summer time

lead lily lilacs leaping 'neath
the elbow of the elm
leave the lovely lovers loving
in the grips of loving wealth
ask the never knowing river
in and out along the line
feed the ever growing monster
part of you but mostly mine

home

if I pressed here, and you there
could we see-saw our way up and out
of this trap?
could we press our flesh
to bend the bars
to lift our chins above the hay?
Is there meaning in this effort
or are we already lost?
we have water
we have food, why bother
with comfort or modesty.
You are flesh and your scent is
a jungle of salt and leaves
woven  around me.
I breath for you, and you for
all of us.
relcline with me for a while,
animal,
let's see-saw and sink in the weeds
of those immortal rhythms so
hard to hear.

forstall the mind's to journey to pleasure
lead the nose, be not led
take this botton; sew it to the place
you wish to open and press.
Voilà!

A note of caution.  Ape minutes are minutes of creation and subsumation. Extacy and excrement.  Bowels and butterflies, entrophe and doll houses.  This is world of made;  this is a work of fanaticism about the ordinary.  The fullness of skies when cold air soaks the moth with coppery leather flem.
A pulse in the ears, the hair on the ears. Ape Minutes.