The drama of circumference whispering amplitude with a ladder and a chalk box,
The junk of back -stage stuff put to use by the hands and minds,
Doubling down on an old story of losses never tabulated but used for fuel.
The sun coming up after the opening. There is the work, awkward and unkempt like the morning after intrigues of the restless seeking cast.
Hands in each other’s pockets, the windows not big enough for everyone’s roving eye and the sky, we all see the sky every day.
Tambourine nights along the patios of the street side bars that swell with the crowd and dwindle to a day’s work- overpriced, hurried.
Setting for a conversation that starts with money and ends with insecurity.
Loves you, big tomahawk. Carries her shoes in a backpack, tall grass in the ditch.
Sensible goals, intimate beginnings under the covers, in the streets, on the pillow dreaming.
Bassoons in the corner, drum racks, wrappers from fast food, tiger pictures, the sky the same for everyone again.
Tarry a while. Re bar for the foundation, across the street-going up.
Repetitive, the dancers and the turns of the traffic circle, the sky wheel, the moon time, the same time marking car wheel covering distance As it turns around and around.
Hammersmith, tabula rasa, faulty switch, cascade of outages, sleeping late or pulling in after a long drive.
Breakfast, coffee, crumpled hair and time for twilight resting.
The volume of the little cup, the height of the bridge, a stone’s throw to the water.
Not about the same thing again.
Not about to start, just to continue.
The ramp and shelves on wheels, the cartography now ignored.

Gazers, primitives, oligarchs and pawns as impressive as moving pieces anywhere.
That it is us may be some added thing, always thinking of the future, the mean and the eventuality like a beach with its waves.
A train with its speed and curves, an angular momentum like a ball on a string at arm’s length of a child spinning herself dizzy.
An excuse really to sit and do nothing. Things that work and things not working so well.
Tools of the mind and the times, if you will.
Penumbra, shadow of grace spread the face to a dissimilarity – not the same anymore. Someone else caught up and coming down.
The rain tree and the flat land, the climbing vine and the rope neck, the burrow and a tunnel of the gun, a bunker, a sty, an eye to open the mind. See it bleed and be foreign, someone else, a number, a cypher, a clue.
Scrambling up the scree slope, tumbling our eyes over the view, the panorama of cogs and fields and the river out toward the bright of the horizon. We gave over our spots, paid ahead so our beds would be ready when finaly we lay ourselves down.
More than process when the eeking mouse gives up the buzzing gnats and the fly sounds and heat succumb like the low drainage that water finds trying to equal everything out.
Not nothing.
It doesn’t matter which colors go on first, the refraction, the distance and cold see to slim margins and even a crack in the door is an invitation for everyone to come in and spend wisely.
It is the spirit animal seeking them like the still gecko on the wall.
What do the creatures need of us but to say I eat you, I seep as with a den of wet pups, pupa in the pouch of a kangaroo or snug den mates of the beaver and otter.
The other is the water finding its low spot, its nameless and continual forgiving. More of the same essentially.
Warming as the sun shines, cooling as the night falls.

The great union of refusing to eat and no longer needing anything or anyone to translate or sleep with Luther for the good of all.
We can go it alone and soon find the weeds around and the bone pride of the other Tom boys and sycophants of themselves bleeding at their arms, lining up for food and pushing everyone away.
It’s a smelly calculus of the wet grass and tanned hides, the mining effluent and the gunnery towers.
Helicopters might save some time but liquor keeps much of the sincerity at home.
Half hearts and voters set up booths for the rest and advise tirelessly that the snakes come from the grass and the turtle with the world on his back is orange and straight lines are needed in the jungle for landing strips and safety.
Buy in and you have to stay all day on their hot deck with their stupid reasons and time for this and that which they know is a con and a sham and everyone writes it down anyway for later, or something like we don’t have a brain.
We don’t have a brain, lying in the river with the sun and glare on the waves, The tumescence of myself ready to burst. I traded in for a chance at the stage and the microphone.
Ham sandwiches. Golf times televised.
I did the lead in to bring the tribes, all colorful, muddy, swooning. People like you and me with someplace to be.
Shovel fulls. Cat toys, dangles and gold, the house plant harvest. Please don’t leave us with nothing since we came all this way.
Totem, slides, a reading, a break.
Gas is light.
Time is wrapped in a tinier and tinier package.
The swamp is warm.