A Song

Autumn eyed twilight oscillates outside the windows
and floating mountains from the valley in the coffee of the wind
gliding aimless through the windless folded hand,
the charcoal breath of cars at the pale death of cattle

and the crickets falling cold air
and the smell of leaves in it, and the far buildings
warning among silent hands, and the sidewalks embrace,
cloud-clocked with peak-skinned smog of the scratched farm
houses of river-polluted winds, unwind from the veil of a silent current

as the world turns elderly
around a star of discombobulated faith scrambled as factory bread
as the food and chimneys of the highway, humans unroll
from dead scrolls of fire that scorched the hearts of a millennium,
finally shred beneath shuddering realisms of loneliness and the houses of form folding farm cardiac arrest upon

fields of dead bees, cities of dead bees, and the un-burning
torn heart lit without fires, a water surrounding wing of clouds
with the peaks of mountains pale as wool—and the fetishized hen
roosts sleeping autumn chill round flameless eyes of its crow
comb-fitting yards with mantled millennium mornings of people

stumbling out of cave wall paintings
cattle snoring cars from their nostrils, cats in the cricket step
as birds puff their chests, hunting, hopping, history
milks gentle clocks for some sky un-fallen
while all the electric farms wake in the trades of traceless trained behavior

no one knelt, wept, there weren’t prayers, as prayers,
by the water and the night on a stove and the log house
and the coffee and packaged bread in the silent store,
in the muffled metallic-shade, in the dash of plastic moon light,
at the point of connection, shameful, afraid

humans on the cold stones
of crest broken grief without a sky to unveil,
except planets within hunger howling for a fund to launch
bones at its statue-present as stables for modified-horses and the roofed electricity
of glassed-in-ponds within the orbiting eyes of a space-craft, alone

in the heart of what doesn’t die—
a fire where humans prowl around clouds
of mountain blind peaks poking holes into the rushing white-out
of the body as it bleaches clean of its human quality, kneeling
before the alter of metallic-air, hands folding on the breast of

machines, stringing wind
into bird-hunger, the fields of electricity for water, bread,
high-fructose-corn syrup and the non-existent harvest melting tongues
of nameless billions bound to the burning of fossil fuels, all
lost within cold logic, reason, and shame

pressed dreams wired among river’s mouthless night, star-less
drowns of drifty and needful fingers of lie-curled-hunger, caught
in the always festering center-less space of colorless diaspora, hunched
in search of dark and white, without human, or inhuman, remains to bride and cradle in a bed of thought, beside the believer who could un-lose their experience to lies of light—

deliver experience to the human
lost within what has been destroyed as human, and love will cast
necessity, alone, as a naked engulfing ocean of
passionate fields of flourishing waves of mountains, caressing
upward, from the floor of the earth, a flower
of undying time, and the unquestionable gentleness of flesh

listen, lies sing
at every turn of departed bodily sensations out of fear,
stars are howling, dust clog-burying wood over flies of non-reconcilable veins
of wing span, spelling of the winds the dead and their suicidal voices
packed with still-water crawling beneath a splintered grocery-store frozen-spring

communicating from an electric
ocean of airplanes and ships, water bound for continents
set in their dew rings of gravel twisted leaves the glistening gasoline of non-
perished snow carving mouths out of activity, highways
of tendon, rock the wind swept dreams, strings
time through a song and intricately places dead-beads through a drop-hoop

listen, as the hand of sound
regimented into dead-ends of bees without bodies glide the dark
before a door appears, as outside, of the genetic-bread, of the manipulated-factory-vein,
gouged as a zone of regulated genitals, rising and opening through the burns
of an un-dawning electrocution, breast-feeding distorted snow through a crimson-faucet

drowned in the look of the non-referable orbit
the departed, are bunched against light, mouthless, motionless, dust
of tree inhabitants, birds, graves do not exult the tires
of cars, nor the myths of their dead importance, the messages, drenched
in commercials farm birds to their sleep and walk dead holes to their love

carved limbs of schooled mountains
move to their glass-promised paychecks, cut from the pens of dead
leaves, without laughter, laughing, in the silence of ages, where lines of gravel weave flocks
of sheep through harp-shaped voices of the water’s ghost, plucking dust from a fold
of suffocated fields, ghosts of love, the long ago theoretical birds of shadow, only
a fetish

in the wide wings persistent, nuanced, now
unfolding over headless listeners, where concrete-feathers voice
realisms of flying, yet houses of the non-believed believer holds steady to the birds’
passed praise units of elemental silence, and gender’s deadened snow fall, as a
rejoice, and social-fabric holding all of humanity’s integrity in a clump of half-cracked
loneliness, the veil

cannot sustain wind
in the jawbone by the saliva of a night-boiling in log bright machine light
and the sky of mechanical stars in their feathered-computerized voices shaming
humanity to its numerological side, to hear wind after the kindling flight, passed
the dead farms and twists of the windless grocery store

of the poles
as they blacken birds into dead priests color coating cloaked reasons
to spend and stay within countries of car-diseased mountains
of approaching degrees for paycheck nearing trees, where scarecrows of value
run for their snow infested lives, along the drifts and silences of thicket-mythic antlered
poverty

rags of utility bills disappear at the sight of asset, as knees-bend in prayer equals
deposit in the bank, mountains never too high, Everest, loud in the numb-dead
graves of importance, night lost in the air-torn heights of vitality, washing through
a river during the wake of birds, through times and lands of ghost-mountains, clouds

listen, see where no one sails on the Atlantic without a GPS, ripped
water from the sky and bird stuffed weds bridal sanctuary of mummified-clouds
panting on star planted stalks of factory bet fields, seeds
of time birthing dead at their burst, heavens as the door of college, fronts
the welcoming land from a long ago mentality, as the door glides wind

to hopeful silence of a captured headless, over-the-mantle, bird,
bread on the table, white as the hill in which it was captured, cups
a dead farm in the lakes of its hands and hands a floating field to the river-child
wading in the veils of the heart, as prayer replaces thought, and choice detonates, un-dead
ghosts to the home of offered fires, and humanity

without bodies to decipher, dances from highways and
community from cars, falls with the snow, an ever lasting winter
of cities and urban impregnated windows, wishes of
once cut, and unfrozen birds of the brain, were
deep within the fields of preconceived bread
and the glazed palms of water only shapes of color

fishes flying through night and center-less dead riding on
living horses painting spring, spring
free of broken backed theories, lines of ageless sleep
stone weeping their joy from trumpets of laughter,
dawn exhausts in the exclamation of what never lies down time as it buries its spring beneath weather, and crawls belly upon the mound of fossilized memories, the one’s of birth

as not fetishized, as within the bird, as what does not
bed when its wings are in fire of the sleepless state, voiding
factory walls with credit checks and not believing the songs of machine
wedding humans to the engulfing highway of heaven-breasted headless chicken

packaged electricity burning all thought
of love out of the whirlpool of desire and extracting genitals
from suffocating folds of the world as it spins in the
field of its rose flowering in the melting snow

which is not this

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