:::::________:::::: SUN

All this effort is exhausting my esophagus rattle.
I am lapping around on forelimbs breathing patient white but gray on the inside of molting. What the center, what gallop rides in on the night when night is not real,
A bubble rocketing star (head) light, shooting like some wild cracked celestial pelvis.
The oceanography of cellular bodies.
Free fall no will, adrift effluvia
Gather might, danger near to the stillness of the bole growing.
Not the branch but the bole is growing, onward the leaves now trifoliate, gather water on their green tongue, their winded epiglottis, nearer to going than seeing.
What wind is the whoosh of a willow a reed a toddler discovering dirt and sticks and wanting to keep them. Wanting to make the outside a part of his cellular – no, knowing it is already a part of him. Recognizing. How beautiful that is.

wilderness voice

hi, faithfuls.
will you be witness to my energy-scattering distracted whore revelry?
i've decided some explaining is in order. only i am already truncating myself.
focus, self.
for some time, i've wondered whether i would continue this blog, and if so, where the hell do i want it to go or be. that said, i think i must bifurcate in order to disseminate. forthwith, babies will be whispered of in another atmos. i will post word here when/if i create a mama green blog. for now though, i need this space to be clear for the aggregate of incoherent consciousness streams. this is a spam filter of sorts for my serial poem-in-progress, wilderness brooklyn.
i welcome any comments/suggestions.

thanks for reading...

meatus for jelly

What kind of meatus is this – ignored, remastered in colonial sparkling huts, remember?

I knew the wild would getchu one day, knew the wind gentle as a reed tickles the air would be all sunshine on the barbecue, family picnic rock trivia incest lice and chicken wings.

The helios of summer and I burned my nine year old forearm on the metal hot dog stand.