Perfect autumn day
The red leaves
And orange specks
Adam was only ten
Placing the apple carefully
On the top of his head
He stood underneath a tree
"Dont be scared,trust me."
His friend said
And picked up the bow and arrow
Adam squeezed his eyes
And then opened it again
He saw the arrow being pulled
And suddenly all he could see
Were the images of his sister
And the days he spent with his friend
Playing ball
Climbing the fences
The way his mother kissed him on the forehead
Her lavender smell wafting through the house
The report card he got just yesterday
How proud his father would be
Looking down from above
"1..."
How he never got to kiss Sadie
And dry her tears
"2..."
How in about 3 days his baby brother
Jordan would be born
"3."
And how in that last second
He saw himself next to his father
And gave one last smile
As the world was shut off
From the soulless eyes
The arrow struck
Straight in the middle of his forehead

With each glimpse, I catch my breath
No, it's not an infirmity.
At times you are timid but you are brave.
My love, you are incomparable.

When I'm with you, words tumble and twist
I can barely grab the right word.
How could I be like this?
Stuttering like a child.

As my hair turns silver and gray
remember me as I was yesterday.
And I'll remember you as my angel;
who could heal me with just words.

Each day we grow older and its plain to see,
The love that you give me is all that I need.

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,  poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
___________

4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

it’s not the same when you touch her chest with your breath
what her heart hears is off key and she compares it to the best
bedtime story she’s ever heard
the kind where she becomes little red riding hood herself
with a basket of goods
that everybody wants
but she doesn’t want to fuck any of them
because she already knows that it’s the same as a sunny day but with too much wind
or one of those green suckers with a big bug inside of it

“fuck off,” she says to all the wolves and all the pigs and all the fools
they still come at her like a family of bonobos come in a day
it’s hard to run away from something that is happening to you all the fucking time
it gets you sick with a hook,

the short moments it stops happening, all you want is to run and find it
because attention is softer than loneliness
even if it is as sad as an addict tearing off couch cushions, in search of half a dime bag

- but as soon as she stopped looking for a face with eyes to love her
she took a dip in the forest, heard the birds
felt the pine needles on her bare feet bottoms,
sang like Snow White
and found herself an old lumberjack, building a house
it dawned on her that all the wolves and all the pigs and all the fools,
looked real fucking gross

I waited 8 periods, 7 hours, in between searching for you, running around the corridors,
Like a psychosis affected patient running trying to find reality through delusions,
But "planet", ironically you are my delusion, miles away from the brutal reality.
My excuses to see you were drying up; sprinting to the top floor that maybe you‘ll come across,
Ecstatic like a 5 year old kid, when his rents buy him a toy helicopter,
Disappointed like the poor kid as his helicopter crashed on the first day itself.
You’re nerdy, the only guy studying java and oracle with interest, enticing me with your mint and cedar scent,
This infatuation is eating my heart up, slowly and slowly, like cancer
I came today only to see you, desperately clinging to the belief that maybe you’ll come to see me too.
But I was left alone, with the burning sun as my only companion.
I woke up hours early, straightening my hair till my hair were singed, applying mascara till my eyes burned.
I fancied, that possibly you might think of me too, day dream of me too,
but darling  curse me for being a hopeless teen, as its getting me nowhere.
Everyone keeps telling me its never going to happen, I’m a junior and you a sophomore
& when your azure lids never glance my way, my face turns ashen, even during the Indian summer.
And who am I to even try to fight with the bitter truth,
for it’s always destroying our little fragile hearts and drowning them in acid and absinth
It was so silly of me to even give into these treacherous day dreams, to even let my pride escape.
I was absurd enough to even like you, knowing even then, that I will never be able to solve this Rubik cube.

i fell in love, it was beautiful and graceful.
this love brought me alive, filled my being.
i felt elegant, gorgeous, exquisite, wanted.
days passed, blissful, complete, carefree.
one hurtful day, my love fell away from me.
they no longer required me, they crushed me.
burnt me to cinders, like fire on dried firewood.
they left me with nothing, except emptiness.
i was alive without any motive to live.
love killed me from the inside out.

I came across a drummer in an open glade
And sat before him to listen for a while;
The beats he played shimmered in the leaves
Causing my spirit to dance in the breeze,
While he closed his eyes to sing his song
And lifted his head to the clear blue sky.
Somehow I found myself doing the same
And in the space between us, my questions came -
Answered by the rhythms in the wind among the trees.

“Tell me, what do the drums speak of?” I whispered to the wind.

“They speak of the mountains, as solid as the earth,
Giving life to clouds and a course for rivers;
They have lasted longer than the oldest buildings,
Yet they must also one day perish -
Without the mountains, there can be no drums.”

“And tell me, what does the rhythm speak of?”

“It speaks of the river that has always flowed, is flowing still,
bringing water to crops and life to the breeze;
Sometimes a torrent and sometimes a brook,
It, too, must one day dissolve in the ocean -
Without the river, there can be no rhythm.”

“And tell me please, what is it that your song speaks of?”

“It speaks of the wind that gives flight to birds and breath to trees,
Heralding the transit of tides and relief from the heat;
Destruction and power dispensed in equal measure -
Unseen by all, yet when my song is gone,
Only the wind will remain.”

And at that moment the drumming stopped,
Like the sound of falling stones;
We lowered our heads, opened our eyes,
And the drummer flashed a dazzling smile,
As bright as the harvest moon.
Then we returned our gaze to the clear blue sky,
Bordered by mountains and trees,
And I could still hear the rhythm of the endless river
Flowing in the breeze.

I looked down once more only to find that the drummer had disappeared,
Leaving in his invisible wake the fluttering of soft Autumn leaves;
And I remained alone in that open glade, perched upon mountains,
Following the river in it’s course through the trees -
While the wind within me whispered:

“So it goes”

love is a two way mechanism.
it needs to be rebounded to work.
without the rebound, it changes.
becomes self hate, loathing, hurt.
the thing that makes it two way.
it needs to be given to be received.
if you give all your love away.
packages covered with bright paper.
then there is none left for you.
your love is required to be given back.
with the force that you gave to them.
this is why one sided love fails to work.
with no one to ricochet it back to you.
stronger than they received.
your love disappears, flies away.
you fall down into darkness.
and keep falling.
down deeper.
down darker.
down colder.
you hope that you’ll find light.
someday you will, hopefully.
you’ll find someone who is able.
strong and perfect for you.
the right things in the right person.
who will hand you back presents.
packages of love thought long lost.
given with a smile and bow on top.
wrapped with a return address.
only for the one who gave it.
to be returned some day.
when you find the light.
your love.

There once was a man who said you could beat the world with your words. That you could conquer an army with the knowledge of a greater narrative and move the legions of many with the action of one verb. I want to believe who ever can recreate the frameworks our race. The foundational narrative of our moral ethic, the guidelines mankind has been leaning on for millenniums. I want to know a alternative story, with made up words and no respect for a-priori intuition or tradition but a legend of unabiding experience that is unlike any tangent or discourse known. I want to reinvent another codex.  

I saw god as the architect I consoled in the grand tree house, with the grand green house sitting in a quaint english archway. The telescope room was laid with bricks and from it I could see all that made me content. I felt the time changing before my eyes. Whether I was in compromise or not was entirely up to the seasons of zeus.

I am now never afraid of myself, I almost died and I remember it all. I have known fear and still revere the quenching of it's animosity. I am only a swerving flake of inner rind. I am all that is exhausted of my honest dive for humanity. I am me finally, a shell no more! Man is the helplessness of lost spatiality in his own timid surrealism. I have never been satisfied with the explanations no matter how exhaustive! Revisited by the techni-color outlook of the turning millennium craze. The alleviation of all hopes when they turned out a dead end inthemselves, a lost avenue of my childhood.

I guess we all wanted that age-old rampant abuse of youth in ways that were neither aesthetically pleasing or unifying towards our own, best. I was tired of the beautiful sprites I grew up with. I was tired of locking myself in closets at nights and rubbing my face into the it's knotted carpet floor. I'm tired of the songs that advocated joyful frolicking into the drapped daylight. The oddities grow old and the used up phrase are clique now. I lost my mind seeing the years of my language frightened by the sound of my own breath. Grow into yourself. I am done with you anyways. I am done seeing them engulf a titanic drift of colorful intentions; flirting around the grand bonfire of the uncreated experience. I am lost with them. I question more than just our own value and I resign my thoughts on themselves for their own wealth and safety. When you want it said so bad but the forces of those unforeseen, creative hives oscillate and never stop it's steps into the night-legend. Then the world ends and was never in out of tension. I electrify my time and run into the a.m. frantic like a monkey, waving around and jesting my arms. I'm tired of the old music, in with the artifacts who architect the reverberation of my heart.





Your myth has lived into the century and I can see your ideas into the lives of all maniacs and the honest young, the deranged youth. We are amidst a heavy tension, i cry again. I want my mother's words three times a day and more on my weak hours. I am content in the alien maze of my music and want only the childhood campers to love me like a king. They gathered around at night, around the campfire. They initiated the song and dance with gaiety rhythm; that was the nights stars collided into bedtime. The same night I was torn by the dreams of an old horrid man who gave me no name and no rest from tear and horror. What evil is an anonymous the Will that censors awareness and knowledge. If it kills


So what then of the tribal pack psyche we all inherit. In days where beauty was up to chance. Our proximity to a woman was determined by breeding patterns and the realm of funds available for travel and food. What now in these days of the internet? When the whole world is at the tops of our finger tips and even more far away is the understanding we gain of our inability to have the cream of the world. We are in a great exaggeration of ourselves, of our will, and of our determined out-come. We have little but the pessimisme of our predecessors to guide our philosophies application. The translation of dream-world is perfectly out of reach for us and always for our posterity. From here on out we are a new age. A new age whose gates are christened by the ungenuine thugs and malevolent brand names of our civilization. We are faking it till the end. I am scared and drilled by horror and filled more with black premonitions. I wish I had eyes to see myself with a more generous charity but I don't and neither do you. What you see is an age of outward anticipation for the soring ribbons of undone realities.

The artist is the one who has seen the broad fleeting wisp of an out-of-world innuendo. It is the ethereal encounter with a cognitive defect that mimic as a supernatural sensation, this is seen by the artist as true humanity and rightfully so as it brings him to tears.

I always forget that we are always on the cusp. That we are simply a few bruised years away from reveling in the stained, sealed golden sunlight of the age that has came. What we do now is entirely crucial to our ability to be in unending sorrow and remorse. We see our people in a clearer way, for what they where struggling with, for what their reverie finally came to look like, ugly or gleefully self created, their vision of the world will always be our continual source of inspiration.