poems about salvia, sage, friend, softy rakki, life of ayoende.
so many bricks, never together, unpiled, disintegrating, bricks made of soil, I sweep into the kitchens of the families who are only clothing, without bodies, clean

feel of kind sciences, spilling in the chaos of
mindlessness, I do not cry then. clothings, clothings, so much soul, yet only clothing, clothing holes, seeing to nothing, roaming around, friends of something,

munching sounds, we gathered at logs with grub, on middle days. butts on chalky sidewalk bleeding with the constellations of Andromeda. a spirit, but not a ghost.

grateful life... buses, buses, cans of soup. collecting on buses, feelings, just feelings, empty seeming rooms, bustling at the bottom, edges of so much. classic.

these crystals, they felt us, melting in the breeze of our breathe, garlicky, from tofu soup, cooked by vegetarian moms. with green spaghetti, I remember then. we are

mexico, scattered in the days of rice, here in Tokyo, china. mixing, mixing, mixing with love, she says, spinning the world with a heart restored, that green around

her cheeks, not from jealousy. why is my mother so happy? what have these plants done, only wanted to create a bridge, only to express a metaphor. somehow, someway, it

made progress. fairies riding in kites, you pulled through, our yonato, is old as morning dew. stirring stirring, America, and Russia, meet in friendship over dress up

and lunch, bongo dinners, little fish jumping, in my daydreams. the sound of the ocean, is my bell. but its not a bell until you drop a daffodil, ayla. you've met us,

mural walls, with bouncy round paint, that looks like fruit. I don't know any of the boys in the halls. my skirt is splattered with foodstains, I like it like that.

just a ball of discord on the world. summer hats in winter, sunshine is my granny. act four. the nunakso. it wasn't japan but I thought it was. because of the orange

bunnies. they left biscuits they baked on the cool rocks, while we toked on poems, written by socks. this is wanti. the flag of candlecove. just to somehow make a

dream. its amazing the things, these plants wanted to do, I met the Algerian voyager. upon salad isles, islands of giant lettuce, emerging from the reefs, like wings

miraculously uneaten... why? why did no mouth ever bite? why had we met here. on bikes on the years, flying side by side in dreams, without fears. how had we broken

away, from yesterday... my friend is Catherine, my friend is kate, from planets I don't know the names of, but their food is great. Afroga. frogger. yoger. noger,

doder. noder. computer poems, computers to poke at. funny games. castles and monsters. attempts at song. we tell our own stories, and we draw on our own shirts. I am a

sharpie, ingenuity, never hurts. life is open source, that's what paps taught us. I put the shadows in the lights themselves one day. they were happy that way, it was

winkte. all of our spirits, all of our yolky eyes, staring at rocks in the fall. staring, and staring. nani was cool too, and nicky, I can only ever meet people one at

a time, but someone came into my teepee that night. she was eating potatoes and she smells like a hermaphrodite. some kind of patchwork quilt. beating away, the overly

ceremonial thorns, cham! cham! oh the wisdom body, throwing conventional ways to the wind, unearth with me friend. on a trip like that again... we'll watch old

nickoledeon. Ayatari medicine. how many video games can you fit in. what was that one, across the ocean. ... am I just dreaming... peel up my eyes, everyone sounds,

drunk all the time... these are good hills. these are good trees. not even the smucks can cover them away. thank you for taking of your shirt, exposing your breasts in

a nonsexual context. matriarchy!! seven black breadloaves, waiting in my backyard. growing into bread trees, hard in sun soft after rain, leaves of the

mold, seeds of tear shaped grain... crying your golden tears.... one is the only age you can be. lets try that. and we'll see. maybe our sponsors will give it up too,

maybe everyone will be hippies, then what will we do, itll all still work though, psychedelically everyone zen masters, without zen slaves... everyone breaking the

dawntime windows, faster than a beat at a rave. how long, did they want to come to us, shaped like corn and pie. why did they create this, why? Claymation world. my

body is putty, from yoga, I am a nascar racer, at 10 miles per hour, the understand my whimsy. so many art students around us, like tiny bunnies. and who are we? the

cows of Montgomery, roaming independently, a feminist movement, cows, its was the cows who ruled there, the farmers took orders from them... the sacred B.O. vine....

one year they grew restless, and they decided to leave the farm. taking to the streets, 28 cows, all of them zen... brown red and black, spilling into the houses,

carrying out strange rituals. the towns people bowed and backed away, giving them space. but finally, everyone met up.
I was one of the cows.
and so was Catherine.
and so was Kate.
we stayed in the house on the hill with the broken door. we never locked that bad boy. we were secure. not coward, cow art! how long have our people languished as the

aristocracy of America, attempted to be hidden by the media, who wanted to portray farmers as evil, muaha, we went unto their oxygen bars to give them the gift of our

nectars and droppings.
the farmers went at the cow poop, and the world was saved. dishwasher. just a dishwater. Terrence McKenna was the dishwasher. I was the little box of apples. she was

the tofu burger. cow juice. milk and mushrooms mixed with honey. the farm with the morning glories painted on it... who were these peoples, what was the connection,

what did it all mean? we were only the ones who were supposed to tell the others. these farmers were different. they were practicing. these farmers were native

American. the stereotypes needed to be destroyed. these were not the apocalyptic movies of the 70s, this was something so much more beautiful. somehow they had

attracted us all out there, and taught us the ways, then they admitted. that's all it ever really was. don't believe the stereotypes. she that atheist, that messianic

one, from Kentucky, she spoke a language of herbs and spices. and left us with kale daily. we loved her. we were old enough to know the cows. knowledge of self, God.

but God, God is the pleasures of the wild animals, so great and true are those. they all get high too. I remember I was a deer but I felt like a kangaroo. I lived in

the tree tops with my friend sparrow. she talked about things, mostly I just sat there, but she talked a lot. we were still ravers, we knew the ways, even out there,

how it goes down among fallen leaves branches and growing florae. tendrils unfurl, flowers come out. earth is one, yomo... druids go far out... its so beautiful, when

you don't really make the journey. we're just all trading spaces, trading bodilar vehicles. you gotta try it, do it, to know what spirit is, to know what the cats

feel, when they get to the nip... oh the liberty catnip goes on and on. cats are cool. the sun is a layered kerbobepper. animals using the internet, cows surfed her

and played it like a video game, chosing continents to represent settling down in imaginary settlements. why? just to be cool. apparently there were lots of chickens

playing too, but of course, we just met under the guises of people. keeping the deal going, getting them eventually to treat us in exactly the way, that we deserved.

we left them tofu chickens, in the pens, instead of us real chickens, muahahaha.... blessing of the sacred root. what we then showed them was like these universal

energies that are like rainbows woven through everything, that's the dutch stuff. its amazing its not a species or a race, but it actually does have personality,

that's what they mean by the ancients, the preform times, that still run like a crystalline liquid leyline through all worlds creating a tree, they see it in such a

chill way, become just the wind then, just the air. oxygen. a cloud, mystic, in the sense of mist, hovering in a patch near the grass. stirring things. like a Great

Mother. in something called, a matriarchy. boards of America... those were the good forums right there, they are still going. its still nonhierarchical... its still

egalitarian. its not some philosophical crap, its actually enjoyable. its actually different. its surprisingly not boring. theres surprisingly good adventure games.

and like world creating games, where u make these worlds and help these people as like a diety, but theres also other pantheon dieties and its crazy, when it gets to

that point, sometimes I just know.the imagination engine Is the best one, it runs on infinity... the games are so incredible