to think
that to think is not
what it is to feel.
and to think
that the thought is not
what it is
when it is,
but an afterthought
of the feel felt.
and if the thought of that feel
is not at all real,
then what is that feel?
help
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
we laugh
but it's not funny.
we laugh
because we don't know
what else to do.
the tears run
into my eyes
and your blurred outline
pulses and dims.
i laugh
once i cant see
you at all anymore.
you laugh
because it's done
and over.
we laugh
but it's not funny.
we laugh
because the feel is gone.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
It all started out innocently enough,
Shooting the breeze,
Smoking the stuff.
"Let's get outta here."
"Yeah! Lets take the **** off."
"Where we going?"
Don't know.
"How long we gonna be?"
Don't care.
Wherever we go
I guess we'll be there.
So we rolled up the joints,
Rolled the windows down,
Lit that **** up
And got the **** outta town.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 11:40 AM UTC
I am perfect
in those moments
which wont amount
to anything at all.
When no one
is watching,
Where no one
can hear,
I’ll compose
wonderful wisps
you will never
be near.
I am perfect
in those moments
that always
disappear.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
When you ask me that question.
When your eyes plead
for me to say something.
When you want a little lie
or concession,
just a little splash of cool water
to squelch the flame.
*I stare back.
Empty. Black.*
I can't lie.
Despite the hurt,
this controlled burn
of low ground foliage
and scrub trees,
will, eventually,
make way for the life
strong enough to last.
I wont let that volatile fuel
build up
until it chokes out
those beautiful sentinels
just beginning to grow.
And even the smallest spark
unleashes a fire
that wont stop
until every branch and beast
crumbles ashy into the breeze.
Dead.
I take a deep breath.
I got nothing to say.
I'm just gonna fiddle my fingers,
watch you squirm
and let you figure it out
as it quietly burns.
*A little bit of pain never hurt anybody,
if you know what I mean.*
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 11:39 PM UTC
The box of fire-starters I had found in the back closet
seemed very simple in their use.
Simply turn the curved side down
and apply a flame.
We really wanted a fire.
Not only were we in need of that comforting presence,
but the spectacular show of trees and mountains
had disappeared with the sun
and the images of windy lake ripples, although profound,
seemed already years in the past.
We had the night to look forward to,
and our enthusiasm for the stars
would be exercised by our frequent excursions
to **** down some cigarettes out in the parking lot.
So it was decided,
this fire would be our inside entertainment for the evening.
The little black bic seemed a bit inadequate,
but the situation was soon remedied
by the discovery of a larger and quite adequate butane torch.
Now we are in business.
Despite the new firepower
only a small flame caught.
After spending a winter without heat,
in a home that hemorrhaged warmth,
I had become proficient in starting fires
with wet logs and numb fingers,
leaving me with a tendency to add too much fuel.
The little flame was adorable.
it wobbled back and forth on the flat side of the fire starter,
reaching up towards yesterday’s paper
and the cardboard case of Coors from last night.
I felt like a proud parent when it’s wispy tendrils
finally got a hold of the remnants of the pasts dubious reminders.
I’d spent my youth in that one room cabin.
Weekends I would roam the mountains
and dig deep holes in the snow to hide in.
Unfortunately, due to a small oversight,
I had never properly learned quite the trick
for opening up the flue.
I assumed, quite wrongly, that the wee bit of airflow from the fireplace
insinuated proper ventilation for the impending combustion.
A fire alarm
is one of the most panic inducing sounds.
We tried desperately to knock the flue open
praying that the growing fire would have room to escape
and save us from the dismal fate
of burning down my families favorite weekend getaway.
Mere moments after admiring the fragile
and fleeting existence of my little flame that could,
I drenched a towel in the sink
and smothered it out
before any more damage could be done
(which really only consisted of wet ash).
We spent the rest of the night smoking cigarettes,
getting high in the floodlights
and twitching with the panic induced paranoia
the aborted fire left in our chests.
And later, once I had gone back to the real world,
I learned that the flue lever had to move,
not left and right,
but up and down to open and close.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:12 AM UTC
Yeah,
I play guitar.
I just sit there and pluck one string.
Who says a magician can't be an artist?
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 9:00 PM UTC
This life, although startling in its brilliance,
remains confined to the electrical shadows
cast on the walls of our brains.
Do you ever feel…
no, no, no
not feel.
Well maybe feel...
or sense…
that everlasting something
sometimes off in the distance I can see…
I’d love to take my hands
and, like the meaty instruments they are, dance
sweet symphonies up and down
your body.
Your mysterious mountains I wish to see closer
to land my ***** machine
among majestic silver seas and
strange beautiful grass of green.
I would use my subtle touch to say
what I couldn’t any other way and
drag you down to the depths.
But things are not so simple
in life
as in our thoughts,
nor so rough
as our poor idiotic language.
*Every hand, give me your hand.
I’ll talk to you, you wont understand.*
These electrical shadows cry at the ultimate,
but our mere conception shames it.
Like the dream tigers we desperately try to craft
they continue to disintegrate
like the castles made of sands,
rocks piled on rocks
reaching for the stars.
The firmer the hold,
the quicker it slips away.
“Just try squeezing the truth from water,”
the angels sing to me in my sleep.
And it’s the love of dreams
which is so greedy for recognition
swiftly performed in the sight of all.
And it’s the waves I feel…
well maybe not feel.
And I wanna say **** you”
because I still love you.
I sense…
well maybe not sense…
And I feel
my soul being slit up as if by a razor.
frenzied but beautiful and
an awful ambiguity grinning over it all,
cackling out the Tao’s opening words,
lukewarm to the point of being
enigmatic,
“The truth that can be told, that is no eternal truth.”
I guess after the laughter, then comes the tears.
**** you, Lao Tzu
and your ****** ancient wisdom.
Why you staring at my finger when I’m pointing at the moon?
I got nothing at all.
The center, unapproachable
forever.
You’re willing to die you coward
but not to live.
Love life more than the meaning of it.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
When life comes to a point of light
trapped between the folds of dreams,
something needs to be done
in order for me to let go
and keep moving on.
When the light filters through the branches,
through my window shades
and through my sleepy eyes,
it hums me a tune of lost planets
and their eleven moons
playing amongst the rings.
The sweet nectar melody calls
and I start to walk.
I walk away slow into the languid ooze
humming and stepping the song
I will never remember
even if I choose to.
I walk slow,
as if I come from so far away
I never expect to arrive.
And that’s just perfect.
The sky and the street
and the breath of the trees
gently caress and remove the stress
in void waves of undulating bliss.
To free my mind and body
of the barbed spikes
that rob the eternity trapped in each moment,
I got to keep walking,
because if I stop
thoughts of the past
and worries of the future
collapse my ability to see, to hear, to feel
and to breathe.
I walk slow.
I got nowhere to go.
I got a moment stretched to infinity.
And that’s just perfect.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 6:17 PM UTC
split finger tips
numbly bat
at the bits of memory
scattered in the snow
their touch slowly recedes
deep
to the sunken eyes
these helpless orbs
guide pathetic hands
fumbling with that forgotten feel
they watch as jagged shards
of broken senses
tear at paper skin
to reveal frozen veins
gasping for one spurt
of lovely red life
to ignite in the white
listen,
the final whisper winds
along breathless fissures
my cold love sighs to see
the first few fingers
into ghostly splinters shatter
and
without much fuss
drift back to the snow
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 9:19 PM UTC