i am on the beach /
waiting for my resurrection
with the sand in my bad eye and
the smell of goose shit pungent and intrusive, uninvited.

2:30 pm , friday of may 24 weekend;
the beach is flat and empty of girls
(for whom i am waiting)
                                                (will they know
                                                          how­ to save me ??)  .

so far i have avoided sitting on a 3.5" nail, rusted, protruding from the duneside,
and several shards of a broken bottle beer,
keen to shred my winter-softened feet with their angry brown fangs.
i will pick up as much of the glass as i can find and go home, calling myself
a good samaritan.

"you're a shit." some seagulls say from the lake.
i pick up a rock and let fly. they are just out of range.
"you're a shit." they repeat as i walk back towards the footpath.

they are probably right.

The black deer graces headlights again,
Unusually an often occurrence.
Beams burn the animal,
But it feels love.
Absolutely, entirely backwards.
The deer is broken,
Like the light reflecting off your cheeks.
Head pain, a headache,
Left little for the mind to chew
And I've been suffering for weeks now.
I drew inspiration from dust off strangers feet.
I've never been so dull, so bland, so colourless.
Mental instability, she's pretty but she's dead
And he's looking for cheap porn.
Welcome to psychedelia and the twisted webs of today's society.
Paint your own empty shadow,
No one else wants it until you join pop
And pop ain't my thing.

He did not come prepared to dance
but then again, he never does
and suddenly finds himself
in the same tux
as always
that is pulled just a little too tight
that was starched just a little too much
and the scratching of the cuffs
reminds him

He always has the same partner
though he never learned her name
some times, he hears her whisper
'Hal'
but that is his name
maybe it is hers too. He never knows.

She wears a light champagne dress
with an iridescence about the aura
that keeps changing
he can't
he can't quite
wrap
his
head
around
it
but she grabs him before he can figure it out
this strange girl
and begins to spin
feet thrown wildly
spinning
she rests one hand above his crotch
it is almost nice
and then he feels the blood
of a stab
to the waist
he can't scream
her lips muffle it
the kiss melts his bones
sets him vibrating fast
she has him tight; one hand wrapped around his intestines and her tongue thrust down his throat and they are still spinning
spinning
until
until
until

there is the world so much i think i have felt it

have felt by it
and by it felt

so much it
(the world)

who in droves presses ugly Spring against me
who in heards comes dying and immortal
who in sleeping flowers laughs most
(the world

by sting invisible
impulses each rotund death
of lungs upon heaps of dying
to go out and wear more gladly it

it girls laughing
it boys sweating to be first
it arcuate of hips
it thundering of industry
it of millions tinly each


each pointless
each fathomless
each more than last
each next than other
each the other than the next

i think and i have seen by it
and have i?
way north over the barn where goes the winter
when in neatish crimson hulking pricks comes

first small coming

then steadily gargantuan

Summer

in deep veins of failing gold
only to brittle
only to fold and tousle
only to rubble and quake

alas

and i have thought

alas

and i have read

alas

and i have felt so proud to get at the meanings of poems

) but ever have i known it?

No.

i have not been my feet to push of it a million splendors

i have not been my throat to scream so loud my body shook

i have not been amongst its people

i have not tasted

i have not been by the skinny bank of a winding stream in the middle of Summer when the cool water tickles across the span of each toe the wholeness of being

i have not kissed so long to love

i have not breathed so long to speak

what then can i say?
but do i say it?
of course

i say it by hands between quick thighs
uncurling hurting bruises of hot sharpness

i say it in the hunched play of a girl's wetness

i say it in the calm stroke of a withered dog's scalp

i say in quiet moments as in loud moments

i speak(and i always speak)

and i think i have the world so much by it felt as to know it

and i think i do not know it

and i think it is not so much

and i think i have not felt it

We're a set of clothes with no bodies
Cause schools brainwashed
           loves trampled us
           six feet under with
           with our hearts and minds
           turned to dust
           parents lied and educators suck
           unable to teach us real-life skills
           like love is tough
           so we're still
Living for paychecks
            for those who feel like us,
A set of clothes with no bodies
Maybe we can remember we have souls  
            and not our remedial schools, undying loves, deceitful parents, and bi-weekly paychecks
Can take that away from us.

Hope you pardon my intrusion for
I am here as messenger alone.  The
King asks for you to feather a journal
that will hold value resilient to time.  
Your invitation he has written for your
acceptance or denial.   A summon not
for carry,  for seven promises (men
and women ~ fair in wisdom) will mind
this also.  Favor to join is idea the
King will mention.  
I hope you will favor in ponder, this as
a token for your family to venture.


As your shake is firm I feel, in you I
sense a humor and honor to astound
even my father.  Direct in this appeal
we wish for you to join in many of our
meals in days afar.  For your intellect
to preface these journals in daily
is of excellency to the crown.  This
endeavor is gift to King’s laureate and
family privilege.  


Time who is clever as any, with
eyes to contest its followers, is my
father’s enemy.  Never the less he
insists to fill your mind with the
divine poetry of detail ~ all in time.  
Absent from conjecture and mundane
in matter.  Amend his will in a tone
compassionate but clever as a jesters.  
Understanding cleverness is knowing
silence is his magic.  Laughter is
louder after silence, as every moment
leans with a commence to it.
You attire in a dressing of language
lost.


In you the truth will contend in
this forum, all minds beseech your
presence at once.  Spoils will riddle
you queer as you must be quick in
gather as to fuel the idea.  Without
taste for regret you must serpent the
poisons for the benefit of an ideal, this
shall be done in solace alone.


Soil your apologies in poetics.  But
pressing your wisdom as dressing
within these works, lay unconventional
and wastes our King’s time.  And is
self ~ servant.  The King wishes you
a retrofitter, not designer of ideas
embellished.  Value what’s ideal.  
Something is found when wise men
seem broken in accepting less, but
as surely have escaped sure death.  
Treaties decree this vision so.


The ground we walk upon is justified
in conformity and  rests within
individual principles.  Uncommon are
the steps prevalent to understanding.
Some come to muse.  Then master,
but revision the first for the wise seam
better.  Wisdom is genuine in repose,
when a wish ~ gone ~ regret, passes
by as your mistake.  A same a mask to
a jester.  So alone is this jester made
genius in his King’s court.  Finding
only solitude when joining the show.

Brother Freedman, I am but
messenger and son of our King.

I serve with solitude, such the Lion
stares afar may feel.  With time
alone idolized, and profound ~ this
beast is demure and  truest of any
~ trusting his strength.  Calm in
demeanor it is destined and such is
blessed.  My father fairs his share
of similar characteristics.  In so
many compelling ways.  Principles
to maintain,  just ~ and in prominent
formality.   In such I will address you
as first intellect.  


In my vision I have sent my son to
question the seekers of this leisure.  
Address of the street you call home in
pleasant chatter, is yours to give your
kin if your decision is in favor.  Token
to a pure education shall be warranted
for your children a~same.  

My autumn is as golden as the seams
that vein the leaves.  So falling is
justified for even Kings.  The wind
beneath my leaf will bend and carry us
free.  Concealed and closed are those
who fear ones own insight.  Humanity
is the story here, and we must verse it
write, to justify our common appeal.


Common sense will be the milk of
this birth, a child, rising in small feet
of first steps.  Simplicity for mind
to meal.  Ideals better the soil if in
sow ~ they again seed.  This wills the
fruit ~ in folds.  Similar the mind kept
in ritual of change are rations for
reason.  This is the cycle of seasons.  
Metaphors and imagery shall suit our
souls ~ in step we mend ~ luster and
defend.  


Uncommon are the King’s measures,
ideals are what drives his carriage.  A
life of duty and by his peoples mention.
They rest on his deepest notions.  
Words he rests upon and are carefully
chosen.  That’s where you come in my
Sir Laureate to be.  You shall stencil in
his every mention.   Also when in the
company of others, for our home shelters
the wise and few.  You shall know the
trust he imbeds in his last desires ~
and your duty to carry them write.  So
willing if you may ~ cement his vision
as your duty ~ and leave your craft for
a journal of reason.  Your feather shall
carry you kindly if you choose to write.

to be continued...

Once upon a time, long long ago
And angel and a demon met
Both assigned to work on earth
To follow respective fates.
Once the jobs were done,
Both missions fin, complete
They set back to rest their feet
And bask in the setting sun.
At least the angel did.
The demon, here you see,
Was a serpent, or so they say
And of feet he had none.
A flaming sword was missing
But ah, what else was new?
They waited, talking until dawn
And then off the angel flew
They now had new missions,
Which sometimes conflicted
But tell me honestly,
What else would you have predicted?
So through the millenia they worked
The demon and the angel.
The angel shone, the demon lurked
But not as well as before
And through the years that passed them by
They began to form a bond, unheard of in all lore.
Though one a sinner, one a saint
Both found they truly had
A friend in enemy lines, and wondered;
Was it really truly so bad?
Though forces of good and evil,
They had some common ground
Of the Father and the Devil
No easy master was to be found.
This demon and this angel,
Though as different as could be
Were assigned the same mission
And it became clear to see
No longer could they fight
No longer could they be friends
They must form a new alliance
One to last beyond the end.
And it was plain to see
This was a good omen

Then I think when I was young, I didn't stop to ponder
only went to gather - days of sun and flowers
little feet to storm the street of puddles
splashing ever homeward, popsicles
my tiny toes, to warm again
my love like a fire

Fashion this as liquor to give spirit to
a song in write.  Seen seldom to weigh
words at play in search, sewn
expensive for time spent in trust and
recite.  Penciling not for profit so
rhythmic this may show.  Find in the
presence to open and reflect our
woes.  Only prescription for
uncommon those in write.  A same
those who compose.  This on display is
the compromise of sheltered dreams
and the soul, of rhythm in gentle prose.


This is the allure of the jewel of
life.  Sent as promise a same a
wish.  Stem those genes and make
heavy this vision and prayers in
might.  These are our rays made ink, to
weigh the pressures of waves constant
in cycle, to detract from nature’s
Heavenly sight.  Lost we shall dream
and ever so patiently grow old ~ but in
heart live bold.


Rugs were in Persia mathematically
correct and with an Indian craft
colorful, Heaven sent.  Only captured
in a metaphor this day, so men do
master, so simple this way.  Simple this
as to measure the years past, shudder
away tears, for the river purifies our
passions commandeered.  So culture
our gardens to prosper and replenish,
in the green untamed, and natural in
wonder, behold.


Today we thimble a sew for tomorrow,
for our craft is spared only to simple ~
ness of editing, not journeyed journals
to an ever-changing composition.  
Perhaps unfamiliar this vest, this
life.  Sample the living, in books that
inspire.  Dismal I think the desire to
purify a pen in this heavy practice, a
dance an art.  Time lends a flavor,
marinating appealing to a fashion so
write.


Always calm to prolonged righteous
reason, modern making, yet captured
still as storytelling.  Uncommon
to cues, but refreshing at leisure, is now a
computer who makes simple what once
was wasted time.  Measures made in
this art are laborious, the passion is
for the pen, reel it in as your tool,
rations will in turn ~ give as a well and
nature and sow, the seed of the write.  


Refinement ~ un-forsaken, notes of
detail, must reinvent and inscribe in
ink.  The bank of intuition lay tender as
our diction.  Replenish in the soil of
our Native grounds to seed another
tool, the luxury of our lingo.  For
inspirations may befriend or become
uncharted if left in the cold.  Sold but
without a surrender to all integrity, we
will call for many souls to ship and
receive what Forefathers intended.  In
over our heads, over watering our
behaviors, half unknowingly over
diluting our mental treasures, is this
the liquor of life, all too fancy in
measure but it was the tea of rebellion ~
and so I toast ~ to a drink tonight.


Inherent as memories of a generation
now surely within time, we will fill the
promise within crafted lines, and
file away ~ many promises ~ many
revisions ~ many times.  In spoil we shall
not surrender our bounty of honesty
and wisdom, so gray in years we
mend.  Dent our self-serving self ~
respect, make and justify the wheel in
role common.  Like a beard in keep,
intention is relevant.  Surely women
refine makeup as to show beauty in
character.  Thus what we intend to
refine is an endeavor to unwrinkled
and celebrate the qualities of growing
old.  Time is of new defining, for the
times are naturally at all times in
ritual of change.


Memories to grace the gift of sight ~ are
the shades to carry our reflections
away.  One, who trusts and so cares,
lay in the daydream of light.  In a wish
sent salient, reference to eyes unveiled,
patiently as a seed shall ripen, the
flavors of life will flower in springs
day.  We hanger ~ thus shelter, the rags
made clothes, best when leather to
weather firm and tight.


Regift the promise, to harness the
wind and make words potent as those
before did without regret.  Today in
general we lean and conform on the
fundamentals, too disciplined, mirror
of stale literature.   Similar to wood
varnished but without the stains of
life.  First revision is not for giving,
only what is taken, luxury of
time.  Color your copies of the wood
you talk in and pencil in your
pressures to relieve the pain, simple ~
ness and cold feet lay sold, as buttered
bread to fill.  But imperfect, so
forthcoming, wills the literature of
today ~ finding promise in ceremony
by charting drafts and revisions to
send in message to those young in
read.  This voyage is regretfully gentle
as our host made monumental any
verse, so breathe within the soul and
hearts of men, to find new styles to
milk the mind of reason.  Leafs from
the tree of intuition ~ censure the
picture, sell in the filter of Freedoms
fight, not first drafts ready when
write.  


Battered but purely by pace and
meager beginnings, the wave of
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will saddle and shelter the idea
profound.  Don’t toss away the raisin
of a pen in hand,  for we lean to easily
in bits and bytes.  Promise of Heaven's
pennies falling in rhythm will sing
tonight.  


Majestic in find, common in ground,
gift a find, in leisure, in time.  Gather
they guard and uphold the greater
good, not to entertain but inspire.  Just
as ones soul is when right.  Humbled
in behaviors so chips in clever may
fall.  But poker face we have become,
once centered in earnest of essays in
rent, now owners of ideas
embellished ~ in verse ~ our native
treasures.  Second we charter the raft
of ideas in mend, to conceive works so
aspiring as the poets and linguists of
historic claim.  So riddled ~ so
mastered.  Surely a new discontent
shall offer, in a pebble of examples
met, but with practice and structure
our youth will pen.  


Demand must be patient, for
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will nurture and mother our future
Leaders to a discipline in their own
right.  Never forget the days of past
generations for they marveled in the
arts ~ and in rain it falls in our hands
~ to luster and defend.  Poetics are too
political if not in share.  Protection of
this is how Freedom was rung.  The
hungry will maintain its resolve and
rightfully so.   Riddled as sow ~ these
lentils, this meal, these feathers, this
ink ~ shall fuel the fire.  A dance in the
pillows of night ~ shall brush the painting
in the Autumn of ones days.  Flaccid in so
many ways.  


Glorified by the shadows of
protection, but only one day is stored
for this intention.   Freedom is in the
work engraved beside it, within it,
sharing we celebrate it, and our Brave
provide it.  Celebration comes by way
of duty and hard work, and is rises
high and early in the dawn.  Yes, on
the Forth Day of July.  Food and
pleasures are gifts for price paid by
our Soldiers and Agencies who protect
and defend our freedom and intelligence, and
calmly watch over it as we carry
along.  All under the calm watch of
Gods umbrella.  Future dreams are
blessed a same, for all under this Flag
by notion alone, seam and dress and
hence sail ~ with solemn truth.  Trusting
the winds of reason to keep us Forever
Free and on course to replenish the
soil, for those young in years.  Students
in the day dream of life are in the send
to allow their pen to charter this
peaceful but daunting Nation to one of  
peace and prosperity.  Willingly and
calm the lion stares afar from
American shores, Democratic in nature and
always reinventing in this idea we
call ~ the American Dream.