The Zooffice Episode 4: Hard at Hearing

The Goose Who Thinks She's a Sandhill Crane

I may have a red mind about green habits -but then again,
I could have wings strewn about my hips, and have stood
inside the marsh until the rising tide drowns all the rabbits.

And this post will be part thinking, part screaming.
Part screaming only due to the fact that I have begun
to loose control over my interior temperament. Tantrum

They call it, but I've noticed that "they" call "it" many
"things". Like like like like like like like like like like
carnations, and blueberry muffins under melting butter.

The Sandhill Crane I call it. Like I see it, I say, and I
call it like they see it, I say. I say, they call it like they
see the I see the it. The "I" sees the "it" it doesn't, does it?

Triplets, like droplets, but meters of musicality. Musica
syllabically measures the movement in your palm,
as does slipping it into your pants, palm side down.

And the most fascinating aspect ratio doesn't form from
a y and an x, though the primate mammal would and
should differ there. Right there, now, in high definition.

At 8:54 post meridian the wolverines throw down their
garments and dance about the woods in carnival violence.
All there is, will never be, and nothing will, always.

I may have a violet mind, though not a violent mind indeed.
-but then again, the Sandhill Crane, bleeding from
her mouth, smiles still at the sun and her own opportunity.

Zooffice! Episode 3: The Freudian Slip

Brush Stroke

With the way your bangs roll down, you could shade the way land lies from the sun at its solstice.

And it's summer we're talking about. Unequal, equally unreal lives

lodged inside brown brazen eyes (and lids to match) run wild, horses wild.

Run while it's light out or run while around you is darkened. About the wind, your face,

zoysia freckled about you, hearken go the leaves, lightly tiptoeing

the sky. Summertime is slipping into the rough.

Run wild horses, run.