barnacle scratch on the bum bikini nakedness bee peeing foam beer bottles music wanderings rocks ridges holes cerations, tracks hitting the tracks, wind filling in for words, no words, a facetfaced sound alone


toe heal toe heel


people talking around me and having lost the sense of their sense, having lost the care to care, sometimes i have heard all the sounds that tongues have spoken, and all that is left is music, are small digits and numbers lined up and then tumbled, color discollected focused, arranged and re-oranged. not because i am wise but because tongues are dumb, contrary contrarily to blood


i want to write like a sound. like a breeze coming in around a northwest pointing strut, and landing like a tapdance, a balloon happy cloud disappearing. something easier than light, not so much like a language


hears, here's the task: my writing lately does not ride, buck like a will-o-wispish, slap my bones straight, and timbre the ear. i want it. i want to land somewhere between story and sight, wrrrr of a strange bird off in the unseen parts of a tall sitka with no taproot only a hive that spreads shallow along the thinnest topsoil and clings tenuous and prone to tip right over


beach wood rust fly away fall small waves nobody else here, nobody else to be heard, spine opening like a desert flesh, splinting sail in blue wash