me? -> typhoid the stench of cold decay
not of falltime
but of winter.
stagnant water in a scummy pond.
flies procreate
then die for lack of anything better todo.
hibernation from the machine.
tourist to lie untilled
unfurrowed as a small childs face
laying with Mother Nature
marking natural time
till in some distant spring discovered
by the none to gentle plow
opens your rich loam and places
fertile seed within for keeping
marking natural time
as sun and sky unfold the blessing
flowers bloom with bees carressing
till the fruit is full and ripend
in the autum harvest comes
seed is gathered husks are flung
on the feild to lie through winter
merging with the soil again
marking natural time
silentbob a very weakerthans state of mind 001019
. . 050305
dandy to rest in a little death
feel the new wild take roots
through your loam settled
by the masseuse fingertips
of rain. the forest doesn't look
as far away or as old as it once did
instead of a contact cinderella
scrubbing over this thin bedrock,
scrub bush is let loose like braids
unplaited in a pleasing tangle
what's it to you?
who go