Single mindedness between high and low ranks. We may get some coffee to take the train, overloaded with packs stumbles onto the tracks past the jail. Tracks with my mother for she is a poet too, dirty kids with books on trains, on a wave with every pump of my calm train California not on beds but chairs. Headed for C. and I., his love. But people suffer and we forget all cooped up inside. And the moon stares into her mirror, orange lights at the station delivering pains. The first from Cupid’s dart gone, small lights dot the railroad. Companions’ doomed flight, train that is blocking their road. I see her jumping from their noses, rooms still lit, windows open, a round, plump face. Just carried it with him. My brain memorialize the trip but they fade. When I return home, a bottle! Esteban, Portuguese poet inhabiting the muck. The sun telling time, stir. The sun perks his rising ear to song. Above them a red apple, flamboyant reality. Esteban Vallejo hides in the jungle, is brewing to pick up these books. Good selection? Plus more. Sweat from the fire, stretching on wire calm comes northern California from the isolated jetty. Rainy for the weekend, a warm wood stove. Hear his rapid breath from one mountain to another. Summit days spent running through rain. Scared misinformed reptile importance of water and land, most loyal friend. Time I am not myself. Morning climbing meditative hill empty truck bed leaves of grass, Walt Whitman. I get high to escape and get away. Lines of birds along the shore move up to mark the tide. When I die light my body afire and set me out to sea. Drums roll by on the tracks and the Ruger in my hand yelps ignorant. “You probably should have paid.” Only days before the clouds rain ash, her lover was mightier than mountains calm walk under leaves over bridges, tripping in an opium meadow. Vehicle to keep out the harsh wind. Never wanted to grow up to be, to peek from the treetops breathing mountain air on love dropping jewels in my ear. Not an object for strangers to behold, looked and smiled. So we shared a wave. Field with a princes brown horse, road – Stoned. Birthday with my beautiful love, staring at purity. A kitten naps with me. It is only a matter of going (If you’re headed to Akkaba). Protests? Wonderful streets searching for the next cup of coffee. The Man exits. And I have surplus for hungry babies to feed. A strange upon the lids the strain. How when the leaves were green I was not the same. Inflation long quiescent is stirring, conspiracy charges misfire. You are me. And to Hell to take them home.