It’s not on. It’s appeal to finer senses of time, money,substances we all share for free. The core of yourself free to explore home.

I am not afraid of myself, it’s a change that details flecksof ashen color into rainbows of beauty “is” poems e.g. beauty “is” not knowingany thing.

It’s being, then there : : afraid and pealing : : dividedcrises across the soil, the big, sweaty pool of lies.

I can wink. I can dive. I can see how hell we are homeagain, free-turn chained to the temperance ghosts of corn, the beauty is poemsfor all the editors in the world, especially the copy editors ‒ dash.

What does itmatter if the breakers were always a fake? A grey gangrene nose will solveanyone’s fascination with a mirror.

‘cause theysay, or they certainly had, it’s time for work, a toil that follows us home topay visit with the breath. Our little students renting furniture from themachine.

A hot fire toldme I was home. Fire said, hey, you too can win a fortune. It’s the way of thebeast (oh so many to imagine) and it’s the home of the king.

A patriarchy toclose the rainbows from their clouds, a fix on a needle, a code blue crested“please: help me, there is only half of me left”.