18.

Well we woke up and said good morning to each other
as she stepped over my sleeping bag, I clung to her
leg, the table blocked her topside but I felt her
squeezing me back with her feet.
And Jack sits outside looking sleepy arms folded as
the laptop holds Swana right there. I think his eyes
stay closed as he picks his nose his tattoo clouds
keep on swirling.
While Woody lays down baby eyes peeking up an apple in
his right hand, take a bite. His bag washes around him,
a river with black banks take another bite, wipe mouth
on sleeve, feed Sarah, too.

17.

and it just makes me sleepy, accordion fade out, we're
on a xylophone now, he brings the thunder, click, click, I'm
typing, writing, flushing out the words as they occur it's a
slippery slide out (and in) as the wind instruments enter
click click. click. the notes rise and sink and double rise while
voices are outside and threads to the left center stage, very
middle of my book, look, six white stitches. A family. My
family, holding these pages together. Too tired to think the pencil
is just finding ways of falling, winding down as my lap is a
slant in this carpet chair, Woody's right in front of me serious click
click as we bathe in piano from Amelie. A cute word, this little bird,
so attractive, his laps and jaw and warmth. The accordion is back and
according to this page I hope it don't don't (don't) rain next
weekend, so we can bike ride to the beach. Sounds like an organ
now a pause between clickings. Reread. Tinkering. Fabric mouths
dark lilac on my thigh. Bike riding by.

16.

I've been a circular emotional machine,
my feet legs hovering out the window
flying ecstatic away to tree topped
cloud patches
a smile. perfection. bliss. explosion.
and then I'm shaking because I'm crying
because I'm fucking freaking out that
Woody doesn't say he loves me.
He holds me as I silent scream
until it passes.
I imagine the music in the branches, the
smoke dances around the car.
I see sharp things ready to pierce me
when I eyes close.
Dreams of tsunamis, rock matter, playing
soccer on swings.
I am. Many things.
Your consciousness is everything you are.

15.

I peered slowly closely
deep into his joy
which flashed dark upon
my thin, cream lotus.

And unexpected, the oil
drips satisfy my delicate
need for dirt, for hurt,
black comfort and balance.

So I cling to the tiger's
back, head pressed into
sunset fur. Carries me over
golden shit, towards
stormclouds, we pur.