Wednesday, February 19, 2014

This is an absurd piece. Its different than my usually style because there is not really central idea. I just sat down and tried to listen to the chaos of the mind.  

Styrofoam cups and
babies rounding mountains
climb cricket hill top 
to pluck the blossoms off
a blunt in your air 

bare, a billowy rowan tree
the winter white days cloud your eyes
and burrow deep in the brown fur
that rises and falls with sleep

prints show up all over your hands
follow them down to your navel
and tuck it in like a laugh
that hits you like red sirens