Since you probably won't buy or read my book One Never Knows, I'm posting my one, and only, masterpiece, right, now!

From Eve’s book of prose

Being directly related to

the strange carvings in the cave,

the hard head, upon the wand,

the precision of the wrist, to get the gist,

passed down through the internet,

I bet I’m human experiment.

The decision to rise,

the collision of the sun,

carving designs, no signs,

lopping off branches of knowledge

hanging over the ledge,

bits and pieces fit the premise,

of falling

for the snake,

each fruit sealed with ideas, wasted,

choice cheese and full-embodied wine ideas, untasted,

sucking out the poison,

spitting out the seeds, a handful

to create a stalk through the night

after night, stalking the sleepless night,

climbing the hill, the sun on my back,

collecting the thoughts, picking up

words, wind

whimpers on the way,

exchanging them for songs, stench

and saliva

kept between two lips,

that can’t get a grip,

the next trip up,

a man along the way, a stray day,

an unhooked look, a cookbook,

a hard wind on the back, a fall of the heart

plasters the face,

tears in a sweaty palm

in palm

in place of beers,

jeers from the jaded room in place of

hearing waves in a June moon,

it means stop and go

and fly and know, the moon we put foot on

foot’s the bill, pill down the wrong pipe,

the earthlings linger like stardust

heaven or bust,

perps are hovering heavy breath

down the wrong pipe

into the women’s restroom

you’re a specimen,

perps are collecting a jar of stars

the satellite is snatching

God’s purse strings,

dreams, their means,

sucking them out like pollen,

controlling the weather, no cover,

botherhood, a headdress actress,

stages of grief, brief rages,

their cage, look their way before decomposing,

stay composed,

scribble, dribble, whatever,

we won’t scramble the moments for you,

raise ‘em with a hey diddle diddle

dish ran away with the spoon,

sooner or later it won’t matter.

This is not my day

I’m making

this my field,

I don’t yield much

with wild oats that were rote ten years ago,

dreaming of toy boats in flooded moats,

sorry has no Sally, rally a prayer

into another sky, another try,

gone

before it reached the ground,

shoveling around,

“look what we found,”

“find out what’s inside,” a player opens the file,

saves what was never given, dreams,

streams of consciousness, a means to a

wishy washy end, dirty laundry,

fantasies, poems.

and what I decide, or ride,

uncertain curtain,

give me a break from the past,

give me a day that will last,

but they want control of this here mass,

a massive live wire

pulling any hymn

from the book

of my cooked thoughts

making this place everything and the

kitchen sink,

leaking, day’s breaking,

pulling the rug,

pulling the plug

from the radio stars,

scratching off records,

flushes the scratched face,

the hot facade, prying open any roof,

I’ve made big mistakes

and big meals

dealing with the devil,

took a position on the team to the river,

it flooded like an unforgiver,

a ruptured wound, pitching stars

and bursting seams,

like a team, like self-esteem,

but not,

the hit still below the belt, the welts,

and trying is like hiding,

but not,

Orion hunted all winter

for shelter,

never fits,

time flies away, another way

of saying put up and shut up,

We’re all in this not belonging no for long.

There’s a long book I want to read,

but sucking on a milk reed

I’m looking for healing foods,

angels, eagles, anything but

anger, and oh no, he knows,

it shows, but I suppose

doctors, the patches of ice

were an accident,

Senators, this generous ground

leaves my stand unfounded,

the birds are leaving no sound,

officers, my sense is common,

my sixth sense has bottomed-out,

mother, all this cloud cover,

brother, they tagged you out while you were scoring,

neighbors, believes are blown like money,

lover, I’m getting over it, see

a wren, plucking or stitching

over and under the treetops,

attaching the other side where its greener

and cleaner,

lover, I’m calling the white lies over my head

‘morn of the norm’

but the sun’s a laser,

a razor,

lover, how I’ve changed

the clouds in the open wound,

pooling red at the end, it won’t stop,

these saturated clouds

thrown on this town,

I’ve found no comfort

and lost the point of it all,

stuck,

steering into the wind,

staring into the hole,

lower than a sower

can give handle to,

men in black,

nothing being buried,

transplanted,

coming back for more,

more programming,

immediate network connection

ivy on the ivory radio tower

cramming the story

down the throats of the baby birds

newspapers connect to me,

hot head, paper-maiche,

shreds of evidence,

painted over, my disgust rusts,

rustling my letters in gusts of wind,

nothing discussed,

laying their lying on the line,

vibes on the fine line I’m walking.

I want to see the inner workings

in a body of water

sealed with the skills of the schools of fish,

the vibrations of whale calls

that don’t need a line

or a cheap find,

the island will catch a faint cry,

and try to use broken pieces of unspun sun

on the surface

and turn those vibrations into a smile,

a mile out from returning

to the truth:

ruthless and rootless,

holds water to the reign

of goodness,

never thanking someone

who made the difference, helpless

no address given, dress ripped open,

how to unknow

by mending the sickness,

the naked truth,

how to know,

by finding the witness,

the naked truth,

I’m my own

and when I turn,

I am the naked part

of the end of the world,

kept covered over

by a water-battered, color-urge,

verging from embracing,

then crashing into a memory,

assembled just so,

my one rib dissolves

in a daily meteor shower,

is gone, my guilt

when the moon spoons up

the runoff notions,

drains what I think

and what I think remains in ink,

a dirty soap ring, the filth of the soul,

still filling up the square

full of would be painters and partners

turned tainters and stainers

putting picture to dreamscape

which grows weeds and tobacco and greens

and bulbs, the shape of all things,

flinging into the air,

plowing the precious plenty of genetics

stored in a growing field,

vulnerable,

unbalanced meal for many,

portions of thought: air

portions of dream: water

portions of replacements: shelter

served yesterday, today and no rest

to the way I’m posing for

invisible people

without poise in the aftermath of one’s laugh,

sick and tired of plotting the graph,

the downhill curve

of my thigh, they know

like the back of their hand,

hits where I can’t see,

its so stuck to me,

a leftover woman, reheated,

coming out in peaks in the form of

lava, honey, adrenaline

forming a sticky mess

on the underside of the roof,

the mouth, it tastes like

an unfathomable foam

mixed with lightning for sour hours,

everything undone has been done,

left alone, on purpose,

just left of the garden,

the eyes have grown

and eat the would-be words right from their mouths,

you can’t save me, I can’t have you,

I hate you, you can’t hack me while they’re

hacking into me,

you’re wrong, you’re right,

it’s just a song, don’t fight,

it might be me, I want to be free,

then agree,

I’ll leave,

then believe,

a snake bite,

a late night,

now the symptoms,

a stake in the garden,

still burning,

a stump in the garden,

still waiting,

heads turning,

still learning,

the earth is turning.

It isn’t like turning to salt

or gold,

or turning yourself inside -out

til you’re old,

the chance of anything turning out

or returning to you,

the tide’s just a ride on the sea.

This sky comes up to me and says,

You must be as much tree

as possible for me to touch you

and I say, “Oh, I am a hundred years up on you,

already I am a cypress,

my dead branches made for gentleness,

sway me.”

I remember

the sun was setting

red silk on the sea,

two pelicans were setting a course,

nothing but unabused power.