there, in those strawberry fields of dreaming-
those blooms of a season long since dead and torched-
     i swore i found you
and you were speaking sweetly in a smokey room
with a crescent smile
and a cheap long-neck bottle
and a blue ball-point pen
that you'd only pry from it's waltzing
     to chuckle with (and charm) the bartender

an older lady
with muddy-water curls
and poision ivy eyes
     and...there's something about her that reminds me of my mom...
then the moment's gone
and now, all i can wonder
is how it is that she's counting change when she hasn't got any fingers

the captain must be on the mic again
with bull-**** banter about the weather
     or our eventual destination
     or something about the turbulence to calm the unfortunate un-drugged
his monotone monotony
sneaking through my sleep to me
     and coming through like the voice of the radio host
     as my head's beneath tepid bathwater

your ellegance uneffected by his audible intrusion
into my sub-concious dellusion
     you pull at the tides of your brew
     and wink
then back to a busy pen

     i have to get to you
you've got to remember
  
come back

but dreams don't work like that

it's as if my feet don't match my body
or my legs are facing backward
or i'm in that godforsaken hallway scene of "The Shining"
     and i'm finding this to be far more frustrating
     than remaining concious through the flight could have ever been

and again
somewhere over nebraska
the ride gets increasingly shaky
     not obnoxious enough to wake me
     just enough to take me to the part of the nightmare
     where my teeth start falling out
          like precious little gems of vicodin and nicorrette
               t a p p i n g out my fragile skull
and now i'm wearing some ******-gummed grin
and that charming lounge is feeling like "From Dusk Till Dawn"
and all of the friendly faces are gone
     except for yours
          and you look horrified

how come now i've got your attention?

touchdown at o'hare
and i wake in the window seat next to a vacant chair
     alive and well
except that you're not there

and to think
     when i was a kid
          my nightmares all had fearsome beasts
then i grew up
          and found the monster to be me

i tried to write you a letter
     once
but was unsure of the address for the heavens where you shine
     not "Heaven"
          per say
but the stars that gained your carbon as you selflessly gave it away

          turns out celestial bodies aren't listed in the yellowpages

i tried sending you smoke signals
     twice
but the message was so **** long
  and it read more like a song
    and you never much liked my lyrics anyway

i moved on to morse code
     spent night after night lying on my back with a flashlight
dripping ceasless patterns of dots and dashes into that murky blue puddle of midnight sky
     as if maybe you'd reply
with a simple "hush"
and a shyly sigh

          it finally dawned on me that you probably couldn't decode it
          that your parents probably never made you learn
               i cursed them for not teaching you how best to reach me

now
     i'm getting older
and colder
and alot less wide-eyed and hopeful

now
     i just hope you can hear me speak

the click in the back of my throat that comes with trying not to cry
the sincerity in my 'love you's
  and my 'miss you's
    and in my uncensored ungaurded love that i ash onto your headstone from the end of my pregnant joints

now
     i just hope you can taste the beers i bring to share with you
as i'm rambling along the rails of my de-railing train of thought
and ripping through that sixer i brought
          you and your cheap taste in beer

i hide the bottle caps in those little metal vases that your mom keeps filled with florist foam
     and different colored silk lillies
          they always look so nice

now
     i just hope you can read me
better than you ever could before

i hope you've decoded the lines in my palms
and the ***** of my feet
and the cracks in my nicotine teeth
     as i'm smiling wildly at the earth that keeps your ashes safe
          close to her breaking heart

i hope you can read the quotation atop your grave
     i'd have never imagined that the one permanent thing i could ever give you
          was the last line
          of the last text
          that i'd ever send your way

i meant it back then
but now
      it means so much more

"sleep sweetly, philly, you will never be forgotten"

at birth, they tried to swap the stars in my eyes for dollar signs-
but the operation didn't take.
so for years, i felt oddly compelled to fake it
until i finally couldn't take it any longer.
keep all your shiny, broken things...
i just want the trees.
and a breeze,
and the pebbles,
and the rain.
i'll stick around to love all of the beauty you've forsaken.
i just want the things that no one can keep.
an intellectual alien,
trapped in a generation bringing nothing
but plastic beads and decoder rings to the table.
faint, fickle beings,
painting their faces
so that they can all look just the same.
sometimes it's a blessing to feel out of place.
so, i'll wisely spend my time stuck under a bad sign,
and continue building things that can't be touched,
and treasuring things that can't be held-
just felt.
i wanna feel it all.
i want to fall madly in love,
make masterpieces of my memories,
and hopefully,
turn other peoples memories of me
into one of the most beautiful things they've ever seen.
i'm going to be good,
and kind,
and light,
and keep my fingers crossed that others i encounter
will finally decide to let go,
and enjoy the ride.
to surf the tide
rather than struggle and squirm in the waves.
what gorgeous creatures we would be
if we could finally see
just how hideously we treat other beings.
stop thinking about "ME",
and start worrying about "WE".
because we,
as a whole,
are in some serious ******* trouble.
so please, stop.
stop running, start dancing.
stop screaming, start laughing.
and please,
for the sake of all existence,
stop buying in to all of this *******.
life is not an endless quest to acquire the most over-priced garbage,
it's a journey through time and space to make yourself,
to love all that surrounds you,
and to learn to value yourself more than you value your brand new pair of perky ****.
we weren't sculpted of plastic and silicone,
we were forged of raw stardust.
it's time that we rise to the occasion of being bodies of light,
and make the darkness of night seem at least a little less lonely.
"the things you own end up owning you",
and i refuse to be enslaved.
i long for the days when free-thinkers were the cream of the crop,
now, they're lining up the firing squad
to mock and gawk at those too brave to "baa" with the rest of the flock.

i get lost,
now and then.
i confuse my here with then.
trade my "how i feel"'s for "how i am"'s.
yeah,
i get lost,
now and then.

until i'm found.
then,
my pen becomes my vessel,
and my tongue becomes the sea.
i tread it softly,
from you to me,
until your thoughts become my words,
and my pulse becomes your "me".

you found me,
once.

pressed between the yellowing pages of where i've been,
and where i'll be.

you found me.

untucked me from my paper sheets,
and set me out to let me be
m e .

free,
and untethered.
just lost
forever.

you found me.

and let me be
the cursive poet-tree i'll always be.

i knew you meant it
when you wrote me free.

she'd weave secrets the size of osiris
into her honey-dripping locks
while watering the lawn
     beer and juice in the same glass that i first drank from

who'd have guessed
that all "growing up" meant
     was accepting the fact
that our parents made masterpieces in their sleep

i wish i were a sea shell

a perfect spiral fit to be cradled in your palm
something for you to focus on
when the noise you've spent so long focusing on
becomes too much to interpret

i wish i were a sea shell

a direct line between you and the cosmos
the etherial red phone
you press to your ear to hear what your heart already knows your brain needs reminded of
     the swish of blood and grey matter
that steadies your flippant pulse

i wish i were a sea shell
deemed too relevant upon your moment of discovery
to leave at rest with the other detritus
exposed at low-tide

i sat in the back
and watched you crack yourself in two on a well-lit stage
like an egg in a skillet
          the sound was comforting

and there beneath the bell of cascading light
you writhed
and fried
and your secrets splattered on to the backsplash
like words upon a page
half-hearted lower-case fossilized in the tile grout

i gathered up the crumbs
with an anxious stomach
and a wet tounge

      oh
          how i lapped it up

let it soak in
and stew in my belly
until the steam swelled
and was forced to be expelled
     the feast i've with-held so long

it's the heart song of the kitchen timer
signaling my turn in the frying pan
     my time to climb up into the spotlight
          and squirm through my own confession

        i made every sound from scratch
               just for you

if i could write anything beautiful
that didn't have a thing to do with you
     i'd have written my way to the moon and back
on a path built of college-ruled yellow lines

i stay awake at night
whispering my secrets to the stars
and waiting for the sky to reply

usually
***** puts me on hold
but some nights
     she'll pick up the line

and answer my pleas
with her thunderous laughter

i used to lay next to you while you'd sleep
and wonder how you could possibly have more secrets to keep
than you've got eyelashes
     you've got more eyelashes than there are tulips in holland
and even that was never enough to keep me from wanting more

it wasn't my excitement that would keep me from my sleep
     it was just that you snore
          that ******* snore
and in my wormy brain
it means that you were subconciously bored
          i always failed to work the whiskey on your breath into our amorphous algorythm
     no real measure for our frosted-glass-pleasure
     just bruises left to treasure
          on our hearts
          and necks
          and spirits

we got good at it
     spending every night
with so much left unsaid
that it was almost as if i could hear it
with my ear pressed to your ribs
     like post-dated reverberrations from all of our forgotten arguments
     echoing through the void of our emptied bottles
     and in the cherry-pits of our chests

it was all just a long line of tests
measured pressures
and recorded reactions
     it was an intellectual's game
     who will be the first to break?
in retrospect
     i think we took turns

and as much as it still burns my eyes
and breaks my mind
to know that there are tears left to cry
     it feels alright
i guess that's the part i always liked
          that ache left in the morning

sometimes i blame my parents
for letting me believe
that love was as simple to understand
     as the plot of a disney flick
they should have told me the truth
     that it's really just sick
     twisted delusions of our infatuated brains
and that the more we try to change it
the more it stays the same
     that the more you say its name
     the less likely it is to show its face

i'll never know if it was love
or insanity
     either way
s o m e t h i n g still remains
and all looks pretty much the same
from this side of the window pane

in her dreams,
she sprouts like fresh seeds pressed into fertile dirt.
she's constantly stretching farther and farther
in a futile attempt to finally reach the sun.
she closes her eyes
and sees rows and rows of lemon trees and strawberries,
mango groves and avocados.
she loves to feed the earth,
to give birth to something living that's incapable of denying,
or betraying,
her love.
she wants to feed almost everyone she meets.
set them down and wash their feet,
fill their cups and watch them leave.
she hopes that one day,
someone will ask to stay.
a boy whose heart is in need of mending,
or a man with hands that could move mountains.
maybe, one day.
she wants a farm-
a limitless garden to stretch as far as her eyes will let her see.
maybe just a bohdi tree to sit beneath,
a place to stay and wait to be buried by the leaves.
just for now, anyway.
she needs a home where she can be by herself without feeling alone.
she needs somewhere that she's meant to be.
supposedly,
dreams are things we chase down dark alley ways,
only to watch them escape us.
she damns every man who says so.
she's determined to catch up with every one of her dreams-
yeah,
a dream catcher of sorts.
she puts on her gloves and steps out in the mud,
ready to catch whatever the universe tosses her way...
or even just the ripe fruit falling from the trees in her dreams.

"i just wish you didn't hate me." he said,
exhaling the first drag of his fourth cigarette
since we began our verbal wrestling match
two shots earlier.
his eyes always seem to look the most sincere
when i know that he isn't.
as green as the river that delivered me,
perfect.
i make fun of that **** leather jacket that he looks so handsome in
and ask to borrow his handkercheif
so that i can fill it with snot
and spite.
i hate this "talking" buisness.
it's more like a contest to see who can make the other hate themselves first.
he always wins.
and even when i want to drink his existance into submission,
i still just want to grab him by the face and kiss him...
right on his filthy mouth.
"obviously, i don't hate you," i finally reply.
"i just hate that i give a **** about you."
his silence speaks volumes.
unfortunately,
they're penned in a vernacular that i've never understood.
the air gets busy and heavy,
alive with the charge of confusion between insanity and ****** frustration.
the steps to our ****-show waltz are well rehearsed...
we slide over each others jugulars gracefully -
nimble -
on both the tips of our toes
and the tips of our tongues,
crossing lines in the sand with tact.
hit for hit.
shot for shot.
we dance,
in the angred space we share
on the front porch
in the light of the moon,
leaving even the moths afraid to cross us.
some people love without looking back,
and some people look back without loving the crack in the wall in which they hid the sour facts.
i guess that's you and me-
filling the cupboards with what's already rotten,
in hopes that what we don't acknowledge won't be a problem.

i found the secret to life
scrawled upon a crumbling brick wall
all those years ago
in a down-town pub house bathroom stall
and i wish i'd never read it

some things just can't be erased
not with paint thinner
and not with the sands of time

no
some things stain
some wounds scar forever
leaving cursive reminders of fights we've survived
and nights that parts of us died
to make room for something bigger

sometimes you have to paint the walls
in an attempt to silence the stories they whisper
recalling all they've seen

all that we've witnessed
and wished to forget

all the one-liners
and fist fights
and nights that should have never happened
those foggy moonlight memories
of evenings soaked in adrenaline highs
and cigarette smoke

sometimes you have to demolish the walls entirely
burn the structures of your nightmares and your fairy tales both
and spend more of your nights
with nothing
in between you
and the stars

a heavily decorated door creaks open to disturb the silence-
"why don't you turn on the light?" he asks her,
but she likes the shape of the night;
the way the sky hugs close to the earth and resembles the bell of a glass cover over a cake on a bakery counter.
"life is sweet like that..." she sings,
"like a pastry on display,
something sweet that we can taste."
there's a certain way of looking at it.
your eyes half closed,
one hand high on a hip and the other clasping a cigarette.
"yeah,
i mean,
i guess that makes sense..."

"one ******* roll!"
of the drum,
of a car,
of our calendar.
things have changed.
the universe is stretching,
the earth has grown;
and so has she,
into a species of flower that can't be grown indoors no matter how many lamps you point at her face-
she needs the sun...
and the wild.
let her grow free in the sun of foreign hillsides,
by a creek in the meadow she's dreamt of for years...
with the fruit farms.
"yeah...the fruit farms." she smiles.
she's always wanted to sell fruit on the highway a few miles from the farm she'll own,
on land she bought,
in a house she built,
feasting daily upon earthly treasures she grew
in the dirt
with her hands.
let her feed you a story for breakfast;
a picture she'll paint with scenes of her dreams that she only occasionally shares...
when the mood is hopeful and kind and she's not worried about anyone laughing.
listen to her heart;
type-writer keys over the hum of radio space.
rest your head-
ear pressed to her chest;
listen.
like curious neighbors in the backyard in the sleepy hours of the weekend between breakfast and lunch,
coffee and cartoons.
let her show you one of her dreams.
a prized,
***** pebble she keeps cradled in a pocket full of lint.
she's an old soul...
peering through dirt colored eyes just as wide as a child's.

"it's been a long time since i've seen the ocean..."
she whispers to herself under the last drag of her third cigarette.

but she hates the beach,
and the crowds of the vain who gather there to worship starving,
sacred bodies;
she just likes the sound.
the throaty yell of prehistoric waves breaking over zagging shorelines.
she says the sound "helps her dream."
it doesn't "help" her dream,
nothing helps her sleep...
it just makes her think;
of unimaginable beasts that have swam in our seas,
and the shape she's been told that the continents once made.
she thinks of mer-maids and voyagers and the rustic ship that brought her great-grandmother over at age thirteen...
this time she's not dreaming,
just remembering things that she's never seen.
her ***** feet need a stroll through the sands of a pristine scene-
she's heard such thing used to exist.

she mumbles, "it hurts to know that nothing is sacred..."

but she is.
a mess of tangled heart-strings and sentences,
she's sacred.
and so are the four tiny walls that hide her from the world.

how does this heart of mine
     fit in to my earthly equation

          does the salt water in my body
     prove me
     the undisputed daughter of the sea

can you hear me
          god


i'm listening

arts and crafts and kids on drugs
dream catchers and storytellers
in tree-houses and sheds
bare feet and bare legs

magic

let me share
i'll cut you a slice of the skies to keep in your eyes
so you can always see beauty
and learn to accept it when it's lying in front of you
remember how gorgeous life is

sunsets and fire pits and tents pitched in the mountains
solar flares and lunar eclipses
in telescopes lenses and lovers eyes

this IS profound
and we SHOULD take note
the universe bares wonderful gifts
and we are fools to let them slip so quickly through our hands
we've been here before
and we've known each other for eons
don't go forgetting

lava monsters and yellowing pages and smiles recognizable for miles
sage brush and card games
with cowboys and poets
cheap-seat prophets bound by collective conscious and some kind of mysticism

two-track game trails and smoke rings rising from the west
find your way home

i'll hide behind my sunset eyes and river-bed curves until your return

i dropped to my knees
digging deep for water
     and felt the clay take shape beneath my fingers

this place
     this is home

so from the dust i sculpted doorways
          and windows
          and halls
     lifted up walls
and made myself a castle out of the sand

now i drink beer at the edge of paradise
and ask the thirsty to come inside
     and play in the shade


i never ask them to stay
     but neither do i point them towards the door

soft spoken secrets slice through the silence
     like coffee-breathed cannonballs
sent shamelessly into the space between
          who we are
               and who we will be

the smile in your eyes makes it seem
as if you really see me

pinned beneath a perfectly blue egyptian cotton sky
     and a lake-shore brown box-spring earth
          you stretch yourself thin
     thin as eyelash lace across a freckled chest
     thin enough to let the sunshine gleam through
          through all your light and magic
               reflecting pure stardust onto my my blank screened flesh

i've never felt as beautiful
as it is to be tangled up in you

extremities snagging one another
     in a devine blend
          of feverish feinding
               and something far more freeing

     i'd trade my unsteady pulse
     for every day to begin this way
drenched in poetry
and morning dew
and crazed, excited grinning

how about you toss me a post-card
     through our dreaming
     one of these evenings

          yes

my heart strings are singing

     this is the beging of a story
that i quite like

i gave up on writing
the first time i heard you speak

now
     even my own words mean nothing to me

no pen could procreate the sweetness slung by your tongue


what's left to be said
     hasn't even got a proper spelling

i remember you
you wore your smile the way a traveler wears a pack
it was everything

your eyes were bright with adventure
glaciers tucked into the folds of the rockies
blue
i'm blue too

i thought i lost you
four years ago today
the phone rang like funeral bells
i answered like a murderer expecting to find a detective at the door

the hospital still makes me sick
i can't forget it
all of your friends who always seemed as strong as sequoias
strewn across the floor
faces painted with snot smears and tear stains

i thought i lost you
under sagging soil and a painted headstone
there in the pines above the river valley
laughter traded for the footsteps of the saddest parade
i tried to say goodbye

but i found you
there in your sisters smile
and in the movie theater aisle
and parked in a little rusty black truck in front of my parents house

i find you everywhere
while i giggle
and sing
and tell the people i love how much i do love them
you're there

doing the chicken dance behind the arresting officer

thanks for reminding me to smile

she exhales in outcrops of lilies of the valley
and cries with the echo of a landslide
     but when she laughs
the sun himself rushes to brush against her burial mound cheeks
and pretend he was was the spark that launched her into bated birdsong

once upon a time,
a doctor told her that her heart was broken.
a war drum with a worn-out head,
just waiting to bust.
now her nightmares of heart-attacks haunt her at all hours;
she hates knowing that she's destined to beat herself to death.
she's never felt this worthless.
lately,
she's been wondering what drownding feels like,
she never thought it a topic to ponder,
but the water makes her feel so free.
she'd so much rather rest beneath the waves
than sit and wait for her engine to fail.
maybe she should fly more often,
tossing back tiny bottle after tiny bottle
of six dollar whiskey,
fingers crossed that they'll all fall down into the sea.
she'll sink if she tries hard enough.
a heart condition translates directly into
"incapable of loving, or ever being loved"
in her eyes,
so why ******* try.
now she burns bridges like roman candles
and shells out all her cash on any day that rent isn't due;
no point in holding on to what you can't take with you.
she stains her flesh instead.
words she only wishes you'd have whispered in her ears instead of stuffing them into envelopes,
her favorite flower,
and a hawk feather,
for whatever luck she can get.
sometimes,
during her morning cigarette,
she laces up her sneakers and bolts,
as fast as she can in any direction,
just to see if her heart can take the heat of her heavy feet skimming over the street.
the engine in her chest revs loudly,
like the car of a teenage boy.
they're all little boys-
she's a woman.
she's pretty positive that everyone cries at night-
even the dogs and the crickets and the birds.
we've all got nightmares,
hers just happen to seep out and taint the daylight.
what she needs,
is to befriend the monster under her bed.
he can feed on her inner demons and stitch up her heart with his glaring smile,
and hazle eyes.
in turn,
she'll share her bed
and now and then,
he can rest his head on her chest and translate the siren songs of her unsteady pulse.
she needs a ******* friend.
one who always cares instead of a good few who only ocasionally pretend to.
someone who's more than willing to walk a few blocks to dollar beer night,
and braid her hair for her while she yaks in the trash out back.
yeah, something like that.
it's her heart,
not yours.
or yours or yours or yours.
but her's,
and it hurts.
it races all night like nascar rednecks who pointlessly drive in circles for hours.
don't tell her how to fix it,
or not to worry,
or that everything is going to be fine.
it's not.
it's her heart,
and it hurts.

she sat in the kitchen
   frivolously underlining passages in her brand new bible
      nodding her head
      occasionally pressing her hands into her chest
"yes" she'd whisper
   with her blind eyes shut

         every ******* needs a crutch

every hour or so
she'd leave her hiding place
   to shove her misunderstanding in my face

"god only loves us if we ask him to"
"you're a sinner. your sins can only be cleansed with the blood of christ"
"our lives gain their only meaning when we ask christ into our hearts"

oh yeah?
   is that right?
      how'd he find any room in yours
      when you keep it bound up like a hostage?

i tried with all my might
   to remind myself that i am a spiritual being
   that i want no one to hurt
      even those who waste their precious seconds plotting ways to hurt others
   to craft everyone their own kind of pain that they can name
      and later
         help you look up a cure in a little black troubleshooting guide

but i cracked
and i snapped
and i didn't feel bad

don't you get it?
are you paying attention to what you read?!

the whole ******* story is about LOVE...
   about loving everyone
not only under certain circumstances
   but every second of every day
the same way we're told that he loved

calling yourself a christain is the farthest thing that you can do from actually being christ-like
  
he was a good guy
      like robin hood
         not oprah
   you won't get a free car
   or fleeting fame
      all you'll gain is peace
      and clearly that's what you really need

but you also need to remember
   that if he's watching everyone's every move
      like you say
   then he too sees you going out of your way to ruin someone elses day
he sees you ignore the hungry man asking for change
he sees you preaching things you've never practiced
he sees you looking for ways to bend the rules without breaking them

if christ came back
   he wouldn't be the sharp-dressed man seated up front
      whom you try to charm the pants off of with your faith every week
he'd be the homeless man outside sitting by the steps in silence
whom you marched right passed
   without so much as a glance
      or a simple hello

         he'd know you misunderstood the entire message
         flash a toothy grin
         and go right back to spitting prophesies into his brown paper bag
             
            but most importantly
                  he'd never rub it in your face that he thinks you've got it **wrong

the earth spins sweetly
like a turntable in a sun-lit living room
or the hem of a long skirt in july

the best things in life are free

the sing-song laugher of the birds as i sip my morning coffee
the smell of fresh rain and wet concrete
the curve of the sky late at night
as i stare emphatically into the stars
hanging low to the wyoming plains and sage

how fantastic it is to simply **be

"just think of  all the things
that the whales and dolphins could teach us"
     she says
ashing her cigarette
with a cheeky grin

happy mother's day

pizza and beer and tequilla
and all that i can think
     is how proud it makes me
to know that she's the home i came from

i stay awake late
contempleting the possibility of decoding the illustrative lyrics
      spoken between my head and my heart

my wheels keep turnin' circles

     still
it's a start

i curse my nightmares
for stealing away precious moments
that could better be spent
     dreaming of you

it was warm and dry last summer
so i painted my face with mud and stain
and set out to find my own space of the earth with my name on it
somewhere i'd finally fit in
i never did find it
instead
i tattooed my skin with road maps to memories that i can't quite get back to
i still can't get back to you
so i picked up a lost boy on the side of the road
with a lying smile and deceptively blue rain puddle eyes
he dosed me and broke me
lifted me up with ***** hands
and set me atop a psychedelic pedestal that he could pull from beneath me
to watch me fall to the ground and writhe whenever he liked
he liked to do so often
he broke me
he did
like an empty bottle once containing bitter beer thrown at a door
so when the rain came to the plains
i dropped him off in the next state
and hurried home to gather up what pieces of myself still remained
i made me from scratch with my own hands
to suit only my own standards
but still
maybe now you'll like it
soon the leaves began to fall
and i got lost under their burial mounds
shroud in the season of decay
i saved a breath to weep for my own death
but it didn't last long
i got over it quick
crawled out of momentary depression just in time
to see the tulips die and the skies ignite
with winter sunsets and nightmares
i felt like things were changing and so should i
so i set aim for the skies
spread my arms and hoped for flight
even just a tussle of warm breeze to liven up my paper sails...
just something to pull me out to sea
to sky
space and waves
it's all the same
i just wanted to get away
all i gained was new callous and a few second-hand paper-backs
i didn't get much farther than a couple states away
but any sky tastes great when all you're craving is some change
the days got short quick
and the warmth ran away to play
while i stayed behind to hold down the fort
and hopefully to set forth to find whatever it is that i'm constantly searching for

an eastern mystic
peddling medicine in the west
pouring holistic healing over sun-soaked lips with every word
magic

fare-faced grinning boy with the same broken heart...
i wanna fix it
with little calloused hands
and miles of fading blacktop dressed in laughter

deliberate steps
forging a trail straight to the stars
built of mead compositional notebooks 
and sentences tied together by hand
a literary fingerprint on a freshly cleaned pane of glass

stardust prophet
moon-beam traveler...
translate the fault lines into tangible fact
fill my flask with daylight dreams 
let's split a glass of imagery and toast to roads yet to be traveled

you are lightning
ripping through the sky at the speed of light
as you tap-dance your way through tall tales
of cowboys
and of hit men
and of strangers faces painted familiar by the dark


they say that time repeats itself
like an unintelligent little girl babbling in the mirror
only so many moments pass
until you're destined to hear the same futile points
for the forth or fifth 
or sixth time

...i've never been like "them"
i say time removes itself from the equation completely
when hearts skip beats to the same rhythmic pattern
of line breaks and voices rising behind a stale microphone
on a dimly lit stage


never fool yourself into believing 
that you were getting what you deserved
when forced to taste the dirt
you are meant to feast on sky
and sky alone will grow you wings

never settle on a good thing when the stars themselves wish you the best

there's such a strange feeling brought in by sunday mornings.
it's as if you can feel the calender resetting,
a groggy haze of transition between one row of boxes and numbers
and the next.
the dates themselves adding line-breaks on type-writers,
molding the ever-changing scripts of our lives.
the day gets claimed for resting and resetting -
we recharge with early beers and late lunches
followed by a hefty dose of sweat-pants.
at least 'round here,
"sunday's best" has never been anything classy.
it's paint-stained denim, muddy boots, and over sized thrift store sweaters.
we don't own church shoes or pressed slacks,
because we've never needed ornate buildings to silently give thanks in.
we need the wind,
and the wild,
and the dirt.
we set out with the intention of getting lost,
for the simple joy of the instant that we find ourselves resurfacing on the face of the map.
we give thanks any time that there's nothing between us and the sky
and our wind-chapped faces are covered in smiles and sun.
desert dwellers need the sun.
we greet her daily,
wildly and emphatically as the frozen layers of earth.
sundays are for defrosting.
we bake beneath grandma's home-made quilts,
and in the arms of good love;
thawing enough to ensure growth without cracking our foundations.
"sunday's best" is just a good place to be.
it's a refreshing state of mind in an augmented pace of time,
where we slow down,
and step back just enough to see what really matters
and what never has.
and when the alarm clock howls like a rabid beast come monday morning,
we'll rise reflective and refreshed;
strengthened up to continue driving forth towards the lives we're living for.

for the past few weeks,
my daily caloric in-take has consisted of nothing but caffine,
nicotine,
and a good bit of ****-
if that counts.
i've been bogged down by a few pounds of literary build-up,
clinging to my cell walls.
characters and commas,
just pleading to be plucked from their scatter-brained current state of nothingness,
and be re-arragned-
brought to life by a breath of structure
and fore-head kiss of charm.
writer's block.
an itchy wool blanket of complacent composition blues
draped over my freckled shoulders,
in hopes of sheilding me from a down-pour of inspiration.
i never asked to be pretected from my own thoughts,
so stop,
fickle whispers of failure.
i'm on the rise.
i close my eyes and plunder my brain for the misplaced directions
to the exit of the ball-point duldrum,
i know they're around here somewhere.
i've got thirty three trash bags of pointless memories,
and not one of them can help me.
so i hoist the sails
and viciously exhale,
sending myself out to sea
where i'll be free to raise the nets dragging on the floor,
and sort through the mooshed-up words
to turn them into something more.

i wanna feel like the ink in a pen does
as it crimps and curls and dances its way across a naked page

i wanna feel like the page being filled

give me a pulse like a double-time war drum
     thudTHUDDing towards crescendo
     with a cymbol-crash ache
and flesh that winds my spine and river bed curves
     like a stretch of highway on a midnight drive
     that fades into the face of the moon

gimme some of that star-stuff sparkle in my pete moss eyes
a few of saturn's rings 'round my hula-hips
and a solid kiss
     right on the lips

               yeah

when i grow up
          i think i'd like to be in love

wearing your brand-loyalty like a politcal campaign t-shirt
cute
you almost seem proud to be so very confused
walking to the beat of the same **** pop-song that every ******* radio station's been blaring for months
designer cup of sludge in hand

and the billboards tell you that you might be pretty
maybe
some day
if you drop thirty-five pounds and buy an over priced bottle of this seasons heavily-scented false sense of "belonging"

that outghtta do it

tuck
lift
plump

fake it

cash in your mail-in rebates for another hunk of junk with a heavy price tag
determined solely by how badly sad saps like you
will want what the magazines say that others have

how sad

you lost sight of yourself years ago
somewhere in the housewares section of the Elmhurst Target

you drifted off near the alarm clocks
whilst day-dreaming about wall-paper schemes
and zebra wood cupboards
and an apron that would match your sunday dress

you got it mixed up

worth isn't measured by cost
beauty isn't measured in inches
and wealth most certainly isn't measurd by a bank statement

but scoff
and laugh me off
like i'm some kind of eccentric fool
rendered maladjusted after years
of steady
concious
thought

leave me to squelch in the riches
of my own cosmic existence
penniless
and proud as a king

leave me to find the mountain's top
and ocean's floor
and black-top's end

leave it me
to be me

i'll go ahead and leave it to you
to be them

i broke my teeth
on the secrets you keep
     and you swear that i'd died in the morning.

i'm never entirely sure
where my bruises come from
but their presence is strangely pleasant
     like a voice message left by a moment
     so very long-forgotten

i've gotten awful far by going nowhere

just look how i glisten
listening to secrets sliding
through the near silence of no place private
slightly derranged and completely distant
     lovely
and removed from social soliloquies
     to the self appointed throne of thoughtful longing

belonging's just such a bore
     when you're built to scream to existence
     like a super-nova through a telescope's lense

i chase my jameson with the best of intentions
and each of my cigarettes with ****** tension

i guess i'm the best
at ignoring my own lessons

i've learned to trust each exception
     and never call a moment home

that's when i grow

in the universal record skip of an instant
that reminds me to question
absolutely everything i know

we spoke through the silence of shadow-puppets
on a borrowed brick wall stage
     we'd made our home

we'd whisper secrets to each other
in the same morse-code voices
     that flashlights use to speak to the stars

i guess you were right
you really could fold space like a map
and you really did punch right through it

the wind stirs her from her sleep as it tap dances through the leaves,
and once again she finds herself with a hastily rolled joint on the front patio at two a.m.
maybe tonight she'll finally make sense of something.
cursed to the perpetual contemplation of theories she can't even pronounce,
her gaze is fixed to the lights of the night sky.
she want's so badly to join them.
a child sculpted of raw stardust can't rest due to obsessions involving her ancestry.
so the match is struck 
and the dark loosens up 
just long enough for her to remember she's still stuck to the ground;
it's enough to make any celestial being feel worthless.
but she's priceless...
she just doesn't know it yet.
sometimes she swears she can feel the force of the entire universe's sway
tugging on her heart strings,
pulling her in synch with the pulse of all of existence.
she often just dismisses it as vertigo and takes another hit.
she doesn't get it.
the stars burn in the static hum of limitless outreach and await the painstaking instant that they'll finally collide,
maybe even just scrape against one another...
it's lonely up there in outer space.
the planets space themselves strategically to avoid the tug of one another's gravity,
aiming to dodge the speeding bullet of affection and the promise of separation it inevitably brings.
but she's out there in saturn's rings adorning herself in comet's tails and waiting for a show...
stubbornly certain that she couldn't possibly be alone.
not forever, anyway.
she hopes.
telescopes lenses eventually shift,
distorting our self-made image of reality...
we can't place bets on much of anything, anymore.
there's so much to be left invisible,
and mystical,
and made up as we go.
we may be going nowhere,
but we hitch our ride in style.
pretty painted marbles spinning circles on rutted sidewalks dance in tune...
side stepping around a bright star at center stage.
she thinks of herself as just a flea in the wardrobe,
maybe things will stay simple that way.
the roach scorches fingertips,
and she hurls it toward the earth...
drawing her attention back to the ***** parking lot beneath her feet,
and the promise that sleep will bring something new to dream.

i want to tell you all of my secrets.
i'll write them down on the back of a torn up map,
and cram them into a jar for you to set atop your desk and ponder.
something about the way that you speak
sounds an awful lot like all of my walls tumbling down to the ground.
i'd even let you pass the guards,
if you'd just ask,
but you won't.
maybe we could make a trade;
you could carry around my burdens for a bit,
and forget all about yours.
and in return,
i'll hold you the way that your rib cage cradles your heart-
intently,
and with the sole purpose of protecting something important.
at least,
i think you're important.
if only i knew what you think.
but you keep those prized gems to yourself,
thrown about your head in a "shouda-coulda-woulda" past tense.
i just hope you think of me.
as a face with an identity,
and not just as a place to fall asleep.
i'm only boring when they expect it of  me.
so how about we try something new?
let's cut the shakespearean bull-**** and jedi mind-tricks
and just tell each other the truth.
**** poetic justice,
let's cut to the chase:
i'm done chasing cars whose traffic boots have begun to rust.
so dust off your unravelling heart-strings and strike a chord within me,
and maybe then you'll be convinced to sing along.
see,
love songs are for the birds,
love poems are for the lost,
and love itself will always evade me.
prove me wrong.
lace up your boots and run for once.
prove to me that YOU like the hunt,
and that i'm worthy of your crooked arrow's fire.
take my breath away,
with the intentions of leaving it that way,
instead of in hopes of a few hours of restless companionship.
despite popular belief,
worth isn't proven between the sheets,
that's where it's meant to be honored,
addressed,
nourished.
a woman of intelligence is far more exciting
than a dolled-up piece of meat,
and all it takes to catch a good one,
is to try.
i know **** well that i'm worth every single one of saturn's rings,
but i guess i'll wait
and see what you think.

another year older
but it feels as if a life time has passed since i last stood in this place
my face hasn't aged
     per-say
just changed

there isn't a **** thing that stays the same
these days

the boys are going grey
the girls have all run away
and those who haven't
     stayed behind to master the art of procreation
we haven't been bright eyed kids
for quite some time now

we cry now
twice as often
and thrice as sly
our eyes stay dry in the daylight
for the sake of acting strong for those we love
but we'd love nothing more to unwind
to hide behind the curtains
     and watch our sorrows flow downward
forever pirouetting towards the sea

happy birthday to me

birthday cake taste like a musty wake
when layered with day-old whiskey breath
and somber advice for the future
shared by older souls
     my best-dressed celebration turned death-day contemplation by the ill-fated sands of time

hot ****
     i'm getting way too old for this ****

he whispered secrets in my ear
as i'd weave tall tales in his chin hair
     and still to this day
          we each swear
there was nothing there

other than the static charge in the sexed up air
and the moon beams
     tangled in our thunderstorm breathing

sometimes
the moon stays full for days
like just maybe
it's been burning daylight feasting on the waves
filling it's belly with fuel for our fires

it's the hardest then to sleep
i lay awake counting the ways to wish for you

in my nightmares
you're always just a crest too far to reach
i wake in fear that you might never find me
but you know how
i promise

i shout through the fog to your shadow
as it dances across the moon
"third star from the right, and straight on 'til morning."
you howl back
sometimes

the piano keys weep
as i stir their fondest memories

sometimes all it takes is a touch to send anyone spiraling back
through the years
and the fears of everything haunting that's built us

the dark sneaks its way in 
in our sleep
so i try my best to always stay awake
out of bed
and out of my head

the piano and the storms have become my greatest friends
more than happy to join the ride 
as we bide our time

i sing to the ashtray and cry in the sink
and the things i must ignore slide past my apartment door
stubbing their toes as they stumble down my stairs

maybe life still isn't fair
but it works
**** it

sometimes
i lie to myself
i trick myself into believing that it doesn't hurt
when it really ******* burns
sometimes you just can't give pain a chance to set in

i'm always warming my hands way too close to the flames
now
i'm covered in scars
it's our roadmap back to the stars
to a space where time slows down enough for me to love myself
or at least to remind myself that moving clocks
in fact, run slow
i've been on the fly since the day i came to life
i just gotta remember that physics have always given me the choice to stop time

at the drop of a dime
i can keep life from restraining me
so i don wings
borrowing flight from the things i dream

i am built of what i hate
but it makes me
it makes me strong
and courageous
and once again beautiful

sometimes
everything around you changes enough
that you're forced to muster up the courage 
to bend yourself back into the shape 
of what you have always wanted to be

sometimes
you've had everything that you've been searching for
all along

arriving at a peak in the valley
     i've never once proclaimed to the hill i've climbed
"i have conquered you"

i've always seen it the other way around

"i am yours now
     mountain
your treasures and secrets are yours to keep
i only ask that you share with me your view"

i want to douse you in the muddy water
of the balckfork's patient trickle
     at the crest of spring
and baptise you as mine to keep

     my own semi-precious stone to bring to the table

let me carry you around in my pocket
like a bottle cap
from the last bar you sat at
     while you were day-dreaming of me

          some treasures are far too great
          to try to hide from the world outside

          and more often than not
     a good bargain
isn't what we bargained for

if i could
i'd lasso the wyoming wind
and ride it like a wild mare to wherever it is that you now call home

you'd find me pounding on the door
     with a bottle of whiskey in my white-knuckled fist
     and a bubble machine eating the paint off your late model car
     and how far i'd come to find you would instantly become irrelevant when you'd smile
          it's been a while

i still catch myself wondering if you catch yourself wondering about me
and the places i've seen since i last saw you
     lacing up your boots and diving head first into the blue of early evening
you didn't even tell me that you'd be leaving

but you did tell me a thing or two
  about the birds
    and the trees
      and the sea
        and your heart
the way it missed beats like i miss stop signs
and you'd once said that it was scared
     always waking you up in the middle of the night
     and telling you that it's alright to want to run
you sure did seem to be good at running

so i swish scotch between my teeth
and atop my gums
to make my tounge believe in singing
and i climb to the tops of the palisades to slingshot siren songs your way

          "oh won't you stay,
               just a little bit l o  n   g    e     r..."

then the record skips
and i slip from my dreaming
back to a shoreline where the washing machine squeeks
and i can be found grinding my teeth
like a lost little god in the grotto

oh
     where did we go to
     when we left to get old
and brittle
     like a tree no good for climbing

we dissolved our youth within the golden glow of nostalgia
marked on a calander long since dead and torched
     that fall when we learned to feel
     and burried each other beneath the heaps of rotting aspen leaves

"until next time, my darling."

if my whiskey breath meant
that my tounge was slinging poetry

     how many sonnets
     are you yet to hear me speak?

i still see you in my dreams

     you come and go in flashes of raw and sacred light
like heat lightning
     a mile and one half downstream
from my not-so-secret hide-out
amongst the limping cedars and smouldering sage

          and i?
i am the thunder

tap-dancing my way
through the ill-reviewed chapters of your life
     the same way that your nothern lights glow
through every lifetime of mine

          i found you, once
          and i'm miserable at letting go

for, oh
     you move so slow
          yet you're somehow far too hot to trail
like a commet lusting after its own tail
lacing our solar system
with the whimsy of wishes to throw in the air
     or the well
     or at the man in the sky
          who promises to keep us from hell

     it's just so bizzare
          how i find your missing heartbeat
               in every stray that mine picks up
and the way that you're stitched to my sole
     like my shadow's lone companion

the worst part about people
whom understand nothing about themselves
     is their incessant need to pretend
as if they can see so clearly
through the dusty corners of each other's secrets

it's all faded two-lanes;
cracking blacktop winding from high hopes to low lives,
the question is: what we're seeking in between.
it's strange to me,
how many days are wasted by the thoughtfully confused
waiting around all day to see what it means...
it doesn't mean anything.
unless you make it.
so climb back into the saddle with your heart set ablaze,
and tear it all down.
shred the scenery to scrapbook confetti
and sculpt the life you've always wanted from the raw earth yourself.
make yourself proud.
and gracious
and elloquent
and kind.
decide for yourself.
rediscover the truths you held dear when you were young,
before they taught you what to think and how to feel.
revert to your innocence and follow your heart,
and the feeling you've had in your gut all along.
paint your own sunset
and moon rise
and everything in between.
make yourself a masterpiece.
be who you've always wanted to be-
**** the social blue-print.
the only expectations you should ever feel obligated to meet
are your own.
make yourself proud for once,
who gives a **** about the crowd.
plow through the rust coated foundations
and bathe them in gold spray paint.
turn your life into the taj majol.
make your heart into the lourve.
and let your soul defy all definitions-
be as free as you've always wanted to be.
you are the gorgeous by-product of thousands of millions of years of evolution;
start acting like it.
ignore those sharp spoken whispers of doubt that flood your mind
at any given time-
you are priceless and magical,
mystical and strange by definition.
welcome to the human race,
but first,
stop running.
park your *** in the fresh cut grass and just breathe.
deep.
smile hard,
blissful and honest,
until your face gets sick of it.
just smile;
it feels so wonderful to be happy.
say thank you,
for EVERYTHING,
and mean it.
who you were yesterday is gone forever,
but who you were today decides what shoes you'll be walking in tomorrow.
be good,
and happy,
and honest.
life itself will return the favor.

i often times get distracted from myself
by the person i like to think that i am

she's a ******* catch
     a cash-in-hand
     done-deal find
worth every dime

i'm tangled up line
     woven into the creek-bed
that couldn't even catch the sunlight

but it's alright

     i got a few coats of gold krylon
hiding my rust from the mirror