so ive been asking to come clean and become clean

Push-n-pull in the slivers of light obeying the demands 
of water on earth. There is a lotus shaped dance I did 
once, that stroked my gold enough to take me to that
underground place. Nothing grew at dawn except 
perennial barley and corn in cheap purple sun mimicry.
I will have to cede myself to this archaic junction 
of peoples. Most of whom are thoughts 
to myself 
of myself.

The Grot is a lone tire-shaped plaza of the city
where a beekeeper’s suit has been eviscerated 
and abandoned in the brambles at the empty heart
of the wheel. With an untrained hand, a painter friend 
finds he is less talented than he once previously believed. 
He becomes a corporate ceramicist. And locally, 
with a new spasm in the fore-frock of his face, 
he opens 
a honey farm.

Ebb-n-flow across arbitrary cave tunnel bounds 
The lip, the street, the trade convention of shit, 
the thoughts that pass each other and wave 
sometimes in recognition, other times by mistake.
No horses, only the undying sine curves of fame.
This is only a feeling hanging off a thorn bush. A heat.
Grot caved in high falutin devotion to words of man—
to salt, flour, butter, 
polyeurethane.

Grotto begets palace by the park. A nice affair, 
a sconce. Food consumed before prime, but the peels 
fall off the flesh and turn the smell where things behave
naturally again. I am hauled off for ore. And tents! 
A palace needs tents of a thousand gold. Public holidays
for muscled up diatribes on rain and post-fetal era woes.
Soporific Grot,
Cyanide Grot.

Grot of archaism lain out on a clay tab thrown and 
glazed in successive waves of fracked air. That is 
heat poor citizen. That is what the people crave.
Find me spindle pricked in the drug-induced town square,
wresting a thought from a myth from a dance 
Grot Fall off the vase and into the oily hands of thoughts 
who may or may not recognize each other. Wave at it, cry at it,
gather 
go limp.