Certain rainscripts are what attract. Water spelling eager ears into wind threaded breath bridles. This is the free range organic theme tonight out the window, another self woven through the plateglass. In the blurry smear of drops, light is near. To sculpt yellow blulbs. One can plant them as read them. Read them now while its raining. Peel them off the window with yer brain. Think them into the compost skullcoil. Watch thought rivering upon the only one other I am, a buoyant eye.

*

These are my mintes, my
fragilities. These are what
a mind can hold. A wonderful, for
example, waterfall weaving through red-
wood's charred wet trunks.
New buckeye shoots, shoot buckets of
cool green glowings to canyon floor.
Slick waxy madrone leaves the carve
of water up to us. I am writing from
my Roman bed describing something other.
No need to read it, rather be it. Ask of me
the forest's pulse, in turn I bleed some words.

*

So brilliant to have occasion--
February 27th fruit blossom fanfare
all over the neighborhood (pear, plum, applebloom)
Plus some exotic yellow broom hanging
tough over roof and trail. I want to
take a walk in Jimmy Schuyler's poem, this evening--
the one where he takes a leak on road
side leaves while walking in Vermont, his
vivid simplicities, and my own in sync in
Forest Knolls, California starlight now, I
think I will, walk there with you
"So many galaxies
and you my bright particular"

*

This is the jerkpooled section of over-
thought brickwork. Less the intelligence
unleashed than the rivered hand at dawn--
but you take what you can get, when the
only available thought barks up the only
bailing wire tree in the only mustard meadow,
under the only onion sky.

Soon the fingers buckle mid knee
kneel down and concede, join the turgid
coil to paint the immediate blur.

It's letting go of having to foot,
that's half the balance battle--
I'm letting the moment sphere up into a
colossal silver ink blossom called
"Lily of the Paginated Tundra"

*

This is an on-going text of occurrences.
I see my death limp through me in a constant.
Or shout through as perpetual scream?
Add hum through in true reminding.
Acceptance of who a relief to repeat, to sing...

a tossing of my-- Oh the insignificance
of me-- the sayings I define me by.
Identity squandered
for void relief, wreathed
in nature, my true void guide, my
only empty name.