looking out bus windows
you can't tell if someones
screaming or yawning;
  laughing or crying.

flipping through channels on mute.

a goldfish
                  peering out his bowl.

every three seconds
staring at a new world.

unless you spot
some natural wonder:
a mountain or the ocean.

in that case
none of this applies.

you get to know well
the geometry of the snow cap,
the rhythm of the tide.

the same goes for those
with whom you share the bus.

in which case
clothes and moles and ****** hairs
can become all too familiar.

but looking out bus windows
at people's
what this is all about.

speed voyeurism.

where a yawn and a scream
look just the same

and either mean
just as little
as you

as you

            move on to

the next person
walking along
or standing in a doorway
or sitting on steps
or carrying something

and maybe laughing
or maybe crying

and either mean
just as little
as you

as you

             move on.

translucent jelly fish
in burgundy overcoats
trudged along the lane
today.

the clams cousin,
the barnacle,
collects rent
from the whale.

surface tension
molecular bonds
ebb and flow
liquidized energy;

ocean spray
returns to the sea,
you see.

and the sea ****
sees it all.

arboreal
capitulation
to the last saw;
just lying there,
rusting and dull,
a senile serial killer.

a dirt water droplet
circlestalks the sun
like a vulture.


wild flowers
split the concrete
like jackhammers and
the vines hang low
over city streets,
while unmaintained
botanical gardens
shrivel and decay,
breeding mushy immensities.

bears hibernate in subways
and deer flock in herds
and oh, the birds..
the birds.

spiders hang webs
from ancient clock towers
while moth returns
to chasing moon.

dams crumble,
the water flows,
sea reclaims the shore.

but the
eldest
trees
still weep
when memory pains,
and so surrender
to the saw,
however harmless
out of hand.

a stomach of gravel
and teeth of chalk.
it was never
supposed to be
easy or fun.

our burdens are
what build us.
the gift is
the curse.

just,
ask the jellyfish.
he'll tell you,
life ain't easy.
life's a challenge.
may not be able to fight the tide
but there's plenty else to grapple with.
that's what he said,
the five percent of him
that wasn't water.

and here we stand with spines.
maybe still can't fight the tide
but theres plenty that we can.

as water vapor
excited by evaporation
and
exalted by the elevation,
wishing to remain in the clouds.

but the float is fleeting
and eventually a rain will fall.
with it the water,
so enlightened by the episode,
will return to the surface
as it was before
but somehow new.

to remember but never miss being a gas,
understanding the evanescence of effervescence.

white wisps
of bird
linger leisurely
before me,

until they're shot

by the fan
out the window.

there is no curtain rod
but a pillow case
thumbtacked
in place.

the window opens upwards,
held ajar by a jar
of dehydrated
algae.

we spin around the center
and the center spins back.

everything
revolving
round
everything.

another bird is born
and floats gingerly
around with
newborn
curiosity,
riding
the fan wind
round the world.

if an egg hatches
under a lampshade
a volcano is born.

grueling
    grinding
ingratiation.

smiles and
small talk
carefully carelessly
feigning interest for
a friendly facade

    grueling
    grinding
ingratiation.

i used to burn all my bridges
and let other people
regret it for me.

now I just let things slip away
like pennies in deep waters
and it's passionless
and it's dull.

i watched a
seagull catch a fish
out of chicago's river.

fish about
half the size of the bird,
   dancing head to beak.
    i stood on the bridge
and waited for the ****
to choke.
he didn't.

my pyrex measuring cup
says patent pending
on the side of it.
what the **** are
they waiting for?

what
the ****
          am i
waiting for?

life's no good when
you're comfortable.
happy or miserable,
  if you're used to it,
          you're ******.

it's only living
        just after the
globes been shook.
just before it all settles.

i came home,
all my posters
were
hanging off
the
sterile
egg-shell
painted walls
so i laid down
and
allowed my
eyes to close.

i ate too much
for four days just
because i had a memory
of wanting
to eat
too much.

so i did.

now there're
all these stories
that i at one point
experienced
but now they're
only stories
and i don't
tell them
that well.

and i wonder to
myself,
about a lot
of things,
but one
is how long it
will take before
i fix the posters
on my wall.

thoughts subject
to centrifugal force
whip around
like the wet
of a hurricane
emptying the center,
getting nowhere.

the teeth chasing the tail.

centrifugal thinking
gets you stuck just
like the fair ride.
whipping round
and round, in
the same place
the entire time.

not meaning to
smile but
inertia's
pulling apart
the corners
of your face.
and you end up
where you started.

at least the top
spins in a direction
wobbling with
personality and
sometimes jumps
off the edge
just because.

no the top
isn't stuck spinning.
the top knows to fall down,
knows it cant spin forever,
eventually has to settle on a side,
eventually has to make up it's mind.

he was walking lazily
along a cliff, when he slipped
and as his side hit the cliffside
his hand found a tree

but she was young
and he wondered
if her roots would hold

so curious of the ending,
almost forget to watch the movie.
anxious for that final frame.
do the credits roll?
does the whole of life
really flash bright past your eyes
or does it fade to black and never back.
could be everything or nothing,
but its eternity all the same.
is there final revelation
any ethereal epiphanies
or just jostled termination
the sound of a vacuum
being unplugged
while its still on.

so curious of the ending,
patiently waiting to witness
the collapse of the final synapse.

Like it was tiger man, but not quite,
Because when you broke it down to numbers
There were more parts pig than any others.
And the pointy teeth were very pointed.
And so the beast king, thus anointed.
The village fled
The pillaged bled
And there along the side of hill
To run for life
The rush of thrill
The beast will ****
And blood will spill
Until his fill.
Until his fill.

Grass conquered the earth,
but even it suffers grave losses.

the slow trickle
of water torture,
beads of
glacial sweat
carving canyons,
torrents of rain
sweeping
leaves
dirt
and trash
through a
miraculous dance
passed the curb and
down the drain.

to the living
minutes and moments
are just drops of water
                on an icicle.

such an elegent procession,
such elaborate progression,
and, too, ulimately fragile,
      the reality of mortality.

furthermore,
              on time:
we view the world
as a stop motion animation.
perception of time
is invented,
utterly subjective
and therefore fallible.

time is,
quite literally,
an optical illusion,
a homegrown hoax.

all moments can be one moment
to that which blinks but once.
the sum of all instants
is one single instant.

and so
stalactites
reach for
stalagmites,
bond and be one,
and find comfort
in their caves.

attraction has
its origins
in the atoms.
maybe earlier.
that was jim morrison's
"atomic love".
electrons were the first roses.

and so life makes life.
the strange beauty
of pollination.
flowers allowing insects
to mediate, relegate, perpetrate
and consummate their ancient ritual,
their sacred act of reproduction.
A third party multispecies **** of sorts.
But the bees never get off.
still,
truly takes the task a touch further
than the innumerable sea animals
who mate in mass,
whole schools of fish
releasing egg and *****
anonymously
in a surging swarm of ***,
generating the next generation.
and so life makes life.

cuál es el alcance
de estas ondulaciones
que se me adelantan
cuando brinco a traves del
lago de la vida.
sin saber a cual orilla
mi ola llegará.

en la sopa
la verdura es carne
como la carne es verdura.
somos así
en este mundo
goteamos como mocos,
contactos fluidos interminables,
respiramos el mismo aire
que ha sido respirado por milenios.

emitimos lentamente nuestros pigmentos
dentro del remolino de la vida,
en este mundo de arte arremolinado.
cada uno tiene su propio color,
y no podemos evitar mesclarlos.

como un tubo de pintura
sin una tapa
que cae dentro de una cubeta,
y cuyo color, en vivo, entra en erupción,
e impregna su entorno.

disiparse pero nunca desaparecer.

como sangre en la pila
se arremolina con substancia
vibrante y brillante.

esta extensión fina de la vida
se disuelve lentamente hasta la claridad.

se hace, no nada,
sino menos de algo
y parte de más.

sale por el desagüe
pero a donde
desde allí?

everblue junipers
caress the wet sidewalk
and twigs hug the curb
as they float down the street.

tomorrow sand will appear
at the edges of the road.

I haven't
watered my garden
in over a week.

now spear shaped tendrils
of liquid hydrogen dioxide
plummet down at
twenty two miles per hour
making patterns across the
wet surface of the earth.

in the bright spots
rain drop splashes
stumble back and forth
across the dance floor
like cymbal crashes.

wasps,
grounded
by wet wings,
begin their slumber
early,
jaws locked,
legs dangling
off the stem of a flower
whose petals are
battered and wet
like fry ready fish.

the newly
pregnant
ocean
swells unnoticeably.

streams emerge,
rivers rob banks,
puddles form
around
orangeskin pores;

and the
everblue junipers
caress the wet sidewalk.

we're starched,
ironed, tailored
and hemmed,
expunged of
the extraneous.
cut down to size,
sprayed through
a stencil, and
molded to fit.
stamped and
cookie-cut,
branded
and broken.
no place for a square
in a city of circles.
no, no place at all.

A feverish scurrying startles the saplings
And upsets the patchwork of dirt stone and sand
Expanding contractions of truths’ interactions
To passing set actions
But none have been planned

Sought self solidarity through solitude
Monasticism through poeticism

geometric counterparts
huddle passed
the looking glass
down avenues
and cellar doors
colliding with space.

horizontal
up and downs
are dashing fast
and above ground
crashing passed
they come unbound
a faint taste the trace.

hollow birds
are tumbling
and wobble as
they hobble down
the staircase of eternity,
and nothing's a race.

old organic
ornaments
obsolutely absolute
clatter passed
a point of mute
with gradual grace

/////////////////

piled up in
hills and mounds
from scattered spores
to twos and fours
in scores and scores
then more and more
that run out of space

swelling mass
of organites
capitulate
and end the fight
for willingness
to throb in tune
and forgo the face.

what frivolous fragility is a shore
always shifting, sailing, sinking,
both torn and squeezed
by equally opposite entities.
utter and ultimate dependence on
the continued relationship
between land and sea.

hurston had it
figured out.

love and living.
those two things
that can't be taught.

love and living,
we're bound to fall down
and thats part of the deal.
because we'd never learn
from our mistakes
if they didn't hurt so bad.

we were
shattered to sparks
and rolled up in mud,
and so far as
love and living,
we're on our own.

might never get them right
but we'll sure keep trying.

and not one without the other.
loving to live and living to love.
can't survive no other way.
no ma'am.

hurston sure figured
this whole thing out
for me.

not to mention,
a man's got nothing more
than his hands and feet.
neither the things he makes
nor the places he goes are his.
just hands and feet.

and so now i walk,
slow deliberate steps,
like praying each time
foot touches ground.

from above the view is of
checkerboard lawns
sterile cement
indiscernible pawns

from below the surface is
swirling with parts- and when the
buddha farts
an angel yawns

when i get lost
i find myself

in the most various of places
as the echo of my paces
reach outer spaces
i delve inward

like the whirlpool
at the center of a ripple
touching the banks of the pond
and defining itself by them
i am
utterly interdependent
externally anchored
and implicitly bound
to the web of meaning
spun around me
and when you found me
lost
in the most various of places
as the echo of my paces
reached outer spaces
i delved inward

and i found me,
my lost self,
all around me
in everyone
and everything else

(it astounds me
how the pronoun 'he'
implies that
which surrounds the
not-so-isolated subject.)

so when i found 'me'
lost
in the most various of places
as the echo of my paces
reached outer spaces
i delved inward.

i delved inward
and saw outward
myself
a shard of glass
reflecting and refracting
the light bouncing
between so many shards of glass
and i shattered

and i dissolved
and i splattered
so many dots of paint
in an impressionistic painting
that got smudged
and delved inward.

so when you found me
lost
in the most various of places
the echo of my paces
reached outer spaces.

and when i
delved inward
i found myself
outside myself.
like the whirlpool
at the center of a ripple.

trailing like meteors
ash flicks of embers
that tumble through darkness
and no one remembers
dissolving in liquid
like powdery pigment
that forms and then fades
in less than an instant
its all spreading out
like scatter star skies
each as the other
in dark and disguise


molecular symphonies
energized masses
that circle each other
like sublimised gasses
a hailstorm of being
a meteor shower
reactive conversions
of matter and power
its all spreading out
like scatter star skies
each as the other
in dark and disguise

you're either deft or daft,
there's no mediocre.

if you're not a
face card,
then you
better be the joker.

'cause no one wants to
be just a number,
we all want to make us
a name.

and if we survive
through this summer,
we think we might find us
some fame.

what is the range
of these ripples
that set forth as
i skip across life's lake.
unseen to me,
upon what shores
will wash my
wave bound wake.

in the soup
vegetable is meat
as meat is vegetable.
such are we
in this world
dripping like mucus.
endless fluid contact,
breathing the same
air that has been
breathed for millenia.

slowly releasing our pigment
into the swirl of things,
this spin-art world.
everybody's got their own color
and we can't help but mix them.

like a tube of paint
without a top
dropped in a bucket.
the living color erupts,
it permeates the outside.

dissipates but never disappears.

like blood in the sink
swirling with substance,
vibrant and brilliant.

the thin stretch of life
dissolves slowly to clear.
becoming, not nothing,
but less of something
and part of more.

goes down the drain,
but where from there?

coming
and away
at once
as if the
destination
was
a static point
upon a graph
of all there
was to be.

but soon
becoming
in a way
a motion
that refused
to stay
grounded
in a single
place
for so much
more
could
be.

it rains
and i smile.

dopamine pumps

as water vapor
excited by evaporation
and
exalted by the elevation,
wishes to remain in the clouds.

but the float is fleeting
and eventually a rain falls.
with it the water,
so enlightened by the episode,
returns to the surface
as it was before
but somehow new.

to remember but never miss being a gas,
understanding the evanescence of effervescence

while

everblue junipers
caress the wet sidewalk
and twigs hug the curb
as they float down the street.

tomorrow sand will appear
at the edges of the road.

I haven't
watered my garden
in over a week.

but
now spear shaped tendrils
of liquid hydrogen monoxide
plummet down at
twenty two miles per hour
making patterns across the
wet surface of the earth.

in the bright spots
rain drop splashes
stumble back and forth
across the dance floor
like cymbal crashes.

wasps,
grounded
by wet wings,
begin their slumber
early,
jaws locked,
legs dangling
off the stem of a flower
whose petals are
battered and wet.

the newly
pregnant
ocean
swells unnoticeably.

streams emerge,
rivers rob banks,
puddles form
around
orangeskin pores;

and the
everblue junipers
caress the wet sidewalk.

triggering

the docile drum
of dopamine,
pulsing,
pumping.
prompting
the corners
of the
eating,
speaking,
spitting hole
to elevate,
elongate, ebb,
and stretch apart
exposing crooked
violent jagged bones
that broke our gum.

the docile drum.

as water vapor
comes to understand
the evanescence of effervescence
to a syncopated beat,

i smile.

i wanna go places
people dream about

i wanna go places
people talk about
but never see

i wanna see those places
and then
talk and dream
       about them.

juice box and soda pop
and post modern electronic rock
and
all these various things
ringing  
through the halls of my dreams

where the memories
they slip and stack
and some come forth
and some push back but
in the end they'll return
for just,
one last look and I'll learn

about
all the things i never knew
were part of who i felt was true
i'll,
fin'lly see for myself
all these,
thoughts i've left on the shelf

like the

juice box and soda pop
and post modern electronic rock
and
all these various things
ringing  
through the halls of my dreams

but as
nostalgia loses its grip
and memories begin to slip
back
to where they reside
buried
deep down and inside

my mind
will refocus on the now
and point forward
deciding how to
carry on with my days
find my
way through maze after maze

and at
days end when I lay to rest
i almost always feel my best
when
i return to my mind
free to
take whatever i find

and its
only in my dreams i feel
that maybe afterall i'm real
and
descartes would agree
if i
said i think i was me

back to
juice box and soda pop
juice box and soda pop
juice box and soda

pop

time may be a lot of things
but time is not money.

those poor
capricious
capitalists.

time isn't money.
time is life ticking past you.
time is death ticking closer.
time is just a fraction of
your unknown duration.

time is a lot of things
but it's not money.

nothing is money
because money is nothing.

what those notes of paper?
those round pieces of metal?
not even any nutritional value?

no sir,
theres not much that
money can do for me.

now time,
thats valuable.
I can do things with time.
I can make things with time.
I can learn things with time.

trade my time for money?
well I think I'd rather
just hang on to my time
and you keep your money,
hows that?

good.

each precipice proves
more precipitous
than the last.

do the games get harder or
are they not games anymore at all?
either way this isn't fun.
a stupid game if it is one.

there are no
treasures for the timid.
nothing accomplished
by trepidation.
no such thing as
logical caution either.
pragmatism is a pompous *******.
fear is always fear,
subjectively irrational
and
subject to scrutiny.

more often than not
to fail holds more glory
than to fear.

tree hugging trinomials
a blast and passed the
the ebbing tide.

fortuitous silence.
collapsed.

with curls
shaped like
the soup spoons
in sushi restaurants

and eyes
sometimes green
sometimes grey
sometimes blue.

the world seemed to
stretch out before him.

what vast expanse.

driven
to
taste,
and touch,
and hear and see

and feel
it all together.

driven
to
be.

with curls
shaped like
the soup spoons
in sushi restaurants

and eyes
sometimes green
sometimes grey
sometimes blue.

lives are smears of color
across the world canvas.

small smudges,
pixels in a picture,
impressionist dots of color
interacting with the various
other dots of color
around them,
affecting and
adjusting the
overall hue.

one big painting
painting itself.

such is our significance
as self aware art.

we may only get one brush stroke,
but we can nudge what direction it goes.

-
i segregate separate stratify
my poems with little lines
to keep them apart,
keep them from bleeding
into one another like
frames in a poorly inked comic strip.
-
it doesn't work.
-

all it takes is the seeds
and we spread grow like weeds

parasitic expansionistic
there's never enough.

filled a sphere
wall to wall.
this place has been sold out
for years.
but we just keep
comin' in.


like stray cats
and field mice
we lay back
and feel nice.

the meat is
the meal spice.
the meat is
the meal spice.

the poet mustn't
doubt himself.
that is a job
that ought be
left to others.
and the poet need not
fear for lack of doubt.
the doubters will
take to the job
with thrilling
efficiency.

there are many a person
anxiously awaiting the
opportunity to doubt,
to attempt to transfer
the debt of their own
doused dreams onto
someone else.


We must do,
leave the judging
to others.

life is energy conversion
thoughts are chemical reactions
you would see these are the answers
if you saw through your distractions

life is energy conversion
thoughts are chemical reactions
you would understand what i'm saying
if you looked passed your distractions

all that lies behind these eyes is
pumping blood and sparking flesh
a molecular symphony
nothing more and nothing less

human heart is just a part
and the body's a machine
we're already codependent
all our bodies are machines

all our lives are codependent
we're all parts in a machine

all that we think that we see
and perceive as reality
through the filters
of our senses
we miss that
which can't be seen

all our bodies are machines
all just parts in a machine

life is energy conversion
thoughts are chemical reactions
you would see these are the answers
if you saw through your distractions

life is energy conversion
thoughts are chemical reactions
you would understand what i'm saying
if you looked passed your distractions

...

fire is
a chemical reaction.

a beautiful and unique
energy conversion.

innocent consumption
sustaining itself
until it fin'lly dies out.
until it fin'lly dies out.

and so is

life
a chemical reaction.

a beautiful and unique
energy conversion.

innocent consumption
sustaining itself
until it fin'lly dies out.
beautiful and unique.

she said
that they would
travel the west
like a run on sentence

and to miss her
but she'd be safe
because he was
bringing a shotgun

and to visit.

and i will.

me:  its just that
i walk passed you
sleeping so peaceful like
in the breeze of the fan
middle of winter chicago
my windows open
maybe i do burn a little warm
and i look at you
as i walk passed
and your all snuggled up
you're like
tucked in
all
snuggly
in them blanket
and i'm just saying
i walk by
look upons you
with the eyes i have in my skull
and see your closed ones
all within your own skull
and i'm all'thinking on who you are
thinking about whats in that brain
and all withins
and my look
upons
and so then, i'm like
what a good one
ya know
and so

i think about
a lot of things
and most of them
don't stay for long
but if i had to
sum it up,
for you,
i think i'd try.

i think about my memories
and replay laughs
and lessons, kisses
and the first time seeing
people who i now know well.

i think about the near future
and try to tame expectations
and try to focus on the now
but sometimes it
gets tough.

i often feel like
dipping in and
out of life like
something rolling
back and forth
along the wave break
resting now and then.

but mostly i just
think of that
which is before me
like a map or
flower or a shadow
or whatever form i find.

so when you asked me
what i think
it at first seemed
a riddle, for
i'm not sure
i think at all
now that i
think
about it.

there are no sheep.
just wolves with
sheepish tendencies,
each boasting the
ability to bite.
-
rust falls in
dusty flakes
only to make
room for new.

paint chips.
wilted petals.
baby teeth.

expelled
replaced
by something
bigger and better.

when there's
only room for
the one of 'em.

a mushroom doesn't grow
on top of another mushroom
but next to it.

quiet now.
just the cold caress
of the breeze left.
no more salty
sweat or tears.

rustfree, scratchproof.
temporarily titanium.

until
an agonizing internal groan
like industrial sabotage
of factory machinery.
gears grind and steam moans.
everything jerks to a halt.

the mechanic is a cannibal.
they're all bloodsuckers really.

no noble stairs around here anymore.
just elevators, that only lift you up
when they get to come along.
not like stairs at all.

as life got harder
so did the drugs
held high
in reverence

and we too
hardened
toughened skin
callous indifference

it's all
so simple
when disinterest
res'mbles
the thimble

and through a canopy
tenaciously thick
no light shone on
the life below

although
the sick and sad,
they rejoiced
for in dark they
feel so at home
so alone
so alone
feeling without
the diety promised
to heal the devout

an eternal eclipse
and we thirst for the light
hunger to see
the clouds in the bright
or the stars in the night

here to starve
on this forest floor
parasites and predators
but never a friend

no friendly face
to recognize
see only gleaming eyes
repulsed by our own
and it feels so alone

how we tell
negatives repel
and there is no hope
for the hungry soul
out on its own

no climb
however far
could make it to the top
all who tried would drop
or else decide to stop

and would one break that canopy,
tenacious, thick, and tough
one finds the trick to all of it,
the sun is but a bluff

and would one break that canopy,
tencious, thick, and tough
one finds the trick to all of it,
the sun is but a bluff

the docile drum
of dopamine,
pulsing,
pumping.
prompting
the corners
of the
eating,
speaking,
spitting hole
to elevate,
elongate, ebb,
and stretch apart
exposing crooked
violent jagged bones
that broke our gum.
the docile drum.

lying next to
a beautiful girl
in a hammock.

the surrounding group of trees,
these towering peers,
each behave with distinct
co-dependent personality.

the one there is stretching his branches
in a single direction, like blown by a strong wind,
or frankenstein running,
away from the others-

other trees that
willingly co-mingle their branches.

still,
one tree seems
to have started out
growing towards the
others but has since
changed
direction
and
his branches bend tight
like elbows,
away from his neighbors.

maybe it was something
they said.

Suddenly a spent bloom
divebombs onto my shirt
trying to plant it's seed
in my chest,
i guess.

the girl shrieks
shifting wildly
and rocking the hammock.

It's just a flower,
i said.

She thought it
was a bee.

i'm sure
life was a peach
til he was born breach
but the inversion of his excursion
into the hands of the surgeon left him worse an'
the immersive submersion
in perversive subversion
was only urgin'
the incursion
of aspersions
for subversive diversion
as
an apparition with volition
wishin for position transition
fishin for recognition
of  ambitious cognition    
this in addition
to the malicious conditions
that stitched in repetitions
of neurochemical
         composition
       transmissions
    entailing
the intensity of his propensity
to find immense suspense in the
density of a tense city hence did he
commence in the dispensary
of sound condensed sensory
sensory sensory sensory.

said the intensity of his propensity
to find immense suspense in the
density of a tense city hence did he
commence in the dispensary
of sound condensed sensory
sensory sensory.

we're all shape shifters.

we
         put on weight
and
         give off heat.
we
         spit on the sidewalk
and
         **** up air.

*******
                  do we **** up air.
like they stopped making it,
                           or something.

and when we sweat
it evaporates into rain.

in the
             composting
           blast furnace
              of our guts
we
         reduce and deconstruct.
we
         take the good
and
         turn the rest into ****.

and we apply this same
learned approach

to our fellow
shape shifters.