You can’t run from yourself! Yelled the Puppetmaster.

running from truths that seem quite incompatible

reaching for that first cup of coffee loc could only think of dust motes in the sunshine and a warming anxiety

whale of a sail in the land of ifrits

the royal birds, a giant hand and some humans were cheered on by Mr. Mouthy

In this instance, float to me in this which way

stuck in a tree but not a treehouse

entangled in a bullwhip made of unicorn hair while fleeing a fiery sky

an ocean playroom of playthings buzzing sweet worded desires into the ears of time

yelling into the void while the neighbors are sucked into a maelstrom of emotion disguised as a musical purple flume

once in a capsule of time I breathed fish as they skipped and plunged

other things lived in these houses but they were not acknowledged

wish you were fine

as her work day began she was chased from the coffeeshop by a giant shoe and now she felt all wonky

regatta, sun set and south winds flutter my eye lashes

Woodfire, birdsong, marshland and into your lightfall

living on a farm with this cool blaze of want

staring into the mirror loc was first surprised by the creature staring back and second wondered what that new growth was on her face

beckoned by windy murmurings

kicking a jumbled mass dovetailed nicely into spring

A neighborly longing for the familiar groping of time

like some kind of Rubin face they both stared at each other mesmerized by their sameness

Riotous mumblings

adrift in the deep

neighbors aglow in a sun streaked shadow

a chasm of maybe opening into Summer

those pesky little thoughts of jumping

walking away from but toward the recovering absolutist

Hidden above the fog was a cacophony of everyday

The song of long time coming feels like