Creating in the Flow of it.

Wind Warlock, Dust of Cooled Molten Sand

Step 1: To Defend

Key to the mission brief, it revs and never starts,

in strong need of a snail's pace, better lace up.

Bandana on the nose, sunglasses to glass the truth

of the glances from the oddly shaped stroller—

he better be a bowler. Unfairness if they’re right,

dead from the blockade that

wasn’t supposed to lose its

grip. No wonder you'd dip. Letter box

opened what I am—it’s never been alive,

not the jive, helping the failed cultist thrive,

banging wives to forgive the hate—

yeah I got the appointment, the

numbers are on the fridge yet

the rum sinks to relieve the pawn

blind to or as broken as the

package said—where the hell did I leave it? Cesspit

FINE, I’M IT—the climb out is more than three

dimensional. Regular functions with

a sad truth, fuck the smile

be the death-dipped Researchist. Take

this purchase with a cautious optimism,

I’ll skid in

to some schism

off the galactic prism—

no, it’s gone already. Rally cry

in the claimed territory next to more

diligent lone wolves. Happy and content in

a well-lit vacuum—void-kissed, essential

note, I’m the seeker pissing on the tombs, lost on the

way to Redrum, the commonwealth, and at the bar and

grill—always eats the first bullet or the meal for free.

Heard of help, but it turns this Air Bender

into the realm of the forever-absentee Sun God.

Sure, I’ve got that one hoard. Experience for

the 'welp, there goes the baby with the

bath water, in the realm of focus

on the ego, built to infinitely

quail, blows the dust storm even

for the rust dwellers, north of the Land

of Tumbleweeds, humble steed, AWAY!—from

the Rebel briefing’s halfway through before the

explosion—we’re Blown! On the road,

choosing the lanes with the colder air

and the B soul’s stare and its—fear…

it hurts….. Still, in the

wrong headroom, dodging nothing,

lost in a beholder’s arms, classless in

need of a baseline charm. To take a shine

high on the low pony honing in on

the bliss of the mountain mist is bad

for the breath—DEATH! The start! We’re

back—breathe, pass the seething 3 AM

relieving. A fever licks me, the world

cave to a single atom—point, joint realizations

can’t manifest the jest is nothing feels

like anything physical, but the rest is

bursting with subtlety…

Rallying point IV: Poorly implemented.

Windy, from trendy to traditional, non-conditional rules

gone bendy,

I’ll just cross-train from the point of that

Individual. Second showing without a title

Vital to a

reckoned insanity in mountain tests of vanity.

Haven’t stopped in the intersection, I’m the mini-

cyclone cleaning the leaves away. Steps on the side

walks, three clouds from nine. Bout an hour drive.

Yuppies in the HOA, Sun God climbs before I

wake to blind to the townsfolk.

Tripped by clown shoes, ditch ways home passed

gelling with the Rebels on dirt bikes. Hikes as neighborhood

paths, this and that way, Peace only in the frogger

bits. Cast out, you mean left the screen door open,

in a westward drive of the tornado pack

creating suffocating Zephyrs.

Treasures in the ethereal, only from

cruising altitude to do the

lustful mythical thing I

Curse.

Do these currents allow my passage, seems

twist and turn on the Temple run.

New home gifted the protons, lost

isn’t the foul play of undone

humanity by the state-brought

Justice is Man, it’s

a call by the

gunned

ones to

see

the power lines from the thick vines that

swallowed the undiscovered shocking faults.

Red mountains splitter—not the message,

Pay attention. LISTEN!

Bastard, if you want to squint, glint of power

peek past the portals—who the hell needs

time, although gravity will never be

the winds, second is

retconned, aimed to

spare the Ego or

Mona from

their

complaining. Back to the loop-da-loop, mid of a coupe,

engine like an action scene in an orb revamping

the alchemy to be the setter more so than the last reboot.

Purrs until the backfire,

Last ditch after the final hour. This connection—

there are no brakes…Flow state through death’s alert stakes, compromised back and forth by the

third wheel, rereading the unchanged papers

of the divorce.

Caught a couple on the porch,

saw a couple in the branches, let the rain

morph back to soil, embrace their toil, the daemon’s foil? Learning

loyalty internally, wave by

open sores, let the cumulous soak and

work; green is not the enemy. Backfire—oh,

was that the minefield? Looking for the wrong turn.

Song birds on that heavenly course….

Section II: --Of Course, the Wind has Eyes.

Scribble scabble hackie

sack, tooling notions to

get back to a particular

kind of miscreant, hell-bent

to hillbilly, in each hand

every fiery calamity. Handy

I was pissing over the edge on the workhorse

slobbering into the detergent meant for the brainwashing.

Sloshy sort of soap opera, what the fuck is cable?

Feed the fable to the ether for the raving renditions

seething the too tangible need for the

alignment or live on the hill to stand firm

enough to die alone on. Controlled

madness, are the lights on?

Losing nothing,

so the

win is at the wind’s grace. I don’t bend shit that’s

how all those fucking monks died. Flow has no controller,

soul-earth powered accessor of foreign channels

beyond your lung’s grasp—you just haven’t

felt me yet—this draft does not navigate,

nothing within your senses that can't spell negotiate—what training?

Fuck out of my Den of

Revolt. Windows open, ear to ear, hoping for

a draft to motivate the rawer sense—the

other, the other, other

senses, where our terms agree with

the death courting sweeps, I

dare not say a peep. On the way,

maybe in a day the favor is appreciated

in real time.

Battle lines drawn to be close enough

to hear the kettle whistle, hot under the bacterial

lens, tool for a bit for the Kite’s handling of the up

drafts. Fears? That’s a subject for the sycophant’s

purpose in the helmet holding the pen and

composition books. Crook a few pages from the

soldier on his last leg. Lost a few myself, to keep the

terror on the menu, whiz through trees, hate myself for ignoring the begs

Keys to doors

that thy average gust should topple like a Knox's rear

entry. Treasure on consignment. Convent

ready if the rhetoric sets the

sprinklers off.

I'd be down to drown

yet remain too bubbly for

practice. I can’t back this, I’ll

weave between the status quo, vanish

from the sealed echo chamber,

passive in a class of detention

fiends and snarls alone, you’d rue the day the

the vents are rusted shut.

New states of matter over-going stale or poisonous

to any degree, talks, end, wind, whines woefully

whisks while whistling, shoots the gap, and

slips through despite a world of friction—

Part III: No Wise Words West of Here

Not that way,

it’ll never have a way not an ignoramous

of the path, only unruled by

the barriers, a spreader of the rosy

aromas cutting into the REDDER

sense of established lore, of course

you would whore for it. Band of misfits

amid their hijinks, don’t bother with

the fire at the rink. Half looney toon

adjacent, half dimension jumping into the

the next dimension’s brand new form of

life that ticks the boxes, first, rum

on the rocks, better than Motrin, pain causer,

pauser if the remote works,

maybe watch it eitherway. My help in the

foxhole’s Foxtrot. Indeed, of use as

the earth pro- -vides the battlefield

while reading the morning paper—

oh, no word on that last caper, huh?

Wake up, I have to ask since

the demand implies a certain factual levity,

no point in denying the alarm blends in

with the rest of the storm.

Don’t ask for a way without

the sharpened will of the blaze, competing

With the infinite water fall. Thrown

above it by the heat, and there are those

bubbles again…. Wacky flame rogue in

the astral plane, jet fuel may make the

trip a doozy. ‘what trip back?' Normal

in the wild way, piled next to the white

pole. Soul as a sidearm their aim gets

more absurdly deadly. Self-treading

water, have to soldier on steadily in the

raging rapids for the return call. Nice

to see you, elegance takes over the

bonus features. What the Fuck is

direction? Cut the nonsense in

the pinch plan, no need for the ring of

salt. HALT! Never mind, who the hell

is still going there? Breathe the breath

sent not invented. There is a current… it’s not

for you to make out… Flattery is the missing

wish, wishing to go a little madder…

Regular outbursts and where did

it go? Or come from. Zephyr over

the mountains—perhaps. Eat

the cold-- know it rhymes, but not

like you. hear it, speak it, it has

already spoken, its own way… never stopped.