The keys of the piano slipped and fell,
tumbling into oblivion.
The taste of horse tranquilizers,
the slow drip of distortion...
it twisted reality apart, and into something new.
I breathe, and the world changes shape,
As the music soars across the church.
Another line ties my blood to my mind,
and I begin to speak in riddles;
Altogether unbound by all the things I am.
Certain obligations will remain,
with a backyard reborn in Eden.
I can only hope I can separate
good from ignorance.
Now, in my acceptance of defeat,
I have proven myself better alone,
but with an open heart,
and open mind.
The witch lay a curse on me,
with the last ragged shriek of breath.
Then, the flames took on an
altogether different smell,
and though she writhed against the fraying ropes,
there was no hope.
And as the goddess fried,
we held hands and sang
of a better time, in a better place.
I felt the moon shivering,
wracked with fear for when
the sun would shine.
When Venus would rise from the ashes,
a phoenix, and love would live again.
Genius is obsessive;
it pulls the self away and directs will into creation.
When I dissolve into the mission,
there is no time for heartbreak.
Only the cold truth of reality,
and the voice within screaming:
"Keep pushing forward."
Then, the voice grows wings,
and it lifts me from pain into pain,
and I smile. I am one with the world,
and suffering is my weapon of mass destruction,
ready to destroy every comfort
until I am born again in fire.
Each holy moment,
flows swiftly into the next
while the Gods make love.
When I was young,
I had a dog who followed me everywhere.
We often walked along the sand,
and the waves would drown out the outside world.
Sometimes, I would find a crab,
and toss it to the dog.
Canines crushed its carapace;
an afternoon snack.
Once, though, I caught a big one.
I pulled it from its den,
and held it by its claws above the maw of death.
But I stopped;
and, slowly, I ripped off one claw.
There was no-one around.
I could smell the salt in the air,
and felt the drip of dog saliva.
I pulled off the other claw,
and held this helpless thing in my hand.
The dog whined.
My fingers closed around it;
a child's hand shattered the shell,
and crushed the goop within.
This happened on the beach in Madagascar when I was 10 years old.
When we are alone,
and our masks crumble,
we are confronted by the mirror.
you could reach out and touch
Your sickly reflection
stares back into you, and you are struck by
the confrontation between souls.
Break the mirror, and you will only be left with ****** knuckles.
Break yourself, however, and you will be born anew.
Silence gets dreary, some days.
The light tickles the eye in just the same way,
yet the voice of hope inhabits the quiet;
it becomes silence itself.
Then, reality gets a little more jarring.
Still, unquiet moments below the moon
will surprise me, and remind me that
the man I was is dead. He whispers,
"Revel in rebirth, and someday this will all
appear an unpleasant dream."
The glassy waters are chillier today;
the contagion of reds, golds, and browns
has spread from within, and the ancient ones
experience the slow ecstasy of death.
Winds of a harvest moon slow on the forest murk,
and a tide below the surface will become
a tsunami against an invincible cliff.
Release thyself to the flow
of eternity in infinity
and you will be reborn
by yourself and for yourself,
one with reality in ten dimensions.
The flash flood of euphoria,
is swallowed by the thirsty ground,
I will smile,
and fix my eyes on the desert sun.
I will grow roots and bloom,
an endogenous cactus,
while envious drifters lick the sand,
desperate for a drop of rain.
No names are eternal,
for their users are infinite.
And all things will become the next things,
and the cycle of changes will never end.
What you must accept,
in the intrinsic pursuit of happiness,
is that change is not the exception.
It is the only constant
in a world that does not care what you cling to.
It will take away what was never yours to have;
your illusory part in all things, in all times, in all places.
Silence doesn't come easily anymore;
we have abandoned ourselves
in favor of slot machines.
I have grown weary of spinning bells,
colored lights, and empty words.
Patience is my companion now,
and serenity follows closely behind.
I will walk the path alone,
and revel in the company of stillness,
as wanderlust guides me deeper
into the woods.
Forged in suffering,
and quenched by discipline,
we become strong.
A wall of swords is built
at the limits of our minds;
sometimes, we ***** ourselves,
and tumble headfirst into the
desolation of sleep.
It is no matter.
Venus will disarm Mars,
the blades will turn to roses,
a crown of blooming thorns;
and twice as deadly.
In a world of my own construction,
reality bends to my will.
Ancient secrets of ancestral blood
transmute to its inheritor.
The voice of eternity whispers my name,
carried on winds of rolling laughter
to my ear, waiting.
Naive enchantment behind child eyes
is transformed into something magic,
but real; second sight becomes
Soon, the joy behind my eyes will return,
forged in inner fire and whetted with love.
The pattern is the pattern is the pattern is the pattern.
The universe will give you messages, transcending time and space.
You must learn faith; trust in the universe and it will trust in you.
You are master of none, but a slave to no-one and to nothing.
Love is no longer a question of appearances.
It dwells in me now, and
slowly inflates, like a balloon filling with blood.
The passions of a dead man pulse through
blue veins. But love is not a one-way street;
still, how could one fall out of love?
My third eye is shut,
but I dream of you.
Remember how the ground lit up beneath our feet?
I cannot forget two souls intertwined,
and glowing beneath countless stars...
At the crossroads of euphoria, faith, and insanity,
one can learn a great number of things.
But if I have learned anything, it is the malleability of a constructed reality.
Anything is possible, and so everything is permitted.
The excesses of a younger self, somewhere behind me on an illusory timeline, have enslaved me to my self. This too is an illusion, but this knowledge does not serve me; even the most powerful truths can be largely irrelevant.
I walk down all paths at once, no longer bound by habits I pretend are beyond my control, and laugh, never again a slave to anyone or anything.
Hovering between two unstoppable forces,
I am frozen in time. In just a moment,
my atoms will be scattered. I can feel the distortion,
and I can smell my blood, and suddenly,
it is over. For an instant, my feeble consciousness pulses in the
moment of oblivion.
It is torn to shreds, and blossoms into an infinite garden.
I breathe love through my lungs,
where she lives,
in the Olivialvioli.
she squeezes, and I bleed faster.
"I'm not bleeding," I say.
There is no feeling in my fingers.
Part of me knows I am going to die,
but I'm too afraid to breathe in.
The Ocean swallows everything,
Gentle waves crash with the force of cars colliding,
and thirstily drink away the cliffs.
Beach houses, monuments to the capitalist aspirations of an illusory world, tumble into the surf.
Then, suddenly, the waves stop:
and the ocean swallows itself whole.
Breathing is like waves.
Disappointments and frustrations as old as time water the flower to blooming,
and the chemical smear of rage takes its toll on me, and the innocent.
The blossoms scream as they fall,
once more swept away into the breath's shores.
When you feel the rage build, remember to breathe.
And so, despite every attempt on my part to avoid it,
circumstance has stolen sunny San Diego from me.
A simple life has humbled me with love,
and I am once again confronted with another summer of changes.
Drifting away from a God's body,
I discover the holiest of grails between the ears and eyes.
Soon, I will be uprooted,
and twice the heartbreak, that of loving doubly, will make my soil barren.
I will absolve all my regrets,
knowing I acted righteously, with neither anger nor avarice.
My body is my mind, and I am my-
self. I will master them all.
I am boiling and bursting forth
from black sands where the waves whisper.
I am born again,
with the ferocity of ten-million suns,
and all the serenity of
learned men will remain
For it is better to be alive,
a drum which draws the tribe
Written on a nudist beach
First impressions are fickle things;
but they aren't always wrong.
Because, when I met you, the red of
your dress became the tint of my lenses;
or rather, yours, when I'd wear them.
But the red of the dress doesn't
compare to that of the sweatshirt
that smelled like you; it'll never be as red
as sunsets on the roof, or a burning bowl past 4am.
And when I look back, you're behind me, and we skate away to the next adventure.
I wrote this poem for my love, Ashley.
A thousand times in a life,
we confess ourselves to an ear,
and in retelling all our strife,
we are redeemed of every fear.
A part of you hates listening,
within yourself you must destroy;
and now your soul is glistening,
with the sweat and blood of joy.
If happiness were easy,
we'd live inside a shadow.
I know it may sound cheesy,
but you simply must let go.
To the lover of my youth,
and the yellow in my tooth.
To the flower's greatest prize,
and the red behind my eyes.
God knows I love you, you're green but true blue,
oh Mary Jane, my girl, this one's for you.
A filter of eucalyptus,
enshrouds my mind and its seat,
and so I consciously let them both go.
I release them into a cultivated
I sink into the nothing between
me, myself, and I
and there, sticky in the tree sap of eternity, is the ecstatic bliss
reserved typically for the dead,
or the insane.
At the opposite end,
of all the substances which shake me,
are these moments of sleepless repose
before I will myself to action.
A sunbeam strikes a gong within the soul,
the forest whispers through the canopy.
The naming of the rain reveals the toll,
wind blows away the self to set me free.
I strip away my armor without fear,
the body underneath has been dissolved.
I sacrifice my sight to be a seer;
through astral eyes, I judge, and am absolved.
As joy takes up its journey by my side,
And I take in the things I'll never do,
I let go of my arrogance and pride,
now the only way out is fully through.
Confounded by the cosmic, I will sing:
"Spread love to every person, place, or thing."
In the perpetual pursuit
of planetary pleasures,
a purported supporter of such
paranormal potions must
ponder: is pleasure, in principle,
or perhaps is it a journey,
from point O to point P
purposely pouncing to provide
pyromaniacs with plentiful
planks for the pyre.
Sometimes, the meaning behind words
doesn't reveal itself to you
until it's already too late. You look
at a past version of yourself, unable to change
the words they're about to say,
that you said.
But it's okay. Because you can always say words.
newer, more perfect words,
an unholy spirit, and otherwise entirely omnipotent God
revealed itself to me there, hiding behind the eyes
of the lighthouse.
The spirit, for a glimpse of eternity, plunges the mind into an ice bath of adrenaline and fire.
I am reminded now of the name of fear,
and once Her name is spoken, nothing will ever be okay again.
I speak in tongues understood only by paranoiacs and vegetables,
once more made aware of a prophecy, and what it reveals about nothing.
I wrote this poem about an unusual experience I had while visiting another world.
There is a snake there, waiting
venomously for an apple that makes its fangs fall out.
The first of sentient apes turn on immortal creators,
and are charged in the eye of Justice
for every extraordinary discovery in the ensuant history of
Encumbered by the lunacies of men,
the seed of joy lays in a greater mind.
The breath will draw you closer to the den,
where every answer waits for one to find.
The self blows as the wind through all the sky,
Monsoons and sighs blown from a single Air.
The wanderings of lust begin to die,
New flowers grow from bones without a care.
The flow of water carves the ancient rock,
as cosmic wheels kaleidoscope through time.
A shepherd hunts a wolf to save a flock,
but canine birth remains its only crime.
Release thy worldly ties upon the skin,
Ascend the stony staircase deep within.
I wrote this poem from the bottom up, in a forest grove, with my love and closest friend.
Oftentimes, you realize, that the shaking of an intangible void, desperate, clinging before it too is lost on an otherworldly transform of otherwise incomprehensible, nightmarish, or null thoughts, buried between the conceptions of self-deliverance and a bone-knuckled release into an endlessly exploding oblivion, or the intangible touch of a thousand tiger's treasuries.
Not all are as me; a rope into the cave of the mind,
and a connoisseur of the pleasure in surrender.
Most are too afraid,
of all the broken things they'll find
in there; littered with dust, older than the room that it lays in.
But I too am afraid.
But it is not the undulating of neon kamis,
or the whispers of wind
that I fear.
It is the knife in the dark, unseen by the first nor the third,
until it is already too late.
Smile for your time in the dungeon,
for the recompense you pay
is a learning experience.
When the waves dance,
and as the tumbling void laughs,
and the coming whisper of the old tree shivers,
And we awaken in a gleaming world,
and tears wept in the beauty of
are kept in jars by homunculi.
Time surrenders to the mistakes of a younger
self, ignorant of the joy in stupidity.
There is something innate,
when I look into the light.
It is, as the whisper of a spirit,
with neither form nor sound,
an invisible fly, beating at the eardrum
and its music moves us like no other.
And I look into the lights of the lecture hall,
and tears melt from icicles behind eyes,
and I whisper to nobody, "I surrender."
Where the trees clear, and the flowers rule,
Come with me baby, don't be cruel,
I want to be alone with you,
Alone beneath the sunny blue.
And when the stars tear through the dark,
Look in my eyes and light a spark,
Darling you give me the crazies,
I'm spinning, dancing, on the daisies.
Love is of the divine;
it persists where its origin dies,
and it is absolute,
for it is love.
It can be a short lived romance,
or a moment of affection for a passing stranger,
or a hug from a long lost friend
but love will always find you.
It will whisper your name on the wind,
and it is in the embrace of an incoming wave,
and high above us,
in the clouds,
where a caricatured mouse
waves down to you,
before dissolving back to mist.
The warping of the walls,
fills my troubled mind with dread,
For in the neon of the night,
is the fear of being dead.
The shaking of the floors,
burns my mind beneath the sun,
And the gunshot lodged inside me,
was the race's starting gun.
Now the air is caving in,
and reality's a lie,
So I jump off this mortal plane,
and sink deep into the sky.
Suddenly, in darkness,
I lose all sense of control
And in the place where I should be,
is a tattered rainbow hole.
This poem was written after my first ego death experience.
Climbing trees and smoking canna
bis, it's bliss, over the abyss.
No pants, just bandanna,
Screaming "ooh ooh aah aah"
from inside my cabana.
I go to a weekly poetry night, and the theme this week is monkeys.
"I'm sorry," I remembered saying.
"I'm having a hard time with words right now."
My brother nods his head,
unsurprised and worried.
"I'm going to go get another drink," he says,
and I understand that much,
before words lose all meaning
There once was a husband named Tuck,
a lazy man, truly a schmuck,
His wife knows he's a ****,
but smiles coming from work,
Cuz he spent college learning to ****.
Tuck's Tail is his p3NiS
Daylight rises on a foreign sky,
and night descends within my weary mind.
This ****** jet lag eats away at me,
To Father Time's "*******" I am resigned.
Concrete and steel,
Struggle and claw at the soil;
yet,there is no hope for the sons of man.
For their grandmother,
and Time herself,
are against them.
One can be inspired to write by something as innocuous as a slab of concrete sinking into soil.
With the sting of thorns,
nestled in ***** feet,
There is a pull of the world toward the
It draws me here, to the space between
tides; to graffiti, and rats.
For there is peace in what we leave behind.
The eagle sits above the rafters,
Watching the comings and goings
of the dead.
The dragon growls silently below,
poised for action
that will never come.
And I sit below them both,
noting the things
nobody else would bother with.
When there's nothing to write about, look around you.
For the rainbows and the stars,
For guitars, cigars, and scars,
To all the things I'll ever see,
I devote this poem to thee.
There is beauty in everything.
The lonely spider,
inhabits the still places
until they are gone.