running time in ticks like mice. rats are running through the streets while lasses knock the fright. this needn’t be, it’s time that goes, out from me i see as one with time to steep in tea like leaves. climbing tops of trees on mountains orange and red made purple from skies of lives now dead.
the seams of me rip through and through like mountain streams of valley’s dew. bottom to top and then again. clouds to ground, sine to sound. precipitate coming, anticipate near the heart of me which is on my sleeve, if i wear one. if not you can taste it on my tongue, hear it in my voice deep rough calm to soothe. not all have a taste for the tone or the want to go with clocking heat of flesh and bone.
like animals we run through tunnels. run through i ask you. to be fair it is a circus. ringmaster never shows. the shows consist of feats of strength and healing ails with snake oil bros. heal me now, be healed i see the dream is wet with swaths of me. bleed, hope-soaked while flesh sops meaning. mine undone. slick from oil and dry of thought, tongue water-light as melting sun.
poem and still of rehearsal files by me
Cole G 