God loves a hill and he made them round
God loves them auburn and he made them brown
he made them firm and he made them soft
and how they move as they walk only God so talks
(I stop what I'm doing and I pretend not to watch.)
I’m a cannonball that’s untethered loosed
I’m the deck on a ship
who doesn't love a good storm
they come as dappled light
upon my forest floor
filtering through the trees
and I’d swear in their presence
I become a cathedral
I can sense their divinity
they take my breath here's when:
when all the air is sucked out from the room
I'm in
it's how puzzle pieces fit
and they know they just belong
it's about how nature loves a crooked line
who doesn't love a crooked song
it’s about take Botticelli when Venus
emerged from the sea a fully grown woman:
paint her some clothes on
and if I may Lord
if only to
allude
hint
suggest
this blessing from which sprang
the most beauteous bountiful
and bouncy of your creations
from out of your vastness
incomprehensible and magnificent
have mercy on us Lord
who can resist fragility and blue steel
that mix of loose with tight
the stillness and the storm
the soft on the edge of firm
the contrast of a thousand turns
the dark weaves in da light
you killing me Lord
you killing me

in your magnificence.

I'm not a poet. I'm just a writer trying
to find a place to rest my pen
somewhere between the sonnets
and the story books

The ink runs dry and the pages
o v e r f l o w
but from which end,
I just don't know

its a funny feeling;
or lack thereof
when you finally realize

you don't care,
you don't give a shit
nor does anyone else

and yet,
you feel as though
you maybe should

so you act.
you pretend to be someone
who you know isn't real

a fake person.
in a pretend body
being who they aren't

only because,
the pressures get to you
with everyone else pretending too

you change,
feel like its normal
to hide who you really are

someone who:
really doesn't care
truthfully doesn't give a shit

flowing like water in a hillside river
your words pour from your mouth
and form cool pools of liquid good vibes in my content ear
i cannot fathom, you have the tangled pathways of my mind mapped out,
your feet know just were to land and where not to stand
i know because your words are pure reflection
of what my inner thoughts are begging to hear

your eyes are the light moon in my dreary midnight sky
your tongue the soft flame that lights my way
your breath so warmly sweet and fresh it is the only thing my aching lungs will accept
your hands bleed colour back into the black and white melancholy my mind has grown accustomed to

i love you (but i hate how i need you)

Today I come to the ends of my own unwinding. There is a lens piece around the corner on the docks. there are stair who don't relate to you. There is a truck with a window and a sign light up with a soft yellow spot light. As if to jump-launch straight out of the vehicle passing straight into space. In a world where you have perspective and see fit only to see today. There was a man I knew existed before who named out a name that I couldn't and nor would I ever have. There is a mad concrete haze stuck in our teeth! The downstairs gremlins drive semi trucks down the streets, they know the road are too narrow and the still go. Fat chance for that man who is with only himself on a bench, in the rain, by the truck, on the sand in some beech ignoring any demand of the world. So much has to be lost before defeat comes as a cold drink under the stars.

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.

We are the stardust
Of the broken
And the damned

We are the followers
Of angels
And of sinners

We walk alone
In fields of gold
And fields of green

We are the dreams
Of all the dreamless children

But, they say
I am different
And they say
We are not the same

Look up
Watch the sky
And listen
To all the cries
Of the alone
Who shriek in vain

We are part
Of a movement
Changing the world
In a matter of words

We walk alone
In step with others
Our brothers and sisters
Who we may not know

Today
We link arms
Away, away, away
We go
Illuminating the night
With the daylight
In our souls

Today
We form reality
Today
We form the world