Scatter and Went

Approaches its end all
Our time
Kingdoms etc...
Creation becomes its changing thing. Hours
Create the next hours when they turn.
Our mountain nation no more -
As if the world's rest caters to it.
Going like dreams dreams swifting away.
Remember.?

Comes future in its infinite.
The names that greet their new faces
(Which I will never know the it of it
For my own) never know my woman at a birth.
So my future ends within.
But America America,
Our wet mountain nation,
Come to terms with what is becomes.
Looking into your within
Until the tired ticks of universe
Disperse
For species and our breathing ways.

Trivial Giants

Having no cares for you, but thoughts
Of your pretty white straight teeth
(and where they will cinch me)
Are comfort
Like the ghosts of the smell around you.
‘Hello’ – thinking that I
Would tell you ‘hello’ first
When I touch you next, then
Busy myself saying other things
Before moving into not speaking.
I want to smoke
In bed with you,
Then burn again.
Sometimes I’ve had too much of this –
Not now.
I have wants only.

So?
When will you drive
Your vehicle to me?
Before you slip out of my mind.
Not replaced:
Dismissed and an urgent forgot.

Gleaming Des Moines

If thoughts were donkeys
-no wait, they are, I mean
If thoughts were like
Branches on a
-no.
If they were all teeth, nothing but teeth
Gnashing in a still pond.
Yes, teeth in a pond gnashing towards
A meaning.
They would gnash that I
Would be gone from here.
Mount up all the goods in my
Vehicular body, and drive
Home to Iowa.

Does Iowa still love me?
In its mountains and waterfalls
Deserts Precambrian history
Mango orchards and Pacific coasts
It does,
But in its guilt wracked Des Moines
I find nothing I know nothing.

So, now back into the creep of fiction.
Thoughts like cartoons with their
Jellybean bodies which is
This place I know better.
The falling rain is only burning and hot
Little stars. Night
Is the dark room at the center of the house.
No happy visit for me to Iowa’s city, just
This lonely acre with its gnashing
Mouthful of wind.

To Merit a Finish

It is the newer
Kind of cancer,
A self making belligerent
Cells enough
To fill my -
Not drift floating in an
Open sea, but
Pellets of rat poison gone up to overfill.
Until I become a gone too.
Yesterday does not tomorrow.
Just grains.

A small vehicle that
Gets into small places.

Even now up to my eyelashes
In misgivings.
With no money and
Too many women.
Too many women.
Too many women.
Too, thy own self be new.
A steady utterances of unusual.
Until we go away with us.

A small vehicle that
Gets into small places.
Seems always to on go on.

Then the dreams end,
Being nowhere from
For them to come.
Nothing sensual. Nothing sense!
Do not touch me or
My arms. And in short

Being:
There is no Orchestra
Here to conduct.
They are on
The European leg of the tour.
It is the dry season
In the Himalayas.
The mind gone out
Of the body and
Joined leagues with falsehood.

A
Small vehicle in small
Places
Gotten into. Colored the tint red
Of the end.