skeleton pens,notes and marks,my ownkind of mutabilityas if you weren’t alreadywritten, but i amfrom the earth, soi want to read your bonesbefore i go

is silencedestructive art?if you scrapewords off signssticking blacktriangles to fingersif you cutdeep into earthpiles next toyour minesand death isno cure for lifebut draws its lines

last night’s forgotto capitalize, (orput on shirts) gotservice though,didn’t wear badges,reap or sowbut werehunter/gatherergothicly defiedgravity in unthoughtcathedrals of skybeautiful feet forgotten and foundin scribing the ground.conscious now,fast food/fresh plucked,a thought placebo for realityor the otherway around,either way. are‘nt what weare/think/dologos.wary to betrothwords, those apparaticrystalizing beauty butclumsily attachedto self. rooms are‘nt arms, though: wego to live in houses,maybe move in3 years. delayed,to soften sharp feet, by choiceof shoes + blouses.

i love the wherein your hair, theballad of yourbarefoot transverseshowing scoreof space and mountainshouse and road alikein intimacy as ifat a single point; itmakes distanceseem inverse;you are everyoneyou areocean,to dip a foot inmakes no lessvast, but all moreclose.

“be mine,ethylene will takeus there, my dear”(it’s something new)to want to speedthings togrocery-storesweetenedproduce, so succulentand removed, theapples.

roses bought, plasticboxes, clear, stackedin grocery-store fashion-could crush themin my hand-fragile andmalleable (modern).the petals adornedthe bed.

could have beenfor anyone, now.love is servedin single piecesscattered beforetouching hand,not picked from thornbushes, drawing blood,old as astone wall.

lash not light,no; unloads weightof weights(beauty)onto (fragility), pilingearth atop glassseeds, potency oflove orwhatever;nor slender handweak, that catcheseye and pensitself in mind,thin lipssteep themselves(unknowingly)too-hot-rose-hip-teadon’t ask mehow to treadseas boiling withthe heat fromcoils (a figure ora voice orher handsor love orwhatever).just want ground’ssmile, greet mein spring withwhispered promise,summer, simplepoetry (sprouts,petals, or whatever,respectively.)

in a mall walk thosecheap mall shops hawkedthe thought of silvergold and other metalsalso, pearls sitting underplastic necks andskin, happy wristsand laughing lobes.don’t know macy’s truthsfrom the sea’s,don’t have much money;what means love, to agirl? anyway idon’t know candy-spheresfrom the real thing

but the moon stareddown east-west streetscasting shadows ontonecks andsaid“i pull tide-coversover sand bedswake the sea tolife and” (pockmarked face)“invented beachesand the deepdown places”which iswhy i threw mymoney on the groundto stare instead ofbuy