The wilderness calls the pigeon, become- dove.

the spine
my spine has become
the Grand Island Bridge,
the rusting
blue blinking
water lounge
the
span of a life
tripled
and divided, while
other constituent parts
physically
form to memories
false flag stories
things that had
never been the gallant
shudder, the fish rising
to shake a real hook-
the English boy stuffed
in the trunk
smuggled
in to the country,
the
felon carrying
a load of
dope
the hope, of
the run away
wanting
to
make it
to
eventual Florida
i encountered
and found
again
these dreams
all
muffled under the
mornings shard
the rainbow pierced
American Falls,
where the
perpetual
world is
on view, under the
mysteries and
the quiet suicides
the Orpheus
solution, the singer roars
and the 4th sees
quarter sticks of dynamite
lit by uncles
just drunk
sun burned happy
inhaling
black powder
smoke
like fresh unfoiled pall malls,
rolled in stained sleeves,
boats bring us back
and
forth under
this thing now so mine
that i
am no longer any thing at all
this
past,
the
echo name
of
friends
only death makes them important,
art
fades in sexual
delinquencies, drugs booze- old,
leave only this
ball
and
socket
on
which to dwell, and
like true potato folk
i dwell,
digging
with my fork
handle, and tine, tine , tine
in to the
graveyard
ground
to find, the stones are worn
as if this
where the shore
the place
where life blooms
like flowers, like mushrooms.