I went to the rocks
Found my brother there
Drinking on the rocks
He splashed and he sank

I saw my mother there
Wiping off the rocks
She went to sleep
Swallowed by rocks

I stood on the rocks
Waiting for a moment
I stand on the rocks
I stood

Set sail to the west
Aspirations tied to the mast
Gliding on the waves of deconstruction
Set sail to the moonlight
The soundtrack plays on
Swing with the ropes
As a man with wooden seams

In immobilized time,
I could find all that's mine.
In sacred seconds I lay,
Holding, yearning, circumspect in my movements

Traveler's time is newton's law.
You can change but you can never stay,
The motion sickness rolls down the cheeks
Dripping off of weary chins.

To live, to die
The buzz words of the Romance languages
They mean but nothing,
without the passage of time.
The beauty, the despair.
The words, the truth that catch you heart and your eye,
Are past, present, and future.
All the time.

All the natives strike up a match.
They watch, they dance.
The night blends with their flames, vibrant and young.
I follow her pine-scented hieness,
A dream of a girl.
And to bed I lay alone,
And to sleep I cannot fall.
Even with the bottles counting more.
Anchor to the weak and weep to their chief,
I've waited long enough in my own apathy,
Masochism poetry for small-town sympathy.
The line has ended,
And jump I must.
I'm trying to edit,
The parts I cannot trust.
But a night with you,
Bourgeois and red and true,
Might soften the blow,
And from my sullen head,
Imagination could brew.

Drank the morning rain and felt it in my chest
Clung, suspended with the fog on my vanity
I have a pencil to my temple,the graphite looks impressed

It sees the twitch in my neck, before you ever spoke with breath like turpentine
All in all the days are just one big joke
-I should be the chummy punchline

Thrills to pills to the body stills, we all will run dry. No dramatic end or cosmic bend, just a speck of dirt on Earth's shallow sigh.

Pencil to pen to stencil to end, carbon copies of an ideal. No man made normality or financial fatality, can mar what you feel.

Skin in linen so infringed in, does the future hold you so? Yes peers and stately fears can bring us to stow.

I know none of which I speak but a subtle weak week. A week far 60 years from now which you reflect how you lived your life without love to be found. And your hand will close and your muscles relax but with a stiffened heart and a metal back you'll whisper to the likes of me. And only drywall will see the cracks and only your logic or sore success will breathe.

Do you think I could fall away with October's leaves. The wind hits calm but true, the sun wakes for its bouts in the noon.  What's a campus fall to me? Do all these people know I see them? Am I a veiled expectant? An invisible crutch, my panning stare raising their arms there and back again as they follow the surveyed lines the pathways provide. It's prolonged smell of mud that takes me back. But ahead there's a campus fall. Equinox fear me not. I am not holding you to fate. I won't shiver or shrink if you miss the date. But I fear, oh what a pair, the campus and the fall, an anxious wait.

Silver-tongued silverback acrobat,
Sliver among passive track, those little tacks
Swing up high, sweep on by
The air is your medium, your cartilage courage
I thought I was something highly, flying freely, sighing too.

Cotton grass on trickling, bubbling, thinking brook
Garfish thought twice and took to my hook
Devour me I spoke to the placid sky
Leave me here, in Schrödingers hour,
If I reel in thine I may find the acrobat or an empty line.

Those old school friends with their cigarette lips
They don't think of the likes of me or you,
Up on the golden screen.
We weren't quite quiet or reckless
We trialled in something temperate but restless.
Something we bore down to bone,
A noisy belief in man, blurred like a Monet, believed to be etched in stone.
But those old school friends, like you and I, had frames to contain their Icarus flight.  Now, follow on in your new momentary monetary monastery you now call home.
The curious truth is the note is a note regardless of the flute. The credits close, the air stalled, and most rigorously life itself cares not for the "who", but slitheringly moves on.

My mate has midsummer light and it’s filling his cup
He’s getting closer up with the spark
hugging soft sheets as we speak
My voice is dry and tired it sounds just like all the moans and squeaks

Sitting, touching wrinkled forehead and callused hands
Another warm beer will read my mind
Pouring golden over my pining cheeks
Somethings wrong here and it tries
and tries to hide but it leaks

A morning so bright it’s white at the edges
holds his head in aches washes away at the walls of the trenches
Just a boy in a cobbler shop playing to his muse
Sewing men’s threads and pulling at rubber souls
Feeling a needle is not as sharp as it is dull
A metallic rust foamed in his workman’s sink
A trinket lay silently where only he could think to keep


An afternoon so gloomy it’s ripe like sweet trifles
A cold front sleeping across humid drowsy  tendrils
The treetops are trotted but not yet bare
The wind does not carry as much as it cares
A fermented love song torn in its callous drinks
The dream of the summer will fade in a week

A night so porous the skin yearns to breathe
The daily flick to an ashtray pins the beat of the city on a wreath
The street posts dare not glutton on as guidelines
The echoes don’t comfort as far as they try to hide
A pleasure in silent transfiguration of the dusk
A stalk so golden yet burdened to rot at the husk

Why is it so strange to me. We haven't talked in years, we weren't lifelong friends. We usually just sent messages electronically. Nothing but ill-fitted pioneers of electronic pen-pal practice. I didn't know what to make of you. I mean how much could our inclination to keep up the conversation be attributed to real intellectual thought. "Intellectual thought" I hate when I boil things down to things like that. So pretentious and blue-cold. But nonetheless we talked for years intermediately. Maybe it was something of a comfort, maybe it was attraction, maybe something in a grey area between.

I know you had some family troubles. I know you'd yell at me for drinking, and I wondered why. I heard once your father was in jail for drunkenly running over a girl. I still don't know if it's true, and I'm sorry if I subconsciously treated you as if it was and never asked to talk about it. I was bad at those things. I know we never talked about your marriage. I never even knew if it officially had gone through, or when you had broken up, or even if you had divorced. I don't know if I wanted to know, it seemed like you didn't want to tell.

You did tell me you started smoking. I was younger and more keen to be excited upon hearing someone else I knew enjoyed a bowl. We always made plans to smoke together but I was always to tangled in my high school relationship. I didn't know you'd get too relaxed with substances. Or at least I don't remember thinking of it.

I don't even remember thinking of you anytime recently. Not exactly the thing one would expect to read, but it's true. I was as unready as I could have been when I was told you had passed away. I knew snow had fallen and hoped a fatal crash wasn't your goodbye. With a little help of our once linking electronics, that had pinged our little bits of data to and fro in the atmosphere and into each other's hands, I found out you had been struggling with addiction.

I felt weirdly ashamed for not having known. I'm not the best friend, I'm not the partner, or the boss. There's no logical reason I should have caught the clues or been observing at all. Yet an insistent feeling that I should have at least known what you were going through ticked in my head. I remember feeling so strange when you had married, because you had said you wanted to marry me. I had never taken the statement seriously, but it still holds me in disbelief, much more now. Maybe it's that in the core of it all you wanted a future. I'm sorry you overdosed. I'm sorry I can't write to you any more.

Rainfalls peddle in sunsets of peach falling on, falling on like autumn leaves
Floating down like sour snow.
Am I ghosted?

Through my great lens, looking how the remedial planet spins on and wept. I cannot say it did not create
I cannot speak words as is the writer's fate

My silent observatory
observes the world, even me
The diamond and the rough
In every Swallowed ambition, estate addition, and paintbrush.

I'll climb to every mountain top
Speak my name to the cyclops.
Don't give me ***, don't give me ******.
Show me the lives you live, the years you order.

A tear shed in your silent walk
I'll carry joys to your sidewalk chalk,
When the tide comes to foam,
And the ocean is but loam,
Could it still be?
Will everything I see, be familiar to me?

I think I've done this all before,
I feel every moment as if it's spent,
I'll be here watching the 4th dimension,
In permanent sentiment
Am I ghosted?

Your eyes they felt, like a  b i g   l a k e
I had been failed, but now I  a m  p i n k
It reaches down and it counts o u t
the grain exhales, through your little hands
in the loose sand
We were one, when my m i n d rests
They can’t touch what I’ve never had

Your focus it felt, like a  t r a n q u i l
A state I’ve never been
Our shoes were all, in the c l o s e t
you use the space to dance for them,
I n  y o u r  t r a n q u i l
Not unaccustomed, but I’d never been
and I  l i k e  i t

Does the reading of the day,
Trinkets and truffles and all,
Sweeten the taste of clay,
The rust, the blood, the brawl.

Tremendous the power of,
The firefly in the apothecary jar ,
When the pompous lid above,
Sits illuminated as the star

How sour the noble bell,
Rings for those who would be on the seat,
Trained on their bottom as it swells,
Mocking and ruling the masses on their feet.

I could never believe in solipsism
I can't fix the world
Maybe that says more in disbelief
If all that is, is because of me...

I can zip up all my **** in a ***** pack strapped to a camels back and it’ll act as the last straw
Always think I’m raw
But I’m overcooked overlooked and let’s be honest I didn’t think I gave a single ****

Backed up and a tummy tuck and I’d be ******* tight
Lucked up and a yanny *** double sided mirror got me squintin to see past and nothing nearer


Two toned silhouettes grinding in a tight dress
Too many gin and tonics and a touch of chronic, mess
On the chase but not looking for a ring
I’m no sonic,
More is less.

I’m sitting curb stomped and digested
If lest be lest at least I forget it
I swear this is a hot *** summer
I don’t know a single digit of your ****** number.

Follow the modest airwaves that dance on the night. Feel young in it's serene mimics and sight. Wring out the persona that illumines the night's allure. Intersect dawn and dusk, with the day and night's colure. Respond to me as if too fondly and settle your scores. Heartbeats shimmer in the roar of gentle snores.

Arrest! Arrest! The menace menaced me again! A slick thin criminal hasty in the night! Here it is! Here it is! A drama at last! News! News! A crime! A love story! A betrayal! See it here! See it large! He burnt the very image in my brain! Proof! Proof! Evidence at last! Delusions, that are sane! Stop now! Stop here! No more! I'm caving in! Fold! I fold! No more bets! No more bets! The winners here! The winners here! A thousand hours or more and the winners here! Oh a tragic loss! A loss! Pull out your cameras! A loss! A steal! A crime! Arrest! Arrest! The menace menaced me again!

Here I sit in beneath gypsum sky
Forgetful in a pitiless tomb
Laying upon an artificial knoll
I made this myself

My splintered hands crawling towards the latch in obdurate gesture
With the dismal resolve of my skeletal percussion
I made this myself

The pulse in my frame an uncertain litany
Tried torn from the brief and the certain
Not shy from a skip or a leap
I pry this myself

Unversed expression interrupted in speech
I crept down the moss extending decrepit tendrils
The treaties of dawn or a query of nebulous ambition
I pry this myself

I asked for your name in pinhole obscura
I called on your intrusive pest of a credit
I trusted your fallible cacophony divination
Maybe you have given it your all

It's been a lull,
It's been a time,
Since the day we met,
Giggling in parking lots beside the park
Sitting idle with the running cars,

You said you wanted to marry me.
We were kids, but you spoke it still.
A refuteable claim as it was,
From your lips you birthed space and time,
A choice.

In some realities, devined it be that we make that choice,
And join hands in serenity,
And now I am left to wonder in how many,
You were kept from harm.

In how many realities,
Did I keep that needle from your arm?

I have a great familiarity with the night
Midieval conscious flowering in flight
I wish to speak to you soon
In the light of the moon
Don't fall from me
My words will slip through the grass, and the dew  
Your presence a subtle, comforting silk sinew, and carry on

Shower me in the forests embrace
The birds call, the pollen's jolly mace
What do I do from the ember burning low
When a fire has come to warm my home
Your posting smile, I wish to want to behold

Please beckon my drunken call
The sticks, the leaves, the silent waterfall
I only could dream I knew the rings of the oak
Instead I count the thoughts on the night that we spoke
Where, if at all, will the spring's roots grow.

Those hours spin on
In great rememberence, divine demi-consciousness  
And I only wish to you
To spill the cup from which I drank
And start it all anew.

On went the night in staggering serenity. City blocks counted one, no two, in silent resilience, our cars always float on intensively. Our fingers tap in constant repentance.
Trickling streams, novice actors, and your perfume filled in-
The spaces where you wouldn't allow
Midnight air, weather fair, shadows in our hair, a novelty pin. The streetlights ask, don't you know me by now?
A lunar dance you sung to me, soft as a trapeze swingers talent. You fell asleep in summer's tree, I, I found my levels and balance.

We live for the weekends were you scrounge yourself tablecloths sheets and shelves smooth pavement for the ghost of a heavy load we run for the sake of health and we waited for a knock on the wall but what I got was the ringing of a bell
But our prose was true and my eyesight mistreated
Colored in thought my eyelids retreated
Fall back to the fall
I miss what I saw
In come sun and a world on que
Dinosaurs died to make room for something as magnifecent as you

Everything I say is stuck in my throat. Everything I say is smeared where it's wrote. Rocks upon dirt, metal upon skin, the distance will hurt, and I'm not left handed. Everything I hope is here on my fingertips. Everything I hope is floating ships.
Batman to robin, salt to pepper, the feelings in my shin, and I'm going to smile
Everything I fear is the future.
"Everything I fear," says the morning rooster.
Bronze was gold, orphan was home,
The summer was cold, and you're right

If you're going with the tide, don't look back. Wisps of air will kiss your cheeks. Tiny hands will wash your hair clean. When you're out at sea, and the erratic waves are closing your eyes, let the wind hold your head. Those clashing blues will lull you to sleep. When you reach land dig your hands in the sand. Let my mind grind down great stone after stone. Truth is I'm **** afraid. 18 months of you, after 16 years of me. I don't ever want you to take with the tide, leaving me to be the breeze.

My kettle sits on the stove,
My mind blends with the walls painted beige.
It secedes.
The thoughts are bound and timed.
Though released, half remain inside.

Standard lines for a futurist agnostic
The present presents a snowy rustic
But what of the faces and spaces that speak to me.
Have we not all been what we wanted to want to be?

My arms reach into the blue
Solitude,
Magnitude,
Saturated markets in the human condition
Intoxicating predispositions in an ideal so sober.
I awake to a lukewarm kettle, nothing boiled over.

Solidarity won't risk us
Surfing the chalkline of an urban meniscus
Measure our thoughts in reluctance

The breeze at ease flows through the trees following sore knees.
We go on in awe of ever imposing trepidation. No regards to Earth's indulgent rotation.

In my best diction I could write you a hearty fiction full of contradictory facts. But honesty and falsities are beyond the sea, leaving sequential masks.    

An opportunity to me to create these beings of fact, to ride and act the illusion of the glide is set in my mind and on the street. My best distortion of living rigor mortis is this wooden plank, set at my feet.

You. You'll never read these words, beneath a sullen sky. You'll never feel the gravel cold with little stones and dirt rolling on the canyons of your fingertips. I don't have the answers, the turmoil transfer, or the drafts release.

My dearest friend, where are the chirping of the birds. Segacious cliffs, my fear of heights. They're darkened by rowdy shallows. Craft. I cannot, but you may, but when you fail someday, hide my face. Reminiscent drops on a puddled tripe.

You. Swallow your stiffened words. I promise, friend, the day will not clear, but your stride will strengthen, your head will straighten, and all that is said will have been said, life's verbatim.

Grass whistling in a deep purple pink warm sky. Little flecks of light flashing in and out. In our eyes, it was endless. I smell rain and smoke and something dull. A past smile beating on a drum.

Dissoluted night and righteous day,
Can't we wander and cut and fray
Under starry-eyed statuettes

Tired maelstrom, sunny morning
Try and follow me and stick and sing
Above the yellowed casement

Doubtful breeze and hefty storm
Guess the color and mood and form
Beside our long knotted cadency

Flowing draft, gentle night
Forget and sleep and write
Alongside the fairing,

By the seconds that forgot luck,
And the future hours
That just might

I am a mountain in Maine
That I dug into and overcame

Indecision and indifference, the oily buffet of a jaded sunlit stare
It’s all up here-
It’s all out there

I kiss at the flood light
That I drove beside at midnight

Transience and dependance, a honeyed yarn maze in retired rafters
It’s all right before-
It’s all near after

Can I really die?
If only in memories I like to be alive

I'm ******* sick of proper nouns.
Press me into history
**** on sore thumbs in misery.

Photo album blues, you read.
I want the traverse sound
Recording the port city 'round.

The profound.
I can yet to see,
The people dancing, and beside them
Me.

Most of my light bulbs burnt out
The sun hits hard when it shouts
It's when I saw the ragged crane that flew
Everything developed in shades of blue

My favorite Spring ran away
It hides back two years in the lovely shade
Looking back as I walk the stage
The sun hit and burnt the page

With the fox's speed and the rabbit's crutch
I came for expertise, only to learn too much
The crane still flies by most days
But now it's grown and patched, it could never be the same.

What’s new with you?
Would you like to see my reel?
I’ve spent so much time waiving
I can’t touch a hand
The fruit of my labor
Isn’t Warhol made
The doors been shut dear
Forever night for five years

I haven’t transcended
And met with unfamiliar scorn
Im not a critter
No page of Kafka has been torn
I bring my audience furniture of leisure
Though I’m caged with key in hand
It is rusted, but at least I am well fed

There’s no fields of juniper
To hold you by the hand
I never got past the hotel party
Can’tcha understand
A rip in my sneakers
A ratchet to the land

Please don’t linger
Just stay a little longer
No reference in the stanza
Just a drowsy man
I won’t feed on you
I’m a vampire in yesterday
I want to speak to you in earnest
But not long enough to know what to say

A meadowlark call, a brief marked stall on a structured walk.
A couple blocks more and the forest adorns the river and the rocks.
At this stop the wind has not yet been blocked, and it wavers on with the scent of crinkled leaves. 
  And just as it had begun,
the moment ends as the pathway bends.
I know it can be found and felt again, if I'm able to release and retrieve.

Windowless, shadowless, fluorescent a room and schoolyard scent. A lecture on earth's composure rumbled on as thunder sounded when I need not know where my toes were. Terrestrial topography in the row marked 2 or 3. The hierarchy of "figured out" and inane diplomacy, but I was feeling fine. I was sitting alone and still and looking at the morning faces. I left spaces left and right so I could swallow my mind and wrap up tight in the vacuum allowed. The collided waveforms hit my selective ears. I'll see you next week. I'll see you next week. My knees are weak and I'm writing the words I don't know how to speak and writing the rhythm, the subject I so often treat poorly, write off as a cliche archetype made for the gullible, penned by the phony. Yet I can't wait. A nervous anxious wonder I can't shake, like a beautiful sun gliding over a closing wake with the wind on its back and a ship to take.

Remember the days
The spring ran full and your little hands found the earth
Moment and movement, creation and desolation
I'll shut out, and sweep the floor
The pathway cleared will have thrown out all we adored
Follow the sea
I'll find the beach beside your bed
Fulfillingly and willingly
Taking to
Leaving it to them
Follow me.
If I, will you?

I wrote the summer long ago, and asked her to be kind. I wore down the winter bone, beckoning home, waiting for springs fine. Listen. The bow bends creaks, and banes. The swollen hope of summer wanes.

All I've ever known. Is to write these general poems. Images will flash before your eyes. But I will never let them guide you to the occurrence of my life. Every feeling I feel may be strong, but seems overly dramatic to the planets strife. This has been a brief view in my head. Enjoy these carefully constructed words of images, and build them into your life instead.

Sleepless in space. Sewing pillows in your dreams wishing deeply to comfort that will only be seen. Adventurous advisories flutter on, flutter on. You obedient Abraham, you will solemnly **** your son. But not today amidst the peddling rain. Swallow sorrow, swallow pain. You won't be this arrogant pest. The loudest note was always the symphony's rest. Rest. Does the night spill over like linens in a basket? Does the man in our head miss the cue mark, rushing to mask it? Covered in monotony and monopoly. Close your eyes and relax your arms to mend this folly. But we all are brothers and pay for what we wield. No sleep for the kindred, "Let's go out to the field."

Sip sip chug
Wipe it under the rug,
When it forms a lump
Try to stand
And jump
jump
jump.
It's dizzy in here
It's worse out there
Sip sip chug
Lean in for the hug,
When it feels too tight
Try to walk
Take flight
Fight it
Fight.
Sip sip chug
Keep your look smug,
the love in their blinks
Maybe try
Don't think
Think
Drink
Chug chug chug
Wash down Wash
Away
Ride the wave
Stay in the car
Stay stay
Sta-

Hello little cup of tea. It's strange I met you here, just now. The day was the crashing waves of automobile noise pollution, but the night hums an electronic melody. Go ahead now, pour your nature in my preserved, artificial frame. I beg you to make me feel the providential roots in every tree. I'll whisper bedtime tales of tragedy and glory. But for now, I sip you in alongside the dusty air.

It was as shaky as it was stable
As catalog cheap, as it was painted for an heirloom

We sat clothed in Saturday mornings
But this time we couldn’t speak
If I could I’d tell you
This particle board was pressed
With all the scheduled pitches and lunchtime whistles

The veiny grain roped and ebbed
In long wallflower cantations
And there a boy was lost

It should have been a museum’s muse
But all I threw out today was a ****** coffee table