warm storm brings new gardens worries to light cool beer settles on girls smashed tomatoes where fields shape twists a friend torn between two places

that occur involuntarily

moon pieces the willows crotch together watch mangled sun spots start out over water and wait for willow earth to etch willow earths evening I dreamt the thing in the door didnt change not the house changes the kid in the door changes at dusk the house haunts kids blown out boards burnt cycling in orbit around shadow the willow dreamt the pile of leaves stuffed with old mans bones etchings

Syd Barrett

when im up im up in the morning thinking about Syd barret SYddd Barrettttttt when im up in the morning the RULO CULT moves me to church with Jesus again on a cross past my bed sex sex wherethe 13 coyotes become 13 djs on west 14th street Falls City NE where all Asceticism begins and wakes me up at 68355 and wakes me up with gravel thrown at me and wakes me up cold the piss I piss after I piss that sudden gasp for water after drinking in the sturdy sunday suns gaze the accumulation of all material wealth with desert fathers great plains in me

ole Gary lives bout three miles south a here

by Ryan Jenkins on Sunday, April 27, 2008 at 8:31pm · Gary is still drunk at the Flee Market must have been one of those nights lightning on the horizon illuminates the dirt on my face and the river im avoiding you can take a piss from here and hit his chicken coop not even here a scratch heavvy truck traffic at sunset for some reason I doubt ther visitin me horrible remnants of slobbery someone was drunk here last night and I doubt I was involved 1985 heard gun shots every night Mike Ryan and the whole goddam mess to much litter in the yard our neighbor does not care for our carelessness opening my eyes the cat in the garage wakes me going through my cans burning the book in the moonlight, it has been years since anyone read it now we know for sure outside the window she left through i notice a broken washing machine and numerous yellow weeds knocking on the screen door thunderheads billow behind me I forget what i came for at dawn losing my balance falling into cellars Tegan Snyder one time I went over to ol' garys place. it was around 2:30 in the afternoon. normally the dogs would bark and attack you. nothing happened. got to the door. knock knock. gary? no response. gary? no response. so i opened the door and walked inside. normally u wouldn't do this to gary. just so happens that garys lying on the floor. seems like someone else is aswell. i dont know him. gary is in his usuall suspenders. quite the fashion. no realy movement detectable. must be in a blackout state. 2:30 in the afternoon. Gary is passed out. Blacked out. April 29, 2008 at 4:16pm · Like Tegan Snyder gary is quite the blacksmith. his drinking doesn't interfere with his ability to maintain. gary used to be known for his drinkin. he still is. everyone knows. sometimes he just wouldn't show up for work. he works at a machine shop. he can weld all sorts of things. pabst blue ribbon can be found in the basement of the machine shop. they buy it from sams club by the crate. gray doesn't drink anymore. he quit. everyone knows. gary is still known for his drinkin. April 29, 2008 at 4:24pm · Like

winters big spirit puts the hedge back up the osage orange tears at cedar thicket whole nights put together with no moon sky on sky scrapes

Tree House by Nancy Willard

Start with a tree, an old willow with its feet in the water, and one low branch to let you in and a higher branch to let you upstairs, and a lookout branch to show how far you've come (the lake before you, the woods at your back), and now you are close to those who live in these rooms without walls, without doors: one nuthatch typing its way up the bark, two mourning doves calling the sun out of darkness, three blackbirds folding their wings tipped with sunset, twelve crows threading the air and stitching a cape that whirls them away through the empty sky, and don't forget the blue heron stalking the shallows for bluegills, and don't forget the otter backpaddling past you, and the turtles perched on the log like shoes lined up each night in a large family, and don't forget the owl who has watched over you since you were born. Be the housekeeper of trees, who have nothing to keep except silence.

Sojourns in the Parallel World by Denise Levertov

We live our lives of human passions, cruelties, dreams, concepts, crimes and the exercise of virtue in and beside a world devoid of our preoccupations, free from apprehension—though affected, certainly, by our actions. A world parallel to our own though overlapping. We call it 'Nature: only reluctantly admitting ourselves to be 'Nature' too. Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions, our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute, an hour even, of pure (almost pure) response to that insouciant life: cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing pilgrimage of water, vast stillness of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane, animal voices, mineral hum, wind conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering of fire to coal—then something tethered in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free. No one discovers just where we've been, when we're caught up again into our own sphere (where we must return, indeed, to evolve our destinies) —but we have changed, a little.