Folk of the future

These formidable folk of the future are
fetched in by the round out of your ears,
the tales you sound of forgotten games
not the fact you came from a pastful same

And there will be no

praise for Folly, Erasmus, from these lips,
or from what I use as lips, the tips
of fingers I've let linger without expertise
on a feeling less feeling than desire to tease
what I can, or they may, from a simple rock.
I found it on the spoiled ground I walk,
alongside hop-scotch squares chalked
to dare jumps from steps I give to the bare
concrete. Its smooth brown whisper
hints at lost red, but it hasn't led me to what
formed it: not what gravity of years; not
the great weight of a wait uncounted; not the slow
or sudden forces that freed it. I don't know
any of it. I'm not as foolish as the French
academic I read who studied a people at length,
and their region others had named. He claimed
to know what makes, or made, them different. The same
I could say for a taco chain and its bravado
at being expert in making flavorless burritos.
I'll boast instead of the plastic bear.
It's clearly grown better at holding air
than the honey leaving it. I also like this rock, and what
matter it's expert in. It's this rock, until it's not.

Trees make a bad choir

The woman, out-of-seasonally in
her winter's attire, fire-red
jacket and woolen cap, snaps
off rounds of sermons. Full-on
leafy, on a late-spring's early
morn, the parked trees stretch and stand
stately in their disbelief.

ouroboros

an
ouroboros
hour devouring
its all. our's to flow
and flower. to borrow
more
ouroboros hours

runon

iwriteivewritmy
runons
thoseothersanother
sadandhappypunctuates
punctuated
idoidid

Soon

What's the use of a fulla love
moon if ya can't swoon a little
at the too soon of it. I will.