I think about
the veil most
of us
live
under.  

the one
that seeks to
distance us
from
the ugly,

brutal,

severe directness

of the cold scales
of survival.

-we are not so far
removed.

   the 9 to 5
    the supermarkets
     the advertisements
      the entertainment
       the gas stations
        the toilets
         the dinnerware
          the morning talk shows
           the sidewalks
            the right angles
             the hot showers
              the doors
               the locks on the doors
                ...
it all adds
to the illusion
of
exception.

they're all
jumping
monkeys clamoring
to distract
and
avert.

this man-made
cacophony is
a powerful
hypnotic
and we
succumb
to our own
enchantments
quite easily.


                                                     I lost
                                                sight of  the
                                            sun below the  h
                                             orizon.   I had t
                                               oo many que
stions to ask before the earth came between us.  and now the night
                                reminds me that she never left.
                                            mute         music
                                            magic       mother
                                                          ­I
                                                        see
   ­                                                    you

you are a fisherman's
net.  

you stretched
out
as soon
as you left my hands
to catch all the
fish you
could



and



i'm sure you did -



schools
of them.

you're very good

at catching
lots
of
fish

but



you're not so
good at
catching just

one.

every summer,
there's
dead baby birds
on the
walkway leading
to the
entrance of
my apartment
building.

last summer there
were three, all
pinked skin, just
a few inches
apart
from each other.

the ants
found them
first, scurried all
over them,
devouring
what
they could before
the cat(s) got
to them
at night.

this summer i've
only seen one,
nice and
plump with
plumage. this
morning
it was gone
too though,
nothing but
the pile
of tree seeds
it was on
remains.

they nest there,
in the dryer
exhaust
vents on
each floor.
-drawn there, I
guess, by the
warmth
and lofty protection
from predators.

thing is, they
clog the exhaust
with their nests
and people
complain about
wet clothes.


...warm

and safe from
predators,


but not safe
from one
phone call
to management.

I hear people say severely romantic
things to each other.
I see them believe it as
their eyes swell.
I notice their desperate
hooks finding a mark,
any mark.

they begin to construct
a mythos immediately upon
initial mutual affirmation.
they design
every reason why
this 'other' is the only
'other' that
makes sense, that
could ever make
sense.

they enchant themselves
and each other.
they build
an elaborate simulation
together and
promise/doom themselves
to never leave it.
they swear and curse
to feed the pantheon of
gods they created to
rule over them.

they commit themselves
to the
chains of
a shallow love.

but hey what do I know, right?

I'm just
another fool
waiting to get
what he
deserves.

knock, knock, knock*

I open my door
and am immediately
greeted by
three 19 year old elders.

They want to talk to me
about Jesus and
their version of
a sacred text and I want
to talk to them about: God,
Philosophy, Religion,
Art, Music, etc.

but I just put a greasy
pan on med-high
heat to cook some
bacon and it's
filling my apartment
with smoke.

Yet, my curiosity of
these creatures at
my door temporarily
supersedes kitchen
safety protocols,
so I start to oblige
them and even
entertain some light
discourse in the
hallway.

I begin to explain my
perspective when
my attention skips back
to the pan
and the hot metal
smell tickling my nose.

-protocols back in place-
I decline their invitation
to visit their temple, now
or any time in the
future, then shake
their hands.

I accept a pamphlet
from the last one,
"The Plan of Salvation",
after he scribbles a
phone number on
the back.

I wish them luck
and close my door
without locking it,
stride over to the skillet
and take it off
the burner.

Good thing I removed
the batteries from
all the smoke
detectors.

It doesn't matter anymore
It doesn't pull at him
It doesn't flatten him
It doesn't even warm his skin just below the surface

He remembers betting the farm
again and
losing
again

He remembers conjuring her image
with another inside her

intense passion
blind lust
temporary bliss
braided into
one
          juxtaposed
by his familiar
personal hell furnished
with a front row
seat to her
exploration of hedonism

ironically, he is busy
exploring asceticism - although
it is with vague
volition, as in
he does not set
an intention thus,
but finds that
his being naturally
collects there
sometimes

Love as an
intoxicant
Love as
ignorance
Love as
withdrawal

In the wake
of attachment
his ribcage breaks
open like grand
french doors into
which the entire
sea pours

The weight of all
that water
on his heart
showing him
the way

I remember you.

Head down, trudging onward.
What nobility is there
if you never stop the momentum?
Blindly following dogma.
Hold it up to the light.
Weigh it against your heart.
Can it carry you to paradise?
Does it need your protection?
Has it atrophied your voice?
Tonight,
scale the walls of your city.
Look to the forest.
Follow the red wolf into the night.
Many eyes will you see in that darkness,
many voices will you hear - it
matters not, you must do this.
Reach the broken bell,
shatter your reflections.
Smelt the ore you find there;
refine it.

In the stillness of the forge
every spark is a star.
I wish for you to find this place.
You will need it for every new
form you take.

I remember you.

She steps outside of what
I could fathom.  A soft
recollection of nothingwoman, a
spectre splitting me like firewood.

In time all my memories
will burn me out leaving
behind what I always was without the fuel
-some sort of holding pattern
for whatever courses through
the circuit; molting matter
in continuous expression of itself.

I am immanence incarnate.

What came forth
     but this,
successful in a
     solitude not
yet understood.  In
     a way he
lays, afraid of
     too many ways
to lay waste
     to his wasteland.

-such a cryptic oversight.

Now, at night
when the pennies
drop his pockets
fill.

"what a terrible thing to waste!", they say

"all in good time."

"one foot in front of the other."

"if it's meant to be, it's meant to be."

Oblivion comes with a smile
and a promise.

There's nothing more
true than letting
go.  Ironically, there's
nothing to hold
onto anyway.

Flowers blooming in
a wide field
following the Sun's
arc - there is no
zenith, only what
they're after.  Still,
they move with
the wind whether
it's gentle or
violent.  And when
they are uprooted
and torn apart
they do not blame
the wind for they
have done what
they could and still
are.  Even in pieces,
with ripped petals and
broken stems, they
know how to give.

Now hanging on to
something almost
completely fabricated
in my mind

I'm over you
     -I'm not over you
I don't miss you
     -I miss you

I have to
laugh at myself
or I will
rot from the inside

That ship has sailed
yet
I know there's
still a place
in me for you

Maybe it will
always be there
and
     in the years to come, it will flourish with flora and verdure
     until
          your absent form no longer stands out

          ...in your emptiness
          there is growth,
          wild growth

Who I am
now.
Who I am
now...
  Who I am
becoming.
Who is yet
to be.
Who may look upon me
and wonder how he
could ever look like that
or
live like that
and
he may laugh truthfully.
Even knowing
doesn't change who I think
I am now.
I am bound
by the boundless.
I am tethered, somehow, to
each version of myself.
Every iteration.
Every refraction.
     L i g h t
     L  i  g  h  t
     L      i      g      h      t
lightness
existing in the most graceful weave
between each of me.
Constant
but impermanent.
Influential and free.

Just outside, the
rain

plays.  An iron gate is rusting shut
across from

traffic lights
maintaining perfect
indifference
to
a newspaper
on a bench losing its
ink to the gutter.

I get the feeling
you've done this
before.  Now

I see,

I         was             just
                       one
                 part
            of
      the
cycle you like to repeat.

And so it was,
the brief respite attained
through our
lips and arms

and

bodies,

a sunset
mistaken
for a sunrise.

I was just happy to see those
colors stain my sky again,

I refused to
see
the
sun
sinking.

I get the feeling
I've done this before.
Now I see, you   were   just
                                  one
                           part
                     of
               the
        cycle  I  like  to  repeat.