what if i am not
all that i have been
but possibly
all i will become
experiences fall
like seeds in the wind

our morals tie tight to
experiences of others past
restricting framing our future
as time unfolds
will we continue to become
who we have always been

soul inscribed in it's vessel
gently caressing the being
light burns from within
ephemeral transience
contracting
it will
expanding
consume
providing desire
driving
everything and nothing
fall blissfully in and out of sync
cyclically yawning at an
ever expanding horizon

sunlight
highlights
the lowlights
of all things
continuing contrasts
lighten the load
of an expanding
consciousness
change occurs
void of that unaffected
thoughts, beliefs, ideals
actions perceived free of inspiration
a hidden motivation
spirals cyclically and infinitely
to ever expanding nothingness
the body is only a vessel
for a timeless being
a collection of all
that was and is and has been or will be
what wasn't and isn't and hasn't
been and won't ever be

seven times and no luck
in the end you gotta do everything yourself
creator who can't finish a thing
a creation of self, maybe a fitting end
nodding with approval
comes with age it would appear
a sensible smile conveys all that is meant
how else do you end an exchange
surrounded by so many
         unintentional
         indivisible
         unrequited

uncut toenails mock the vanities of the living
continually growing fibrous and strong
a shrinking self

a light lunar pull
draws he deepest depths to your eyes
they puddle at the surface
who am i, to dip my toes in?

lightly perched upon beautiful
bare feet
what a magnificent sole

lost
not that is matters
everything is cyclical
everything is peachy

a sour spot on you left side
or was it the right
three days, falling apart already

and some rise at this hour?

dogs run rampant
myriad cigarettes protruding from their necks
effects of an american economy, hopelessly dependent

cute pooch, that look
that look
just jonesin' for a fag

who is he
to know what's really goin on
everything is out of his control

the cotton woods wailed
and sandwiches fell
and i don't every really feel that alone

i am becoming unwanted
death
destroying worlds

sometimes i look at the moon
fat and dull
and just keep thinking

resting on the crest of a sliver
cloaked in a starry embrace
an apathetic upturned smile

satisfied with all that goes on
wistfully wandering towards dawn
incandescent beams pierce her supple skin

Swaths of color
bring subjective representations
of objective correlative
puddles sit
collecting in black retinal holes
becoming what we wish
or believe we know
creating shit
to break a never ending cycle
adonis, taken before her day
filth meticulously applied
to create an unknown class
an artifice
a ploy
aimed at degradation
filling broken vessels
drained of all that has been deemed important
now is as good as any moment
timeless all one and the same
spinning girl, the shepherdess
seen all as one
dissolving time and space
an altered aesthetic
flattening planes
all is over
and nothing has ever mattered in the end

christ is holy and there is guacomole
shit is shit a holy son
                  of insignificant words from some foundfather
no words to be existing is here religion is something

Graphic holographic photographic
useless plastic blacklights
that sit

popping balloons urine spilling
everywhere, at least partial
it comes and goes

sitting, comparing mustaches, reminiscing
woodland conundrums meaningless exchanges of time
passed

squished in a sober automobile
full of drunks meaningless squabbles
squished seven in where seven belong
belligerent drunk, joyously sober
drunkenly sober?
either way i am
am i
i am
here for now, although we all know the impermanence of time, the moment
stupid words thrown on a page
to serve what purpose?
what good does any of it do?
words connect emotions
sorrowful stories of serene sounds
uneffecting interacting with all

endless expanses of open feet walk without
soles? souls? either way the have no base?
sitting on couches watching beaten cats dogs children
the night is getting late it's clear now

and i sit thinking thoughts that never leave my mind
and smile

to wonder to wander to wish to want
i suppose all is a waste without action

some day i'll scrub out this old blood
the perpetual scab
the note that tugs the strings of my heart
wonderful, joyous memories
bring only sadness, inadequacy
but not true sadness, just a longing
for things that could have been

familiar sounds
emotions connected
part of a mess
massively overlooks
still searching
when we know
what we've already found

My mind is racing around and around
Restless, never stopping
Sleep is just a dream.
But a dream is all I desire.
Because dreams come with sleep and sleep is what I need.
I lay awake, my mind spinning with vivid irrelevancies.
Creating Pictures in my mind like a painter with fresh canvas.
But these are not peaceful images
Scattered, wild, chaotic creations
I lay awake waiting for sleep or the inevitable morning.

Vernacular manslaughter
Words tossed around like cheap plastic cups
Crushed under feet, like unwanted insects
Meaningless and endless
They bombard the senses
A continuous stream of things that once were
Happiness has fled, split when he saw the scene no doubt

All that is left is a shell
A vehicle for a simple being
But empty now
Scattered with memories
The wind gently swirls plastic bags and papers

                   Now it is me
                   Alone with my thoughts
                   And the ever-present idea of you
                   Leaving light behind
                   Leaving sound behind
                  
                   Alone with the trees
                                                    The stars
                                                                    My thoughts
                                                                                            Me
                    
                   Nothing to be forgotten
                   No reason for anger
                   Time well spent
                   And life goes on

I only I could you say words beau





                                                                  Tiful scrunched up nose and face
                                                                                I think about daily

Bovine like he sits
maybe he has to shit
            the only reason i can think of
            that would warrant the stupid look on his face
speaking with urgency
and an andalucian lisp
he slouches in his chair to lessen his discomfort

And the large african queen'the proud mother gorilla
who shows up late everyday
then doesn't speak spanish
at all
es interesante

cow-boy now gets up
scampering out of class
relief in sight
past the starry eyed portraiture
of the girl reminiscent of the head of a young woman with tussled hair
carrying her emotion in her eyes

or maybe she's just stoned

a morning bowl was nice today
the leaves almost at their peak
in terms of chlorophyllic changes at least

Jazz history teacher scattin about
swing
Now, war on drugs (weed)
wait, kansas city night clubs

Territorial Deviants howl the blues
dragging themselves bar to bar to jam

Teach has jeans and a black long sleeve
shows off his impressive gut

27th and manhattan, playin for pete
everynight bald head shinin
bass thumpin, saxophone whinin
count bessie, chick webb, rotating stage

Bothersome lesbian

As I sit staring blankly out the
window
sadly scarred tops of trees gently dip
to meet my gaze
              my feet, bare feet
worn as an old pair of sneakers

Her mom, or grandma is in the hospital
             what the hell am i supposed to say to that
nothing really
back to the trees, back to the room
then, back to the trees again.
             I wonder what spewing industrial complex created the rain
to kill these trees
          
This morning was brisk, fall is coming

she keeps looking at me
whatever
dandruff falls like needles off the turning pine from the portly boys head in front of me

My mind isn’t random enough
Too much influence from
what I’ve seen
what I’ve heard
what I’ve read
tainted by a multitude of impurities
is anything really original?

Oh, to be dragged through the negro streets
At dawn, at dusk, doomed to search for an unsavory fix
The fix never desired by myself, but understood and admired
For love can be found wherever one may search for it

To be pleased with the lingual stream produced from my fragmented mind
It seems only the mundane slip through the ramparts
Perhaps inspiration will come, and break down the barrier that holds back my stream of conscience

To wear the mask!
My emotions generally fairly clear
To hide my cheeks and shade my eyes
So I might say how I truly feel
Safely shielded by anonymity

But you know how I feel
If I could only be graced with a similar knowledge
Sitting on the toilet as I type, and shit
Wishing I could create such pleasant obscenities


I am to come!?
For I, a new brood, native, athletic, continental
Naive
But no greater than any before
Insignificant

If I could draw from some savory muse,
Maybe if I do enough drugs,
Maybe, no, probably not
If anything is to happen at all it will come in time

To walk the aisles, how I do love such succulent peaches
Penumbral truths for which do not long to uncover
You walk with an uncaring confidence
Aware, yet blissfully detached from modern desire

And I, yearning, can only read the words you shared with the uninterested public