mission accomplished, more banged up than before
miserable town, frowning boy down, corner of the couch, corner of the bed
no coffee smell toffee, wonderworks of crystal, spindling light of internal echo.
dangerous is my name should i be pulled from you like a fishhook,
a harpoon of lust, of an unlived life as some one else. You changed me.
In the shade of familial distrust, lion lays, lion starves, lion groans a weak retort,
smeared along dust and blown away with the magic of cricket chirps and sun blaring white
fading to dusk.
I am complete. Sorrowful hound, muzzle draped along the rocky shore by the waves.
I turn into a flock of seagulls. I'm gone, like a turpentine in the pond.
-cbcbcbcbcbcbcbcbcbcbcbcb

This *****
Artificially awake
Lydia
apples 20 years have passed
oranges i want a do over
manhole cover coins
savage glares across the 4 wheeled property lines
young moms not giving a ****, that's alright
kiss of sun hidden from
anxious from blue oak , it's ridges pluming in the dappled twist
and floundering wave, wiggling wave of oak leaves green as frogs.
ponytail suzy, *** from galaxy sci-fi
i brought up a cup while it was empty there,
but so distracted by my own trembling effort,
every hair a furry hood, every fatty fixture of my face a rebounding basset hound
tennis shoes up to my neck, dumb naked in my greenery,
already old somehow, the window closing,
the permanency of parks, like a stilletto in a limosine,
green fixture of my white blinded attempt to see tomorrow,
tourist .
thoughts of Sylvia
, my gaping awe at the feminine,
and its green garden.

-cbrander

tresses dire
tresses green
cascading tresses
tresses exercise, chaos
fate, a skipping stone
meeting a pond
before crossing over
dropping
sleeping in a dusty hall
at one with the earth,
the wave.
At peace where i should be
as earth,
slowly turned and permeable
as a bird caught in the storm of the flock.
A bird song note struck
in the din of the century,
groundhog day of consciousness,
8000 terracotta to be buried with.
blue eyes has the wisom,
his old monkey red skin,
flea bags howling at the deities,
loud voices driving the chariot,
of the Denver Broncos.
Warriors of steel,
the embrace of my child,
is a moment to keep,
tethered to the surface of the pond,
with all the magic deity will afford me.

cbran

to get to the salmon run, through the burning bush
ask the catfish.
where is the hunting ground, where is the gathering bush.
I sit on these winds, blowing around an island volcano,
sitting on its chest like a city baboon in the street chewing on rinds.
Making alien eyes with a sanctuary dream,
happily orange on the bends of rising,
from warm to chill,
in autumn pavement.

=cb merp

Grief;

How deep is your well,
Kept clean in a garden,
Why do you empathize,
with grief,
as if you could fly by,
and catch them on your hooks,
to carry them to the distant morning,
with heroic stamina.
Your horizon is red like her,
Egypt,
your hollow waiting,
your distant sun,
your ocean of patient grief,
the weight of planets,
is perhaps just a channel to Tuscany.
-floating-
This happy accident happened to you,
like a car crash, and then another slower one,
as more has passed than can come, passed middle age,
as you wither, because you're more careful,
but also because the branches sway,
the willow blossoms, and time will steal you from me.
You're awfully humble,
to be a passenger and gracefully wither,
with all your mindful might,
and bear the thought of what could have been;
a joyful child in his father's arms.
How deep is your well,
while Tuscany sleeps,
while the beach combers pick the glass from the sand,
that you yourself chewed so she would not cut herself,
dear Tuscany, who thinks only of herself,
who had to be reached by your well, so you grew so thin,
to touch her toes, and wash away again,
as the willow branch waves goodbye,
as a baby to a stranger driving by.
A winter well someday,
A dry well,
A forgotten well, a stone circle, another child's footsteps,
Another life alive, burning joy, born after you passed by,
to live having never met you.
Your lineage, dry,
wet by some other loving grief.
Long are the teeth in your mouth,
Long are the echoes of joyful children playing in the school ground,
which is your bell blessing,
that you ring when you arrive.
Passenger,
Driver,
Man child.



-cb

to curl up,
to go brown and crisp with drying edges,
hearing the ears, the ears hissing of space.
sitting,
falling, bone on bone resting into their couplings, their pile, their doll form.
hanging, by threads and rubber, my guts, my heart, gurgling with eyes wide, pressed to the floor.
sinking, into the chair, compressing, my flesh kneaded, an ***** of folded clothes, seamless fabric edges.
fading eyesight, in my thoughts which are empty as parked cars,
leaning halfway over the shadowy cool ponds of the evening,
smelling wet, heavy, musky, bouquet, night air,
a watching forest.
alone, free and forsaken, light as dandelion seed,
scratching at my dreams with shrieks of protest, we sail.
icy stems snapping, autumn to winter, charcoal liver.
waiting peacefully amongst the tiniest renters,
the other crawlers of the quiet house.
idle unit. murmuring water cooler.
The plane of death is cool grey slate. Well dressed, impassable, implacable.
This is the valley that sinks, wet warm and green,
humming, buzzing and ******.
wary and jutting, retracting before his spit touches the water,
playing with his mucus, a boy soon to meet his father.
His father cried, like jesus, with eyes rolled back like a shark,
in the hospital paliative care unit, unshaven, deflating.
Sylvia Plath's inky fingers,
hushing my lips, keeping the secret, where there is no secret.
trade the moon for a penny, because the penny is real.
implacable is his love for the park, his spring over the stream,
over the cracks in the pavement, where the weeds grow,
in beautiful greens, with the sound of crickets,
playing their combs.



cbrander

I'm a golden cami-soul
i can easily explain,
i'm a camisole in the rain,
i'm more naked than a woman,
than if i were kissing a man,
to free myself from dreary kids,
and life itself.
they aren't mine, they are mine
those ****** amenities.
Those darned lost years, the flying wick,
Job after job, noth-ing would stick,
i'm back to being a lady of the night.
It's my birthright.

I'm a winter cami-soul,
no eyes, no mouth, about 4 feet tall.
Drunk on my allusions, i'm out of wine.
I'm out of time.
I'm hanging clean out on the line.

his breath awaits,
the iron of the pulpit.
every one but the bartender,
says i "told you so".
I'm silken as a pair of jeans,
i'm a dime.

-cbran