the klaxon carols of your grief belie the golden pipes of your madness.
the cherubs embedded in your lost happiness
slip through cracks in your voice. James Joycean.
the fugue, your discord dims, seeps through the gauze
of your field dress. your wound holds the root note
oozing Rorschach ~ Rachmaninoff
jungian etudes allude
to a deep you at the bitter end
gnawing on sweet bones to marrow sip
from the holy grail and -
a humble pagan tit. i greet you at the airport, barefooted.
found you
talking to a cloud
in your blue sky vodka. it was shaped
like an anvil cloud in your iris
watched as you forged
lightning bolts -
fit to hinge
heaven's
door.

we had the same flight at two different altitudes.

and i loved you more.

Before getting close
To clouds, and birds in flight;
Looking down on roofs, and plains afar from sight;
Coping up with different altitudes
And blending roots to other cultures,
I'd prefer to break the clock
And be with you.

I'd grasp the chance
To get nigh and stare at that visage
Etched in memory like a haunting mirage
Free our echoing or contrasting notions
Spill out the dumbest jokes
'Coz it's cool to see your subtle emotions.
We could wander on busy streets,
Or gaze on blinking stars and make a wish!

But I'm not sure if I'd be brave
To tell the words I rehearsed,
Or flash boxed feelings.
If cowardly I didn't...
Please...
Oh, Please...
Hear the screaming silence
And shattering tears.

Years will fly by
But my hopes won't die.
I'll send letters to that Star
Hoping our paths to reunite.
Let kismet light our way,
For I believe,
Our Guide won't lead us astray.

Two weeks in the sweltering heat of El Salvador
Sweating out the familiarities of home
A windswept airport parking lot
Speckled with miniature palm trees.

Open your eyes,
Dust off your ears,
And let those worries evaporate
Into the atmosphere.

Embarking down a little dirt path,
Where years of civil war
Unleashed their wrath.
Subtly, a foundation shifts
From the Miquon woods
Towards a smaller rural community
In the altitudes.

A laid-back game of soccer
In the oppressive 115-degree weather.
Against the firmness of dried brown dirt
Frantic feet are light like feathers
A history is present here
A common ground
We both hold dear
It’s clear,
The passion is sincere
Above all
A Spalding ball
Replacing Plymouth Meeting Mall
I, them, we, thaw
Once feeling cold
Now living raw.

A flash of colors
Mirrors a Macaw
The blend of people
A game will draw
With warm legs kicking
One draws upon
More natural law
A hand exchanged
For faster paw
Metamorphosis leaves
Humans in awe.
Who’s watching us?
The Eye of Ra

I feel awake
I think I’ve heard the bugle call.

High and dry it’s all deserts and tumbleweeds with you.
But I’m a cat that likes to travel and move.
So I go the opposite way. Because stagnant dreams at high altitudes don’t suit me.
I’m a flat line realist with big aspirations, but I need to understand the game board.
So I hope there’s gas in the tank. Not for terrorist motives
Although I wouldn’t mind wide scale destruction
And my friends and I
We try to live like pirates.
We wish we could steal
But my mazda’s not a ship
And I’m not boarding port side.
Although to be perfectly honest
I feel that introspective ramblings
Aren’t going to save me.
When I ‘m fine with my self
It’s the flannel wearing 30 somethings
Raised trucks
Medium beer
Hats
Bro’s with community college degrees
The death of California
So My friends and I
Should drown in tar
Like dinosaurs .
Hypothesize our end
Our demise was overdue .
A few years ago I was cutting edge tongue flapping
Now I’m electrodes to spit older quips for lack luster
Gents.
I know the kinds h & m uniform, scarves in California heat, military grade boots.
This one’s name is Jeff and he slings dehydrated lines about charity like it will save his life of mediocrity and empty,empty,empty pockets
For the things he needs to do
To make people like him
Some where
Maybe india
Yes india
We’re friends that are just a 7 dollar donation away.

So leave me high and dry with your corner out eyes
Save yourself from the breakdown’s the x, y, z’s
Of predictable lines and same old stories
It’s the same thing with *’ of varying size
So if I quench my thirst from leaky pipe dreams
Or water plants with the excess, it’s all the same.
Because a silver tongue and debatable morals is the selling point but we’re not vinyls
Value is measure in age.
And wisdom wasn’t the call your made.

I’m sick of cut throats in Sunday dresses
And thief’s in cheap yellow sunglasses
Life’s not a slope of a flat line or a mountain to be ascended or descended
-Kevin T.

I cant really explain the feeling.

But its like when we are together our heart beats intertwine and create one sound.

One melody.

A song so beautiful that i'd almost dare say matches yours.

But that wouldnt be an accurate statement because the beauty you posses is of the highest magnitudes.

When im with you, you take me to the highest of altitudes.

And gently you bring me back down.

You keep my head in the clouds but at the same time my feet planted on the ground.

It's as if you are my exclusive gardener and i am your garden because your aura  gives life to every inch of my existence.

Without you I'd surely dry up.

Without you I'd surely fade away.

Like a Scribbler on a hot summer day.

high altitudes and attitudes


my wooden altar is not a large one, yet it floats
above this mountain town in planks of rotting wood.

soft peaks rise behind the tunnel of garbage that builds
in drifts along my temple railings

at this altitude i assumed i would inhale the air of gods, elevated
so much more than physically above the grit and rattlesnakes


but the smell of hot trash is on the wind
as i exude his poison in red splashes of desert fauna and



a smile sways at my mouth, bloodless,
as i descend back into scarab