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THE FLAT
LANDS


A collection
of poems that function
as the ground work for
Gardens of Grief.
2019

One:
Buried


Struck by fear
but not paralyzed.

Another symptom carried on the breeze.

I was already in it before I could relinquish
my gaze

I was already swimming in the plane of shallow blue
above my head.

It had become a
ritual to cut through,
on a cemented path.

A way of getting
here and there

A way of feeling the weight of my steps

And reminders
that I had neither
sunken beneath
or rose above
the ground.

It was in comfort
of these steps

that I looked
to the sky.


To be Halted


Thunderous rolls of involuntary spasm.

Spontaneous combustion
on the move.

In the aches,
I made home,
unknown to myself
and panic made me,
in spite of myself.

/-------
If the dips 
that I descend,
before meeting curled cheeks,
is where I set my gaze and nod
and daze will the
words not trigger?

Will my body stay
put and the depth
become retreat?

When it sets off,
can I meld into the where of which
I need to be and camouflage,
in the stocks
of mundane?

/-------
There are moments when my lungs arrest,
to make me
aware of lacking.

To make me aware.

In these moments my soft caging speaks,
and dissolves my garb, so instead 
it breaths

and I live on.
one of those  days that knows end but, never acquaints itself with the possibility.

/-----
It blossoms a
moment too soon.

The re-entry of  my
wandering spirit.

/-----
A single note
plucked released.

From the frame metal weeped and the sound buckled.

Beat bustin back buckled knees detached in a
violent scuffle.

/-----
The pressure and with pressure
a sea of symphony.

It compounded
and pressure
played again.

Quick enough
to strip the composed.

/-----
Quacks of the eye. Quacks in the hook, where my mind settles.

Creating reactions, of caked crumbled
in celebration.

Horns ringing
from the friction.

A reuniting of battered decay.


In–Between Excluding
Everything


Outside has expectations 
set in the hills.


Sliding Cracks,

Crackle Down.


Outside has
hidden in the valley.


Broad fields,

and backs,

hiding caverns,

and gaps,

scattering pieces of the whole,


and the whole thing held too much weight.

/-----
I've been,


burdened by

heady thoughts,


and private stonings.


been missing god like acts

or maybe I’ve been missing them.

///-----
Outside has become simple tracings,


and you plot

while lookin for old news,

stories that produce old you and some type of 
orgin.