Dan Raphael		Can I help you cross the river? flying a starless night shirt, a single errant thread, through my brain-sky: nine concentric lobes, pots that wont separate, metal becoming skin im so excited you follow the promise of cloned bison as each vertebra sprouts legs abandoned asphalt bringing rain from inside itself each tree a prayer i'll keep dialing new numbers til someone answers house full of weather floor so shiny i fell through the ocean doesn't want me today with each jump i create a step to jump higher from an island surrounded by sleeping people ohios been removed from everyones memory odorless burning if every seat in this plane was a candle i'd get my wish using chocolate to fill teeth claws for walking, wings for deception so much plastic flying south i thought i could read the sun but my eyes were rebooting from a demitasse of sudden electricity when the salmon spawned in the cities bulging with 20 story aquaria dont go home dont change color blood is my teacher pulsing holistic destiny what doesn't shatter you makes you transparent if we were all the same temperature we couldn't breathe open the walls & paint the doors when my hands are immobilized i m mute the houses growth spurt surprised the furniture ginger without carbonation is tyranny the mosquito thought i was one of the trade towers vote for the prettiest a marching band with meat instead of instruments i fell from my dream into bed ladders of smoke my left arm is drought stricken denim sky unbleached clouds slice cars not bread a bathtub of liquid lawn each hand holds an ounce of hundred proof civilization in remission		I dont know what to wear til I'm outside morning wants pants, crisp & natural stems bristling w/ sheen & wheels keeping me in motion, fed and watered, groomed by the wind— you never know when the sun will come calling, when the turf will stretch & roll-over, when everything ive wanted to say will leak into everyone elses curiosity & spread like a wind joining the desert to the sea here in the mountains between the vertebrae of accumulated industry & information wanderers in brown & green breathe gifts dripping from limbs too high & dense for us to attribute. looking around without turning, rechoreogaphing my deparure from hibernating skin— the mountains on my back, arroyos where tribes talked of integrating i smell like the restaurants surrounding the theaters surrounded by parking lots where dogs, horses and eagles rewrite the maps over tea & homegrown. you cant take a step without acknowledging growth between the trees, between collapsed webs of yesterdays rain i hover inches above berries & seed heads, treating the prevailing wind like diluted rush hour commuting our sentences, broadcasting an infinite menu of digits & delights, more will grow--next week or next year for a second i see the moon inside the sun, the stars disguised as clouds. i see myself in various brush & bristle, the nut becomes a squirrels nest, the nest a gathering place, an accumulation of evidence— im too rich & diffuse to yearn for dozens of tendrils at each of my ends. i yearn for dozens of tendrils diffusing each of my ends the fallen logs & generations of moss & lichen crafting millennia of winds, winds of fire & substance. i cant think of anything completely dry, nowhere the wind hasnt been, everything the sun rolls through like a herd of multicultural buffalo momentarily reflected in the windows where corn used to grow where rain went right to the thirst, without the friction of roofs, the indifference of asphalt, the incoherent lungings of cars as if the rain wasn't a solid skin trying to teach us its alphabet