J.K.

the desert ponds are still there
and creased linen cloth hills, bushes trickling down the valleys
forming seaweed pools
against the sand of west coast poetry

a Santa Clara valley of fever dreams
soft mountains too bright to look at
and beyond somewhere the roaring pacific
still speaking to you?

towards a sprawling Los Angeles,
your words,
and long smoke sunsets

my eyes dripping with red nuances
instead of the mouth
and so many crossed out words
where you would have none

women do wonder

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sun spell

the city grows from marsh ground beneath my feet. I leave trails on the pavement.

the forrest nymph wraps herself in clean sheets, she can’t breathe and she screams of relief
until plastic structures vibrate and collapse
in perfect squares of chaos.

I pass blocks of cracked sand and glass crystals, mountain towers and halls of moss.

unclear lanterns in the sky, disguised by fog or smoke from the fire eyes of
absentminded girls
outside red painted bars,

all waiting for the final fall.