There is a sound of development
here where the page was
decided, blank, slow chomp of an apple
of the woman behind me,
wide of her hips, now with a sob a rattle
that becomes a roaring
stomp of colored females.
I am indeed not interested in anything but the energy
that is the fuel of experience(s), is here choking
odor from a young mouth,
the incredible clouds that compels me to write,
a puddle of urine has surfaced beneath the cot.
The phone on the wall rings and I think of Liv
who I have not called in a long while.
She is -------------- not interested
in my technical development
It is indeed frustrating!
yes!
a child's mind is the long sought god particle,
it is neither a wave or whatever,
unrelenting genius whatever,
I read to them a book,
illustrated, about god but what was shocking
the lies that the father told his children.
Fight sounds are layered beneath bird songs
Cole watches me impatiently
and Christian is never tired, never
he is an example
he is the, represents the forces, wave, boson, whatever
that is the poem under my hand
that in the long silence of mid afternoon, w/ a
sheet over his head, great words are suffocating and scratch
out to gasp at and gasp in
a bite big of cumulus cloud
which is ever so delicious looking
ambrosia-like
it  tempts me on the highway as I almost die behind the wheel
In Virginia, I swam and lost my sunglasses.
In Virginia, I caught a frog that knew nothing of tasting clouds
or 95-S.
In Virginia were clouds that grazed Boston and Philadelphia
which blocked the collective views of Venus in transit and now we
must all wait another century.
Thank you, clouds.
Thank you, atmosphere.
In Virginia there eats away at me that danged frog.
In Cornwall-on-Hudson;
The Trestle.
The Stormkings eat spiced peaches
out of mason jars.