Surrealism

The ecstasy of fantasy, the arousal of happiness
The spirituality and mortality of our life's.
The message that music conveys that i am always with you and think of you ever second.
The shadows of the sun, the reflections of all the colors, my senses become one,
i owe a lot to you.

Admiring,
our existence
in the past,
and remembering
every miniscule detail
of
that
day,
brings me
a euphoria
stronger than
the euphoria
brought upon
from the strongest of
drugs.

You
give me
strength
to be
everything
I want to be
to see
not just see,
but watch the world
and observe it's beauty.
You help me
feel, and experience
every
little
tingle of joy and love.
You are wonderful,
letting me hear the music of
nature and the surrounding environment.
You let me
smell
the succulent,
sweet, playful
tones of life,
and you let me taste
what it means
to be your friend.

There will never be a girl on the beach
For a guy like me, to absorbed in self doubt
To truly live a life filled with adventure
Yet I sit here and smoke another cigarette
In the hopes that it will somehow change my future
Yet the spirals of smoke mean nothing to eyes
That cannot decipher the future in tea leaves
I am powerless to change this slump that I reside in
A king of a decaying kingdom
A knight with no armor
Pierce my lungs my heart my eyes my soul
And let me bleed to peace in death
I eat unicorns

What a fix to be stuck on

A sea of remotes 
Controlling their channels
(Channels really know
How to pull people in.
But not me. I just watch news.)

Piles and piles and stacks 
Of remotes
Mangled up in cords 
Around the main event:
The TV.

Back to that pile of remotes -
All different kinds & controls
There's a pink one
With polka dots or chicken pox
There's a swampy soggy one
A grey tomb-stony one
Etc., and whatnots

What to do with all them?
Control the tube, of course,
But they all do that
A little bit differently.

"To hell with this white noise"

I snatch up a chrome looking remote
Soapstone it wasn't
But cold cold cold still
I pressed the red button near the front
Blinked it didn't 
But got stuck.
I just stared in frustration
For a long while, into that fuzzy screen.

And then
Out of the white noise
A gigantic chrome razor-hand
Came crashing through

Pulling me in.

I
duck into tree light
while this red earth field,
seven year's ripe,
germinates small answers
to questions hard planted.

You,
Shroud in silence,
drink the silver night air
while the elusive slips
silently by.

We
stand sky-high
weaving through
grain threshed
wind swept fields.

Suddenly,
awakened by the capacious star's
rising yellow ardor,
verdant implants of dewy life
lift skyward and scatter untrodden roots.

her tightrope
was a feather,
balance weighing
on the tips of wings
held suspended
above the ground

summer skin
taut
against her bones,
thousands of stars
threaded beneath
each of her freckles

she found solace
in satellites,
the man in the moon
winking from his place
among the planets

she felt
galaxies
coursing through
her veins, the Milky Way
bubbling up
from her belly

and
somewhere
within --

tiny heartbeats
mirroring the shower
of asteroids
falling
from the sky

In the sad words of an elegist
I mourn the worlds of color and music
That cannot, do not, and will not exist.

Such worlds that would be but, beyond words.
Where emotion blends into the lights around us,
The shadows only shield us from harm.
Where the night is mysterious,
Glorious in it's beauty.

Haunting and peaceful
Is any and all beauty that flies,
Light, and bursting with stars.

This world of paradox
Would require no explanation
Nor boredom of repeating nonsense.

Everyday, day and night,
Is an overwhelming sense experience.
Your mind leaves you
To your eyes and ears,
Your nose, mouth, and hands.

Feel the color of emotion's vision.
Taste the wonder that is movement's song.
Finally, hear beyond the beholder,
And experience the the heights of sensation.‏

If all of your time was whimsically laid out
in tangible handfuls of coppery coins
on a mahogany table in a room
with a circular view,
what would you do?

Would they stay ordered and neat
on that handsome wooden throne
enjoying a pagan view of all the land?

Would you invest them, and save them, and trade them,
like jewels, or their currency counterparts,
with sharp eagle eyes and  a mind to match?

Would they be flung into the vastness carelessly,
dashed to the floor and picked up at random
to spend upon flights of folly and fancy?

Or, are they more often laid in jealous little boxes,
encoded and airtight, with faux replacements
left in their more vulnerable place,
for fear of using or losing them unwisely?

No matter how you shield and hide and divide them,
they're going to end up merely dusty,
rusty pennies, worth a fraction
of what you could've got for them
just a few years before.

Might as well get them out of that box, then.