what should one stop at nothing?
putting on a shirt? buttoning it halfway? i thought better.

people in my house
they don't mind crazy.

underthings, yes, pants too?
ok.

i'm wearing yesterdays crinkled up khaki's.
now.

i'd like to go sit around in one of those tribes
and look at all of the bare chested women who never new lines.

from sun
they are clay in a slow kiln;

silk in the morning-time and they smell of earth and the river.
and when they sweat its honey and insects and vegetable oils.

the sheen of that brown ought never be covered.
in residence i am pink-milk and white.

jP jun 2o12