Friday, July 6, 2012


The wind blowing through my head
gives the shaman something

To breathe—

A nameless dog
howling, grief
running with Its tongue

Hanging out, dripping and
sweaty,  anticipating
reunion in the wilder-ness

This longing answers.

I’m spoken, an echo-
stealing swine of the mind;

An intelligent piece of pork
boars me open, birthing
itself into my trifle, bearing
mysterious gifts, buried
atop its tusk;

Provoking sobs
fragmented capacity
spiritual recklessness and
profuse scattering of seeds.

I’m a prodigal deadbeat, wandering
ignorant of Thanatos, preferring
the wind and rain that eroticize
this climate,

This lactating Earth milked by her whining child—

In-formed by Its wanting…

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