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~
Dressed for purgatory
But early to the party
So many bodies in the house next door
A living dance upon dead minds

A grocery store sunset
Thru the windshield of an SUV
Gets you distorted colors in
Gasoline rainbows
From those precise lines
Of the turning lane
Love ends at a traffic light

We do this to ourselves
All in the pursuit of happiness

Church of questionable things
Descending like vultures
Where idols once stood
For individual suffering

A pageantry of jackals
Quiet like sirens
Picking at parts of bad contestants
Playing a game called 'poisoned trees'
Fallen soldiers in strange negotiations
With meantime brides
Riding on the train of irresponsibility
For no apparent reason

We do this to ourselves
All in the pursuit of happiness

~
~
Once upon a timid willow

The sweetest songs of

A hyacinth girl

Floated on waterlilies

Had a sleepwalking lyric

The moorings of her heart

Overlooking undercurrent

As she dared all things

Gently down the stream

~
~
She is not our shrine,
she prays differently
with eyes wide open,
fingers on votive offerings,
preferring her solitude
in the Tea Garden, drinking light

Tomorrow on the tarmac
one flowered suitcase,
stamped for the city of neon people,
will travel to her song,
the pilgrimage of anemic lovers

Her hoisting from water,
(ampullae in hand),
and the unique boutique
growing out of
an alabaster chamber
bring monks out of hiding

The center line of her,
where the flower blooms forth
and learns by observation,
is still an unvisited temple

Until in season of calligraphy,
when she releases the Kogai
from her hair and sits with friendly toes
outstretched in the warm intimacy of
shared water

~
I really should write the perfect line
With perfect will and aim and time

And I really should do a lot of things
That I keep on hoping tomorrow'll bring

But it never seems to bring it
Just like I never seem to write it

I had meant to think of a happy ending
Or at least of a good one




Oh, bother
Sometimes things, like poems and people, they end up on paths that nobody intended for them.
It is okay to embrace a miss, I think.
Feeling feelings
Thinking thoughts
Acting like a body
Attached to a rock
There's something strange and tempting
All around me.
I feel you, unrelenting,

Gracing my something from somewhere.

Floating like a figment in the air
And you're so high up, we can't see you there,
But I know that you're somewhere.

My eyes are pinching close
Trying to spy your ghost;
Prove to myself that you're out there.

Like a wind dancing light on my skin,
I feel you at it again,
And at their end is my every hair.


If only you'd hold me closer.
I'd like to know that you really care.

My sweet, strange and unreal rover,
I'm getting older; wearing out all of my over-wear.


There's something strange and tempting
Tugging at me.
Almost begging to be,

To be my something from somewhere.

I'm longing, looking and I'm delighted to seek,
Though I'm still straining to see;
Oh, which form would you ask of me?

You could make yourself up most anywhere.

Your gaze is set and pressing through my being.
Because you're all that I see,
I'm staring into my mirror.

I guess I'm lucky it's to me that you speak,
From your elusive unseen,
Caught in your soft-spun somewhere.
There is something calling to each of us, from some unseen otherworld. My something, or at least the mask I attribute to it, whispers a song of delight, whimsy, and oddly mirrored natures. There are as many modes with which to love as there are reasons for the feeling.
To be alive
Is to be adrift.

To fight the sea
Is to know futility.
She is sprawled; a vast expanse
Her eyes are islands in the dark
Her breath pulls in and the seas abide
She takes a look through your eyes

"I am alive"
Don't let him hear you move
Don't let him hear you breathe
Because the moment he does
Will be the moment he seethes

Thunder without lightning
A hailstorm of teeth
What he thinks he's fighting
So easily beyond me

Don't let him know you live
Because that, he will not stand
The occupant above us
Is a truly troubled man
To hide one's self; not an idea so mind-boggling.
Though detailed, the mask belies the heart's sand-boxing,
"Immune to all toxins projected in offense".
It's nonsense, but needed for all that it off-sets.

It's hard to find strength in a world that won't want it
And, yet, harder still to sincerely be honest.
Self-critical composure of mine, as promised,
Lives effortlessly on; though hidden, undaunted.

Please excuse me for choosing words plainly unclear;
I am both a survivor and victim of fear.
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