April 20th, Green-bottomed Hesse

One. 
The Hesse opens in the
spring semester stress,
fertilizing the ashy riverbanks--
the river the ones who
call it the path also call it
Green-bottomed Hesse, the Hesse
opens and the water gushes
down from the tall and
blistery mountains,
mountains locally called
Humility, everwinter
glacial mounds in the darks of
the February, the gray
and lionwind March,
the April of blue and true--
May with a bang!
Her is him, Him, her, it,
you, me us them love fire
my bedroom, gushing lips heart-
beats trees! you me underneath
this gorgeous scenery. then the sun,
the Sun! the sun, but our own truemade
precipitous drizzle brings roots,
internal growth, being loving
doing not doing stuck in
ruts, mistletoe from
a one-manned show
a beard on my face, a
line to tow--

"I wish that I was born
a thousand years ago..."

Two.
The chakras in our souls
flow from south to north, like
the Nile, like grassroots
organized by seeds,
seeds sowed by school but
really internet,
not real, the Nile
or the Ganges
or the Hesse 'tis fertile too,
reeds among the dunes, fire
let it melt away the guilt
of Pontius Pilate who

punished Jesus, otherwise
known as

Ha-Notsri is you.
Procurator Woland
Shadow-proves-that-
which-casts-it in the
desert temptation is
only religious doctrine,
believes bankrupt Soviet
satellites.

Three.
I was born a thousand years ago.
The Hesse named because of

Siddhartha. The river Hesse calls
infinite, at the mouth and the source,
gaze at the peanut-butter inside the rotation

of the earth around you.
Time was is could've been never heard of.

Three.
The rain plats down tonight,
the drumming on the gutters
and sills, all Mimzy too were those barogroves,
wind isolate in Macbethian
darkness-- merely players,
the world a stage, for a moment--

You and me make thunderstorms
crisp itchy lightning
summer in the shade of bedsheets, it
struck a tree in my backyard
one time, and is not telling
telling? Do I can I speak
to the Landlord?

Four.
Spilled milk is best when you
eat your foot too, my future indeed
is my own, but the all-moving all-
encompassing glacier might prove
otherwise.

Birdman in a dream
gets hit by drunk-driver, in reality
almost gets hit by drunk-driver, but doesn't
because Birdman long ago voyaged
the Hesse, and time doesn't exist
on the Green-bottomed Hesse,
and he doesn't get hit but has always
been hit but what if I told you
I am the Birdman, now can we spar?

Hey Landlord, now can we spar?