because I am, where are you, too

And for you all. I know how you feel, the sums of you, like me. I require no addition. I refuse to upsell. I refuse the heart's upswell. It's swollen enough. It is full with lightening and smoke and the jam of some fruit going bad fast. The gel of my own enormity. The poems for all, the abrasive truth of them all, the disquieting arguments within a self, my drunken glory, in drunken revelry. Wanting a walk through the leaves, so many still covering the streets and street-scenes, marking october, punctuating my own private october happily. Wanting the walk through this litter all red and gold and old, crumpled, to see a recognizable face, and have you read me, yet? will you recognize me when you do? will we converse, is it possible... have you ever heard of it. The rustle, the slight birdsound at night, the wicked idaho shadows on garages and blue of earlynighttime sky. I am in love.

ant, the velvet words

It was just the words come in me, those to make seen the real simple of a night. The common scent of flowers on the night breeze of a week-end, the ones smelling like butter or honey. Different bee breeds hover from these flowers & in again at daytime. The crickets, common sound of august, or maybe in oregon frogsounds are commonest. I'd like a test to differentiate. a frog whisper in one ear and the rustle of cricket wing violined against cricket wing; stridulating forgets the hot of a night. Spiders in stridulation, the velvet ant...