A room.
Need to displace to move.
Arrangement of places you’ve been
******* you in like some Kansas twister that swept you off your porch
just after you open the door for the first time today.
I awake from a dream.
I don’t remember what was said.
Clumsily laying letters over felt footsteps.
A semblance of something too big to tell you.
I cannot move it but I’ll say whatever to mean it.
A body subject to the wind
ringing against the world, accenting the edges in sharp cries
like a dinner bell that never rests.
How’s the sky taste Major?
You think Bowie really cared for karate?
Only superficially because in some perverse way it was a form of art.
A Darwinian heyday exhibition for the human condition.
I’m alive *******, let’s keep it that way.
In every way.
Don’t want to be too narrow.
Need some space to move.
The past that comes to us now,
first came from our future.
Even the ones that wilted under the shadow of satisfaction.
Even the objects flowing through this wicked light show of so much contained in three tiny axis’
Please chart your love according to x y and z without dimensionally reducing the picture.
Don’t worry darling I’ll wait, remember it’s there we first met.

Will is a wish that your birth charges you with. There is a quartet of letters given to each generation, a formless trinket tossed around the human flame like some universal kumbaya that always had a face. We could learn a lot from where were aren’t if we let ourselves imagine it. Dreams of what it looks like when I poke out the eyes of my love. Nothing begging something, the body of a bonfire song. Is it not each flick of the tongue? Is it not a federation of sounds finally reaching accord? Hurt like hell to learn when I should stop asking questions.

A weapon sharp &
your armor hopeful for
not needing to be necessary
in spite of it’s donning.
Who hurt those who hurt you?
A library of open wounds encompassing all of history
only to go on and be known as the world.
This place that becomes an acceptable excuse for knowing better
but doing worse.  
Wonder explained and mystery unraveled only to discover
under the oceans of it all there still is a thirst we cannot swallow.

An other,
outside of life,
a gleaned sum stacked into towers
that could never topple
because none ever amounted to a single stone.
This thing that, despite our best efforts to love,
often reminds us of a need to be contrary for the sake of being anything.
Still, all who attempt creation despite decay
carry a noble hope to never condemn the world
to an absolute knowing.
If described, heavier than ethereal
may come close to the tock implied in it’s tick, however neither
like now
and right now.
Obsessed only with the capture of this resurgent thief
I am attempting to draw a circle around with this passage’s entirety
knowing somehow, very well, that it cannot be contained.
There.
A phantom force lodged between complacency and rebellion.
The enigma itself
unraveling eternity for the sake of an intersection I cross
on nights where I could swear I was never a body
floating without need for up, down or any direction
because here all things reside in transit.
And it's here, with all my weight,
I vanish.

To the T, like a letter I must of looked, accented only
by an estranged alphabet who longed for the The
surrounded by what in a room with no roof made of why.
Night hung overhead with billions of demarcations for the end of a thought
So with them I just stopped and learned that one may never be still.  
Even now we are some cosmic cursive spelling out a
fluid motion so concerned with dotting an i and thus it is forgotten what follows the pronunciation of the self.
A shadow come late of a lightness that we ought to translate but
cannot be contained with these inadequate vessels,
these symbols so riddled with leaks that when they finally reach terminus
become such tired tenants of exposure.
Like these letters I must have looked,
on a page made of mirrors who’s reflection all but apologized
for the failure to realize an ethereal hand tugging at my pen,
an incomplete cursive within without place, without name, simply without.
Not even.                                                            ­                                        
Like those letters I must have looked.

I stretched myself slowly upwards
That slender back
How did it happen
Skin
Covering everything
Sprawled out over the lawn
There is a body of moments
Confused buttercups
Embarrassed breeze buffeting our nature.
Mow us down you mother
Before I grow too long

Still in motion, I struggle with shrinking sounds
of my shadow resisting the ballooning into life I find articulating so often.
What is the self?
I have been skinny dipping with this question
because I can not forget what it is to be an object,
a sense of the ever present weight of a secret word
we’ve been struggling to define.
Do I even need a diction for direction?
Could we not let our selves wash
over us like we could not falter
and if not then aren’t we already dead?

Will.

A horseshoe on fire with all the weight of emotion.
A far more intoxicating psychosis,
than being a program.

I dare the children;

play god,

there is a reason he’s known to be jealous and a man.

I will play but I’m going to bend the rules as it suits this shade at my heels

driving me further into my own lightness so that it may grow taller.

The ant and the sapling.

A sensation of of being… SNAP OUT OF IT.

Too close. You don’t want to feel this love.

You’ll become contrary to your cage

and It is that very tension that will vault me

into the sun where again I will melt back down into a wash basin

of soapy science trying to scrub reality clean.

When everything is spotless,

what will the dirt mean when there is nothing left to refer as an opposite?

The earth will become the numb halls of sadist’s with not much left of

home to live in unless we learn to fly by our own direction.

Average aesthetics impressed upon
the dreamers asleep with the television on.
They are selling validation,
the slippery crutch of the only comfort craved.
Forget the details,
we are ****** clockwork,
counted on to come,
but never arrive,
where saying no to yes
likens to tallying time
until what you are chewing
wants to be swallowed.
Pearly white definition grinding moments into pulp
for the insatiable,
that never goes hungry.
This is all of it.
******, ***, and the rest.
The patriarch in his Sunday best.
The wild generation,
rejecting the paranoia of their parents.
The whole of the ******* world
who copes with a regurgitated existence by selling narcissism.
Ours is a secret we are trying to tell with our lives,
when it’s realized it dies,
causing mystics to spill their insides
over silence, the answer that can never be vocalized.
Lo emotion,
the romance of confusion!
The one thing that can have no institution,
in our modern illusion.

I'm not out to project my own down going.
I love him whose soul is fickle despite chance
As the world's retort.
When they told me how you got cut
I bought enough drugs to put monster under
and celebrated for the both of us.
They weren't my limbs that were lost
but I reached for and sprinted towards
a wholesome grief
and couldn't carry it all.
Took me a month to even talk
Poetry sounds so selfish
When you are needed to help another walk.
The first night,  a friend had called
Said, "Get it all out
For tomorrow you have to be strong."

Sorry ain't enough and my sorrow's only purpose
is as a reminder for what needs to be done
And to forget about any lesser want.
My darling, I can't know without losing my leg
In a hit and run
But I know now you wear the same smile as before
My god how could I have known something
With such a fragile frame
Could be so tough.

Most folks, myself, a poet included,
Speak of greater reasons
And ponder tragedy's meaning.
Like us,
She knows she doesn't deserve all she is made to
Suffer.
And I've found the greater ungodly glory
Most folks are looking for
In her unbroken joy.

You had to be me
talking **** about Aristotle
then finding him in the poem on the next page.
We had been talking about how rhetoric makes students of analysis
feel like they live in some intelligent matrix.

You had to be me
to know that was very topical at that time in my life.
To know what wild bewilderment meant
at it’s actual size.
Two eyes, about the size of spare change, must of been going crazy,
but I couldn’t know unless I was you.

You had to be me
to feel as if you were enclosed in open space
feeling simultaneously,

empty objects come to life.
Tugging at the connections in mind
I was bound to make because of where
those same mechanical hands
had already fostered me.

Making me think something like god
could be construction lights over my exit sign
creating a tunnel out of the kind of darkness
night tells tired protagonists
exists to make you stronger.

You had to be me
to know that strength is a metric of preparedness,
and preparedness is a metric of memory.
I forgave mine.
I only know an instant,
the past shrinks under the weight of my experience
like a shivering body
under a bed sheet.

My strength dreams quiet fists and
sweats from voracious hips.
Unlike the stories,
the night has made me a tender man.
Unlike the stories,
that’s ok.
I’m dying just as fast as any hero with much more romance.

Despite what even the most may modest say,
there is always an element of narcissism in art, the vanity of preference.
Be forewarned the parts of myself I want to show the most here are meticulously vain.
There is a whole lot of preference in my language.
In the way the carpenter is with his tools
I want to carve into you with some hardened truth.
Taking lines, forming letters, producing sounds and pictures

touching a place in people that exists
before words.
The closest thing to us being all
right here,
feet planted, on the same world.
Of course, then there is the sad reality of countries.  
Borders for what you belong to.
Tourist! Do not bother,
only the homesick may enter.

You won’t find this sort of thing on any map.
Pens aren’t so precise, our hands too clumsy
all our tools right down to the thumb incapable of enumerating glory.
What with all of it’s digits
tightly wound around it’s bigger stick
the only kind of glory that is heard of
simply because it kills.
But my kind of glory is dying to meet you
somewhere inside, under, between, around, outside,
after, during, before my language..

With that said,
Here is the mission statement;

I pledge to be right with this moment.
To cast myself out the furthest a mind can carry one in any given
instant and bring back more of the goodness that serves
instead of white noise that moves nothing
or clutter that just makes it hard to move.
As I realize we are objects being moved by all that is around us,
for instance;
thinking of the same person every time you enter a particular room.
Romance does happen to those who know how to look.
You do not look by containing anything with separation.
The walls must heave and collapse like lungs
because my body is mostly dead things that are just now
learning.

There's a mechanism
buried alive inside you
alive despite you
sack of omnipresent water
chalk full of code
whispers of people who no longer exist
asking that same question,
"To what capacity do I exist?"

I know some sons that come from cell division
they've won the entire human race.
I must be some mutant in the main vein
spectacular artery pumping symmetry  
trying to grow up.
Look closer.
I'm not burning ants with my lens anymore
in open ceiling
side walk heat
hot enough to burn role models.

Because they ain't sorry in heaven.
Their faces can be touched but they aren't there
and the same look persists
through spilt milk
and spilt blood.
Making me hot enough to burn flags
it's ours to destroy
we bought it with dead sons
dead daughters
and ******* so dense I'm not sure which is which anymore.

Drawn lines that we rehearse in the shower.
Songs where we exist for a brief moment
then grow quiet
with numb mouths
that have separated their speech
from what they wish to sing
divided by a distance too far to dream.
Like lobbing a football or collect call
between your own split cells.

I am so tired operator.
We need to marry these two points
by their spines.
I cannot connect the dots
for others but I can foster
my insides, out.
They exist in some capacity now.
Catch.

I am at your mercy stranger.
You naive monarch .
You impatient mortal.
You radical catalyst.
Take this and rule over it like it was yours
because by the time I reach you,
it is.
You cannot stay at this intersection for long
it's dying now
for the next.

Where does one start if not with the absolute I,
Beginning with sight,
The sun kept clockwork in check.
The kids kept their songs in their heads
The parents kept photo albums full of smiles where a split second
Becomes the cover letter for years of dread.
The page kept condensing life that is better left unsaid,
While the reader kept considering the page a part of him.

Beginning with sound,
The ocean kept grinding the ground.
The guitar kept articulating the waves that come from
A place that can be found
In the engine of muscled bone,
Arriving at what you know
Through nature's transient code,
Read between simultaneous consideration of scope
And a song that keeps you on your toes.

Beginning with touch,
The cage kept the prisoner condemned
Who was slave to the ego's violent whims.
Hunger ravages the idealism of men,
Who kept on believing in sensory over stimulation.
While rapid eye sleep kept fostering shackled sheep
Towards their only release.

Beginning with dreams,
I start to seem incomplete
Fuzzy puzzles kept flagging themselves as urgent but unapparent in meaning
And even faster in disappearing
To make room for me.
A resurgent thief
That kept insisting on stealing a mind's freedom to be.

Seen plenty of far off faces
removed from themselves,
layer after insipid layer of the "free world"
just trying to fit inside itself.
Matryoshka dolls
painted in the fashion of a Mona Lisa.

My darlin,
deep down are you smiling?
If I touched you would paint chips curl upward
like arms made of wet paint
I am peeling back with no friction.
Something certain to be there
but cannot be touched
something I feel so sure to be in want of.
If  only I knew what it was.

I am eight keys
of a singular octave,
in a stairway of pianos stretching from here
to the sun.
Much like the visible spectrum
clamoring to amount
to all there is.
So much of the world, ourselves included, fumbling in the dark,
unseen
but never untouched.

When I was sent up
on an escalator made of neon lights
I was rapidly unaware of the plunge.
Cut from the bottom of this cup that,
sometimes,
when filled to the brim,
resembles Christmas in Tokyo.
If ever I looked up for plasma Christ
and only felt envy
I will go on to comb the earth
for all the unspun sugar that has settled
down here with me.
Explosive notions teetering on the precipice of my palate
over the edge of the antarctic,
the south pole.
Like a trampoline built over hypothermia and bad vibes
or playing chutes and ladders alone
with limited intermissions for drugs
and the dead.

Here you will find oncoming lights
roll against waves of red traffic.
The crimson tide is like a landslide
along side a river of white,
bereft of blue
on this morning commute.
Not a single star to dot the predawn gloom that blooms
into today's paper.
Children pantomiming parents
for the rest of their lives
while the adults bicker over the right blend of color.
Kids being new to the illusion have no experience
to reel in the meaning behind ideals
that have been rewritten and only go on to
learn the bloodlust.
A wet rag
wrung
with bodies
that soak through a toy balloon
full of hot air.

Step away from the world
and start anew in abstraction,
moving experiences in junction
with now.
Become an island with each metallic rotation
in memetic clockwork,
grind a mirror's glass
in it's gears for your beach
and when you find yourself accosted
by the sheer magnitude of the ocean,
look for your reflection in the sand.
O tender Earth,
I love where I stand,
a place
where all things converge
on my joy.

He is wearing gym shorts and she is a ten.
My god, a shimmering exemplar
in a new breed of **** librarians and
he is wearing gym shorts.
If you must roll off your front porch
into the world
do so with some self respect.
If you must work out
you probably aren't playing hard enough,
with a slight chance at
this being a projection
of my horrible personality
stained by the dregs in my
solitude's electric feedback.

Because poetry
is like a state of mind.
Living,
feeling
and then just letting that do the writing
even if the reality ends up bad.
I guess I really am an optimist.
I just don't see any point
in believing in anything
that doesn't serve you in a way that makes you enjoy life more.
Truths only value isn't simply that it has a metric of it being a shared reality.
There is value truth has in the fact that your beliefs are what go on to filter your lens of perception,
defines the language you use,
which become your thoughts,
which become your actions,
which stimulates your environment
and in turn moves you
to dance within a world of cause and effect.
If only people understood this
maybe they wouldn't fill themselves with the things they do
we'd be closer with karma
we'd be in control
not subject to the whims of somebody else's logic that you picked up and clung to
from a pool of information that was all that was available
but not all that there is.

It wasn’t until I had forgotten everything I had learned that I noticed the clockwork of our first world machine.
The people as the cogs spinning simply to be the dream.
Yet, not actually.
A frenzied free for all on a linear trip up the ladder with eyes on the prize and no peripheral to see what is lost to the bloodbath below.
Our modern joy paid in full with their soul.
Slave from birth to grave in clockwork that doesn't tell time.  
If only the money misers could be convinced of a two way street
to up shift the whole god ****** machine
and not just leave your brother in the gutter because you can’t believe.
Their steady faucet of the drip drop dribble trickling into your mind until it’s all you know.
Nothing outside that bubble ever gets exposed.
From generation to generation.
Grade school skill sets for a life led by expectation.
With history from the victors,
and morality from a minister.
The whole of the world,
the whole of your life,
is censored.

I’m listening moon.
I get lost in your moments so often I forget what you mean to say.
At least what you were never saying.
At least what could be said ever at all.
And I guess, like the rain and the wind, it grows on us.
No shelter could say to me otherwise and like everything else it is and is also growing on me.
My planned soaks and my calculated colds erected into a home against the unknown.
Wait, what is it you were saying?
Could I hope to hear it all?
The knowing enough keeps my body dry but tonight I want to soak in your thoughts
where they’ll grow on me again and again I’ll cast them off.
Making room for the next.
Lasting never,
never lost.

Watching people compile the data of their lives.
Projecting and archiving information to stimulate cultures of us
when we give ourselves space to be about what makes us us.
To lose sense of myself is to
castrate
my own vitality
and why I fall in love with the toils of another’s expression.
The catalogues of souls that stand like sentinels in the arteries of the human race.
We were here. We know this moment.
We share it with you and you know the moment in your way,
in the language of your life
and you are heard while being spoken to.
Living to be romanced in this way,
to be understood in the ways we know
with the words constructed on top
of the emotion which was constructed on top
of a moment
now a memory.
A mortal drive of creation in evolving consciousness,
immortally moving another.
Now theres no going back.
I’ve challenged narcissism to grow from nasal gazin bathroom mirrors
into seeing yourself in it all,
to sense the language;
Lust
and fleshy aspects wrestle urgently in the song of your life.
Sorrow
and the audience retreats into the cushions of their throes
or runs from that back alley full of discarded mental furniture.
Love
and their minds explode with connections blossoming into each wonderful and terrible memory that grows into a mesh of a net cast out into the ocean of their heart.
Each memory connecting in a timeline of our moments.
The lines of our lives are filled in with dead words
masking all life to ever show its face.
If only we gave those dead symbols life
in the way life gave them to us.
The language of you while being born with the stubborn disposition
of restless curiosity of our being that begs the questions
of where our lines could go
and with what we could fill ourselves with.
Possibility bursting at our   s e a m s ,
spilling over into our realities.
Aligning our minds towards considering perspectives;
perspective being one thing that our paradigm of truth does not demand more of.
So eager to settle into a home in our head,
we chase the walls and roof of one truth and forsake non-sense of what has yet to make sense
when maybe the bigger picture
and all the multitudes of its non-sensical parts are waiting to hold hands together
in that same portrait,
framed on your nightstand
where you can see how it makes sense,
so the sense can put the weary wights of the unknown to sleep,
so that you may dream with certainty.
So then, what makes more sense than non-sense?

At the mirrors edge I strain to see what else.
Tracing the frame, it’s there I drop out,
into a symmetrical arena.  A personal hell.
Longing for the last after each new bout.
Every contender’s aim is one that can’t be helped.
Shadow boxing polar aspects of myself.  
The only wager is penny-less.
A counterweight to doubt.
When the verdict is in,
who is it that wins out?
The bread winner of recycled debt
owed to the sentinel of the self.
The indelicately celibate
having *** with themselves.
"*******. Thank you."
"*******. Thank you."
*******. Thank you.

Mind is an island.
Setting sail on conceptual ships with charts of stars and atlases
only limited by imagination.
We look to the sea and our reflection shows in calm or turbulent waters.
Waves of wonder crest and pause
in the moment when the sea sees it’s reflection in us.
Peering out at the horizon
pondering ways to reach the other islands.
Feelings bloom into language used as planks in our ships.
Taking magic and turning it into science.
Growing into a symetrist seeking balance.
Trying to stay afloat in a jolly boat
to breach interpersonal moats.
But a parched heart wants to get wet.
Eyes turn from where the sun sets
and into the self.
Unflinching, I abandon ship.
Care for a swim?

When I think about how I got my first taste for words
and how human it is to know the language will fail
but dress it up and try in vain anyway,

I think it’s because all the ******* time I have spent thinking of safe and clever ways to tell people I loved them so they wouldn’t mistake my love for something less than my equal definition.

That’s because growing up in a garden of shame,
rejection was the only fruit to blossom in the
then only place that was a home.

Back when I used to think in terms of to what is what owed and how
I had accepted that nobody could ever know
what ten thousand tickets in an arcade,
while eyeing the prized Mr. coffee machine,
could mean.

It means black coffee in the black of night,
thinking I owe everything to everything,
and believing you could know what that means.

Is there a place of singular desire?
The kind of want that takes on it’s own form and creates its own world
when nothing else matters save that which you clamor for.
Does a body break when it’s borders Annex another lost and hungry nation?
At the heart of which lay a train station
Where all the tracks reach out in every direction
An odd way to reach in.
Can that one body, once two,
know all the right ways it must move
To keep harmony and rhythm in some dusty groove
Of our body’s railway blues.
Foreign to you and you and you
But we all know what to do
When our limbs compel us to move.
So heaven must be a dance that happens all in an instant
And is over even quicker when what you want
Is what’s been given.

Fine fellows ******
with rare and bitter darkness.
We've seen a bit of life
just a bit
tiny divvy of self import.
There is a trail buried in this field
left in the wake of transit
we walk like two wheels upwards
inwards
towards something whole.
Like an engine run on sweat
and trust.
My man,
this is not done.

If ever I was accusatory
it's only because I too am guilty.
I try at symmetry
only to end up inadequate.
One who cannot amount to their own ideals
cannot know a single thing.
However certain I am of decay,
I still forget faster than memory would allow me to retain
motes of dust scattered across my library
that were once skin,
places I had been,
not one returning from departure.
No postcards
save for my disintegrated cells who speak only
of transformation.
Hushed in dim light,
scattered across oceans of words whispering,
You're already dead you naive little star.

Riding shotgun
in the span of seconds
we pass insurance ads,
company logos,
and beer billboards,
reading,
act natural, serve flow, live fearless.
I think maybe in this instance
everything I see may be tugging my thoughts around
just for me.
Or at least
some kind of sentence
that exists
in the space between moments
and myself.
It may not be true
but *******
who cares
it feels so right
to be intimate
with the entire world.

You will forget everything you know
the lean legged woman, gone
as soon as a cup of coffee
or an ****** thought
hot becoming cold
like the body keeping you here
The monster made whole
by a mirror
Even this gets forgotten
despite how often we are reminded, then
shrink from every moment
to grow into what comes next
I do not want to be certain
however sure I am
of a bare bodied thought
I wrestle with words
my language becoming limbs
that reach for tactile friction
on fingertips to remember that
even now, we are dying.

I've read that people re-write their memory repeatedly,
until we've floated down so far from the moment
we can only think of our pruning hands.
Tiny hills of flesh soaked through from a river of touching
and going.
I am still here.
I kept you whole by building theme parks over
bad decisions.
A carousel of nights where we'd slip away
to try each other on.
Some sudden frisson
roller coaster rolling me closer to
knuckled blood, white bone, holding your hand
during the free fall we were too embarrassed to be afraid of,
but rode it three times just to be sure we had a grip.
I cannot hold it all so I thought to carry just the goodness.
Me a hungry thief with my arms full in an orchard of peaches,
that you gave
like someone who had never been kissed.
Your eyes were so bright and new I swear sailors must have seen you coming
over the horizon at dawn on the last day at sea.
Their skin wet with the voyage as they slide down
to find earth underfoot and look back over an ocean
only to whisper under a hushed northwesterly,
"Finally."

Who is this that wakes each morning
a bit like binary.
Am I on or off today?
When living for tomorrow,
it's tough to be keeping time.
A lay away life
that's not mine.
A billion year itch that has somewhere to be.
Right THERE.
Termites in my wooden spine
buckling under the day,
like floorboards under my feet,
squealing with tomorrow
comparable to rings on a tree.  
A back breaks so you may know my calloused age
layered with the things I say.
It's no secret
my branches are blushing.
Sweet sunshine I'll save you
so soon we'll rake the sugar around me
and lose it all to my leaves
for the sake of where I sleep.
I am tired of tomorrow
this thing with no release.
In the backwards country roads of my mind
I know I am already there.
But on the tip of my tongue
I teeter upon
some see-saw child's play
of knowing better
but doing worse.
It's an intimate sense of hurt
that can't be contained in these words.

I've seen the look of presidents who know they are wrong
but still believe in charisma over honesty.
We want to be charmed apparently.
That or somebody has a gun pointed to his wife’s head.
Would you **** for a loved one?
There is no romance in pushing the button that drops the bomb,
it’s all in the explosion, mangled flesh
and the outcry that is content to exist in social media.
Sit kids down with dominoes
so they may grow up to know how to fall
into some actual form of impactfulness.
Until then, the children will grow up impotent,
with all that they believe true in the world to be contained in gossip.
We are almost onto something.
We know it to exist only through reading between the lines
of countries and cages.
Who built this?
Who lives here?
Who put clutter into the wide open?
Freedom is the space of sense
but where I live if you looked up that word
you’d see a rabbit pulled from a hat
screaming that nothing is moved by tradition.
If thought is language
then I’m concerned for all the smoke and mirrors
in my dictionary.
I’ve never met a Webster
but I know people who could make you rethink your education.
Make you wonder if ideals
are places you exist at the moment
ideas come to pass in action.
Then a space must have the air to move.
I want to breath,
approach the world when I inhale
and it to know me upon release.
To be reminded of this exchange every time I speak.
A fire sale of all I love
I am burning all the price tags off everything.
I am the emotion behind the sinewy meat
in the arms singing hammer fall
at a Berlin wall
full of vandalism.

A new morning where my dreams suggest yesterday still isn't dead.

I have a new capacity for ******. I can’t put my finger on it.

We were fighting for the resistance, at the edge of the world.

Upon waking I forgot what it was that I would **** for.

We were running.

Put down anyone who tried to stop us.

We got away,

then found myself alone in bed.

Having just been a lover who fought a retreat

I want nothing to do with mediocrity today.

The whole thing was messy.
My joy, everywhere.
Great smears of dishonesty to myself on every surface.
My head, a vacant motel room.
We don't live here.
Some one else can clean this up,
this squalor,
this son,
this world.

Cut myself on double checking
                   so I stopped.
   Did nothing I wasn't sure of
         and so I
               felt nothing unheard of.
                           Am I lazy in my knowing?
            If I saw life,
would I call her by name,
                                                        in the way
                                                                ­                    some people are
                                                             ­                                                          afraid of?
                                                 Like eye contact
      or tenderness?

During it's first showing,
The Wizard of Oz's audience didn't know about the color.
Imagine, the first ever technicolor film
a surprise.
Why have we become less and less astonished?
Naive simulacrums
such poor copies
of copies.
The soul of human heart
a game
of
tele p  h     o         n             e.

When Babel was erected,
                                            
           ­                               they wanted nothing to do with words.
                
                       A singular voice

so heavy with itself

                                                  it topples under it's own
                                perfection

                                                        Slouchin­g toward each other
              no limbs
                                   to cover the distance
                                                                ­            
                                                                ­                 between
                      
                                         ­                                                             here­

and being heard.

                                                     I don't know about heaven,

                            imagined I,
    
                                                         ­                             standing on it's golden shore
                                  
                        ­                   at the edge of an ocean where
                                          
                                                               every sentence,
                        
                              ­                                                            every­ syllable,

                                                                ­                                                 every utterance,

                            exhausted.

Your clothes can’t cover my memory
doe eyed girl full of intrigue
despite her,
she became a woman
breast that lay with you
such a fluid form
for a body so firm
like god couldn’t decide with you
I however have made up my mind
I am not your creator
but I can destroy you
even the wrecking ball eventually erects new structures
The French call it “Little Death”
I’ve named it after a pair of monuments to a moment,
glimpsed through thighs up to you
hungry
tongue lashing out
words cropped from two bodies
in solidarity

I only
know
how
going
there may take time
get closer
go faster
sleep softer
dream louder
I can hear marching
soldiers insistent
with a staccato spirit
kicking in your door

Isn't it all you ever wanted
to understand which parts of yourself
are huddled under the home somebody else
can make out of a word like grace
to hear an echo
would be to die complete,
satisfied that you did indeed
see yourself admired in the world
a bird dips on the wind
in the shape of a lovers body
while traffic
makes like ***
honking to move each other along
eagerly awaiting arrival  
here am I world
birth may have been adequately described as wet
death may be becoming dry
but nothin' is quite like catching life's eye
paper time drawing your mind
like the cornerstone
in some wild revolution

Chaos is an empty room
with everything having a sneaking semblance of shape
you could reduce it all to a notion
that begs everything to form
I wish we had gotten god right
people want to agree on goodness
so much they become less than ideal
I am less
and less
real
every time I speak
because it's impossible for you to know what inspired
my meaning
in goodness that can be agreed upon
only when made whole
in form
and substance
like dreams
where the doing is also the goal
Heaven and Hell have only
made appearances in our neck of the cosmic wood
still, we invent axes to keep ourselves warm
and hold to both paradise and perdition
existing elsewhere

When there is nothing else to get behind
you can always shadow yourself
people tend to do the opposite
getting ahead
or was it letting go
the genuine wild bewilderment
of not being sure of which it is
to some tired existentialist
who says life is subjective
but wont tell you his reasons to live
that he lost in the pocket of a moment
that's got this hole in it
see, this is the way
he's lost so much change
scraping memories away
like quarters for ***** laundry
like toenail clippings after walking up and down Pirsig's mountain
who made right now
sustain the future like some ever-present purpose
amidst a world where going the against the grain
means your going in reverse
in this narrow street
that we've made of reality
by putting all your weight
behind one of two directions

At root,
isn't the aesthetic of symmetry
reason enough to come clean with beauty
who's righteousness is in her allure
The one thing hedons like me
can agree
exists
Of that I am guilty
beyond doubt
beyond reason, where there is seldom just one
beyond justice, where I can do beauty none
at the center
without any edges
where you may hear it calling
right now

The fluid ease of which one becomes
Always is
Never eternal
It will transform
The moment after
What you are
Becomes what you do
Temporal guests
Moving through
A house of falling leaves
Uniform in fate
Stillness in doing
Feelings there aren't words for
Directions there isn't space for
Syntax in the procession of time
and the world speaks of complexity
in countless ways
articulating every syllable
with the acute sharpness
of an atomic clock
right on the beat
for a song
of

Tempting wishes piling under
a steaming white bath towel
hot wet pure
smothering a body
that's stretched into
an Escher tessellation
melting the ground you walk upon
to wax
and you sink
into deep breaths
demons dissolved
in the exhalation

Full power
                                                           ­    straight ahead        
                           flicker wild

                                                           ­                                    like fire
                                                      churn mass
                                                            ­                                                                 ­ like water.
                                                          ­               An infinite upstroke
                         at the speed

    of joy                                           hush                 hush          no time

                      for talk.

When wearing moments like clothes,

which Pavlov’s ***** would suggest is a moment’s cost,

it’s hard to imagine what it means to be naked

if all you can do is remember.

In the rare occasions that I forgot,

I find myself bare bodied with a thought;

if all is fair in love and war

then all is fair and why talk?

There are some differences in the shades

between what one calls reality

and another calls god.

Both wrapped in the tattered garments of their lives

stitched together with words defined by their cause.

Hedons liken to sound.
The hungry cadences wielding that satisfying resolution.
The resolution we seek in between memories
and the spirit of the staircase.
Are we intricate bodies
or are we intricate worlds,
full of all you have ever known.
What is that sound?
I may be defined by my actions
but my actions are defined entanglement.
Some soft note
huddled under a hard and heavy chord.
Then victory comes in the 42nd measure
and is defeated in the next.

All of us can make noise
but nobody can be heard.

Even the altruist is selfish to an ideal,
I want then only to make music.

Ponder the milkman.
Uniform obsolescence met evolution
Occupation is what you are reduced to,
In a body
Not meant for boundaries
Some nausea from the neighbor’s perfect lawn
There is anxiety pouring from that clock
Cerebral mardi gras parade rolling the spine
Crackling bottle rockets that pepper nerve endings
Between the shouting and *******
Accompanied by beads of sweat
My love
Ain’t all in the hips, some comes
Outside of me, but through me all goes
All I could ever know
And always less I could tell you
Things aren’t the same, they never will be
That truth like a statue
Carved from ever step forward
That forgot what backwards meant
The Milkmen may be a dead breed
But I know children who have soul
Dressed all in that pearly white
Ready to deliver
Themselves
To everything.