Monday, June 15, 2009

Autumn crisped sweet dripping Indian summer

Dusted the shirts on our backs

Oh Colorado-

The rolling patches

Wheat, thirst bread, fills

Like smoked remains of honey

A plumage; watercolor rust

Blues and dotted reds

Making love in the sky on melting mountaintops

Our muscles filled with acid halfway up

And we summitted, submitted our

Bodies to the wild-

Forestation, ancient language

Molds of a tribe,

We are the natives
Wood. Hard stone electronic circuits

I am the passage of your youth

And the skin beneath your fingernails

Grazing over bulbs and flashing screens

Abright underbelly, character of telegraphic wire

Constant time, use.

We’re connected- copper soldered to empty sockets to assure

a more perfect union

where the brain and the fingertips

intertwine we camp out for hours

teardrop mechanics on sunlight

human motherboards widespread intercontinental consciousness

speaks for our use like a careful person

with a pretend bandage

still barely sticking to skin and metal and bone

we might be further apart than we thought.