Biological Machine Brain

AFTER I finish this poem and all
the alphabets are in bed

you can walk with me down the hill
where the stream is, lady
where fish dream they are stars

(now this blows my mind — but
there they are)

Looking within their eyes with a
suddenly unsaid voice they spoke
while smoking mexican grass

And the toads croak lightly
singing, “Run upon the stones
across our river”

I ran and stepped across all
the stones and crevasses
and I found myself upon the Mountain

And there came a poetess who sang,
“Come, hold my hand, along brittle
treacherous bright streets
of memory — ooh, come my heart,
you idiot, yealing like a drunken man!

We can be asleep, elsewhere our dreams begin
run upon my stones:

Ici? Ah non. Mon chéri, il fait trop froid.
I say again, “Here? Oh no. My drear, it is
too cold!”

The farm is in ice so Chevaux do bois!

:: 06.05.2024 ::