What do you see in those canyons

What do you see in those canyons, might I ask?
What knowledge can you touch that lurks in those mists?
What can you pull from those canyons,
with your night eyes that run with power
away from day shores,
lapping up the dreary minds
into golden glass crystals
whose reflection is all of this?

What do you feel in those canyons, might I be an asshole?
What might can you wrestle as Jacob did or the witches do,
in cock-cum gushing and clitoris graveyards of Boston?
what knowledge flutters from moss green rocks,
and pulls at your white-boy navel like a violent harpist,
intent on the death of Mozart?
Might the wind have warned you of the Ally and its
rectangular indifference?
Or does it slide on whistling of the too many centuries,
the too many canyons whose might has crushed the curious?


What are you in those canyons, might I know?
Are you me, you, the Egyptian eye of Indian summers?
How do you shift and simmer in those quiet pine-happy gullies?
How do you split the self again and again, dreaming,
exponentially dreaming the trillion you's that emerge,
that bristle like threads along canyon's woven walls,
along the dream intersections of each granite change,
aside the thousands of worlds that canyons call,
atop the glowing gaps of rough river falls,
who are you to command this canyon to dissolve?