the voice of my future is fragile
like crumbling bricks of mud
please pull all these dusty walls down
that hide our little moon

downstream lie
the October urges
and the lycanthropic haunts
of our downed dreams:
a wild and reckless
harvest of struggle

our little tumbling moon maintains
my howling spirit-pride
descending in the blurry june,
somewhere beyond your eyelids

home, this is you at your best:
the light from orion's sword
faster than September we rest
we dream-crawl over hot coals

I dreamt that I had tonsillitis
I awoke in the back of a car
winding through a rugged view
of some far-off mountain dreamland metropolis

In this dream I was rendered mute
but you spoke my every desire
without a care, I laid and I stared up at you
you knew every word

I rested my head on your lap
your fingers ran through my hair
like a child, I played with your stockings
while the setting sun danced in our eyes

love, this is you at your best
I remember we kissed on that piano bench
All stretched out, we laid on September
and watched this wild dreamland unfold

is this a good place to be
somewhere beyond November
the harvest ruins
the Eskimo nebula
collapsing this dust
and my poetic rust
and all the times that i gave up
into stars

our little moon lives
and crawls on walls
in kung-fu steam on a bridge
enshrined July and the diamonds we hide
through the wilds, past the walls, over coals under soil, under stars
on the train headed homeward or something more vague

You know this is you at your best
In the face of a moon that couldn't care less
time and speed are distance indeed
yeah, that sounds about right to me, duddn't it?

Where are the songs of spring?
Where, O Where, O Where can they be?
And Where is my Madonna of the prairie?
She's coming around the mountain in dreams
so it seams
sound asleep
and half-reaped
on her way to rosebud island

a gift from the spirit of August
we will ride the pride
all around the garden I've grown
in the far-out dreams
you rest your cheek upon