The bog in my arm pits and my oily complexion are subtle reminders.

I step over three-day-old dog ****, pick up my guitar, play three chords then put it down.

Sit down at my computer.  Watch **** for hours.

Futile.

New idea. Watch television.

Click the channel button a few hundred times and then some.

Finally, a scenario worth watching. A fragile, old man with shaky hands offering his wallet, pressed against a brick wall with a gun to his face, begging and pleading for his life. Without hesitation the petty thief shoots the poor ******* right between the eyes, killing him instantly and escaping with the wallet.

I start to imagine what it would be like to have that pistol in my face, threatened for my life. I couldn't be so **** lucky. However earlier today I did find a quarter with heads facing up...

I reach for my wallet and head out the door.

There is a certain misery bred
into children of the night,
most notably the 20,000 a month
born under a full moon,
a rare combination of being born
in the dark of night, yet under
bright white moonlight,
a mere 1/100th of the total born
each month.

If you are one of us you know it.

The moon is alive and effeminate,
pulls on us, pushes on us,
at least on us who call her mother,
and though she shines her sweet shine
her soul is as cold and indifferent as
the belly of a black hole,
and we will war with her influence
all the days of our life.

Chaos,
compulsions,
sorrows and sins
our constant companions.

For she alone
knows the effort it takes
for us to live ...

          The anxious tide within my head
           was put there by the moon,
           the ocean too, its waves of blue,
           respond to what she says

All our days a high wire act
where everyone looks on with
eyes wide and mouths agape,

and when the night comes
we are alone,
and in fear,
and the end of us is always near,
and our numbers will not cease,
her bright light will grant no peace.

she is a GRAND MULTIPARA

and INFINITUS GRAVIDA

while we are beggars and thieves,
tired as hell, asleep when awake
and awake when asleep,
swimming in brain matter
madness
and churning recollections
like a duck on a lake,
calm on the surface,
fast as hell underneath.

In the end
it’s the crazy debate
that brings us down,

          To find ourselves we lose our souls,
           to lose our pain we lose control
           to find the norm there is no peace,
           to lose it all she will not cease

The pendulum swings back and forth  
and there is no rest,

The ***** is out for blood,

and she pulls on us
and she pushes on us

          The push of truth, the pull of lies,
           the pull of hell that push denies.
           the push of God, the pull of sin,
           the pull of what we push will win

unless of course we break
and bleed out,

but she does not care,

there are many more
to take our place
and they like us
will find no rest.

feeling for feeling -
fingertips, foundations, friends,
they slip, they slip

i know not what i once knew,
but for always and forever,
there is more to know

growth is the answer that i get,
to whatever question i decidedly ask,
it's roots deepening and branches reaching

and the pain, it's brief, but deep,
haven't felt it in awhile,
but i know it's the good kind

loss is inevitable, but so is strength,
and the buckets never seem to empty,
no matter how much is poured

so, i will swim, paddle, and float
my way to a better existence
beyond the ether and into a new day

today i hold
the hand of existence,
of self, of muddled
understanding, and
sight through scratched
and hot-breath-fogged
lenses caught between
sun and tsunami

i will be still through
torrential downpours
of doubt, desire, and
detriment, because i
must learn to be still
and to be soaked to
the bone with what
each storm i've born
washes over me

while skin may prune
and hold moisture, mind
and soul will hold nothing
but the breath which
never ceases to come
and go, whether in
this life or the next

to be alive is not to be
conscious, but to be
conscious is to be
truly alive

i wish to be alive
i will be alive

and all will
begin and end
with a breath

White snow of petals
heaven drifts silent through the garden
Spring maple, catkins green aglow
love potion of pollen snows
barefoot - grounded in softest newborn grass

Breathing in.....
to be one with earth and trees, planted, rooted deep
awakened from hollow sleep
hands pressing into the spirit of Spring
touching the sacred, unseen

i'm not so in love now.
but love bargains for my emptiness.
it trips me up
and cries in the blue glum
whimpering for nothing more
than your sweet.
it kills the light and cadavers my living lungs.
it leaps into oblivion, more than it sinks
into pretty graves.

I'd like it if your orange were more blue.
If your red more green
and your eyes more less than moons
that break waves against me.
I glue glaciers to sun
to cool your Spring's mischief
and never am i happy to remove
from my stillness
between Us.

I am unjoyed
in the twine of our lost joy.
Made unkind in the rasp
of our sour glee.

I glue glaciers to the sun
to cool the misadventures
of our dire hope.
I noose the rope and sing
as you go beautiful
away

from me.