Poetrees?

I want to write
like the blood pools in my head
suspended and
upside-down.

I want to write
with incandescent
recognition,
locking eyes with a stranger.

I want to write
how blue skies tear
my unprotected psyche, how
bobcat tracks knee-deep in mud
shiver.

I want to write
like the last sunset, dazed,
caught unexpected and off-guard
in the rear view mirror of my car.

I want to write
with saltwater and seagulls,
of waking up in the desert neath
juniper canopies,
waves still crashing.

I want to write
while the children still sleep,
and my fire is the only
light splitting open
darkness for miles.
~11/14/08

I breath fire sometimes
while my insides quake and
stumble and breaks squeal
like a child in pain.

The chiseled brownstone three
floors below has rooms to let,
and cowboys on bicycles smile,
wondering how Colorado fares come
springtime thaw.

Winter sun retires, beaten
flummoxed and finished before
teatime. We call out
to mortal gods of fire and white.

Though I breath fire sometimes,
pour light like coffee at $1 a cup,
I am secretly pacified and amazed
as the ring road mountains blush
and crystal plays with the moon.
~11/14/2008