Karim disintegrates
To the madness of the Brightest Star
In the fog-thickened day.

That star,
Empowered with the strength of a
Thousand soldiers
And their passion,

And the cunning wit
Of the Great Apollo,

Stretched the fabric of linear veil to pause
The illusion of society

For a moment

Outside of dementia

Aircraft blazin' fuel
Aboon, "done-with's" grave floods sight,
A calm midnight rain,








The mind racing. Why

Must the nurtured be blind eye
Wilie McTell? Pain.

The mind racing, on
A smile,
Lonesome star in opaque
Darkness, Freedom

From label. Freedom
From responsibility.
Freedom from action,
                                      Is this noble,
                         Or a jester's play in chess?

Oh, must I turn my fist to face aloft,
Straighten my clenched fingers, present you
Burning embers of admiration, that for so long
Have been stitched into my palm,
Gifted from a passive voyager afar,
Weary, to announce affection,
For a grasp can only
                         Last as long as
                                              Two hands want to clasp.

                                                         ­                      What is on your mind?







                                                Airc­raft blazin' fuel
                                                Aboon, "done-with's" grave floods sight,
                                                A calm midnight rain.

                                               A chance to breathe.

                                               Be my Sheppard.
                                               Lead
                                               Me to pastures of serenity
                                               To graze in, until my eternal slumber.
                         That's where I want to be.

‘twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas,
Humidity can’t be seen
As the sun whirled
Its final twirl.

A flock of pigeons stand by Midnight’s Trolley Trail.

I am my own eye,
Staring at taught veils
'tween cotton gaits.

The clouds are no more,
Spirits remained encaged in rose sepultures,

A transformation so chaotic, they cackle at their false fear.

MY BLURRINESS SEEMS TO BURN
STEADY. ready,
For what to behold.

I have left Universe to relay ,
As the subtle sun one did in its day.

I am left
To react.

React to what?
React to wee?            React,
to relationships,        React,
to their degree of nobility,
So fruitful, so radical in concept indeed.


Of all these perspectives
I am one.
One paper, one tree cut for endless possibilities.

The treasure remains underneath,
Where I weep
In the deep,
In the deep.

There is nothing to find,
And that made all the difference.

'twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas.

In the solace of lavender-flickering
Fairy lights that guide
My syllables along,

Silence has never felt so
Concrete.

Silence, on questions I have asked my
Conscious for repetition, and
To hunt for answers
To unwritten dialogue,

And as I contemplate this concept,

The beauty of ringing church bells
Bleeds and creeps
Through my window,

Slicing through the distorted
Avenues and Sulcis of silence
In my mind,
                      To remind me
                                                Of where I am.
Lying in the back of my car,


Keys in the transmission,
Waiting,
                                          ­                        Hoping,
For a new path to explore
In this eclectic figure 8 of
Communication and relationship. I never
Try to make sense of it all,

Until
A faint whisper from a Princess unshackles
My liberating-attempting mind,

A faint whisper, harmonizing with the
Church bells,
Soothingly-caresses my ears,

A faint whisper,
Carrying,
The words.
I’ve.
longed.
To.
hear.






“Come with me this way.”







Hallucination of grace.
An overflowing melting ***
Of desire.





Stillness. Gracious like
A still river. Cercadas sing,
Rocks in awe don’t move.





Until the moment of that faint whisper,
I’ll remain in the spacious jar of silence,
Waiting,
For the Princess’ voices,
While the solace of lavender-flickering
Fairy lights
Guide my syllables along.

Monday mornings are always easy.

Monday mornings bring a breeze South
Of The East,
North
Of The West.

Its caressing the exposed skin
of my flaky neck
like the lead cannon from Atlantis,

Flying for the grasp
Of the cactus from San Pedro
That provides mescaline to the tribes
Nearby, that pray to its being as The Messenger
From

The West. Beyond the horizon,

Like the jack rabbit, eroding, with a tube
Sock in the vestibule over The Dungeon That Sings,

Sideway neighbors to the uvula. If seen that way.
                        
                  Beyond, the continual rings of                             Agorapho-

                                                      ­                                              bia,
Challenging anxious mind,
With ideas
Of how it be the, not the seal in yestereen's heels.

Monday mornings
Are always easy.

Syllables mixed,
Meaning dispersed between the two conscious minds,
Connecting them,
One.

But yet no sound was made.

The Brightest Star
Just smiled and waved,

The wind
Blowing though the rays that embrace Karim
Like a strait jacket of light, blinding bias.

Karim could hear the ants in the mycelium;
Manufacturing temples.

Tears flowed to the present light.

His tears then created the Nile River,
Where the stream keeps their society alive,
Engraving their history into ours.

Since that day,
Karim could only smile and wave.

Powered matter leaves their origin,
Into a land in the distance,
Residing in the hearts of children
Offering everything but resistance,
Exchanging life and his riches
For the taste of blood in their kisses.

A child is a sacrifice
For what is right
In the prophet’s eyes
And minds that are blind
To the lies that bind
His cries and surmise-s.
The prophet’s prophecy
Is to gain profit from gases
More flammable that propane.
His fingers, crossed and lost,
His veins, lost its blue,
His skin, has turns chartreuse
With the sight of the new moon.

A new dawn begins
With the same sun,
Covered by new clouds.
Sounds of the innocent,
Muffled by the lead they’re
Buried in.
Their fears of growth
Disappear with their sight.
But it’s alright,
It’s in the name of Liberty,
Currency, and Democracy.

I look threatening, but I am kind,
I look ignorant, but I am prudent,
I look alive, but I am death.

Give someone a joint.
Watch them glow.
Watch the squirrel run down the birch wood tree.

Congruency in lives,
It’s complexity is unmatched like
The Mighty Leaf
Vs
The Hungry Giraffe,
Who’s David?

Lalalaisallthismeans.

Im gone Mami!
And I won’t be back.

Tie me to your hip driving up the strip
Like a strap stab me
Into Alrvarius’ brain
Extract like a syringe,
Mental sirens slip-slap
Fabricate below the cap,

I feel, metal outlasting
Clashing the nevera of my lower back.

I’m gone Mami!
And I won’t be back,

‘Til the heavens send me a message
Of the sins in my souls possession
Mixed with gusts of Ninole’s winds
And my “why”

I say farewell to our memories,
Now, scoundrels of immense value,
Lost in the cracks of our times together.
Now, I say goodbye,
And hello to where the sun sets.

        My mother wrapped her arms around me,

           Kissed

                                  My
     Cheek,
And told me I’ll be back.

Who knew the hardest goodbye
Would be in disguise,
Who knew the hardest goodbye
Would be in disguise.

Staring off, into a hallucinogenic scar
Of a. Man that used to frolic,
I notice their eyes dwelling in its luggage,
Seeking diamonds of speculation though
Some might think of this as attention.

It burns in its atoms,
Hoping to observe shock.
Perhaps, a catastrophe.
Perhaps, an awakening,

It’s up to the magical world of the mind
To procreate perspective on that
Cacophony of benevolence, as
A mother does when presented their child,
By means, of surgical hands,

Concurring it’s value,

Like a beauty salon,

Signaling its importance
By rendering eyes to acknowledge its
Constant self transforming,
While dollar signs kindle their way through the Amazon to confrontation,
A song The Spectacle knows oh so well
While society dissects in its cultural forms,
Like Yahweh,
And “you don’t know what you say”
Or essence of Christianity,
And Tathāgata.

Brain dead poet,
Lost in the slums of
Originality and inspiration,

A hue of blue,
What else is new?

                                The changing of the guards.

In the slew of this trance
Railing across the nights
In shining armor of horror,

Light, something comical, guides me.

          I forgot how to write.
     I have no purpose.

a separation of tied limbs by
Wiley Scientist’s
Churning, clenching, wincing
Smile
Burn into my lobe.
Submission to anxiety.



Liberate my shackled mind
From the screeches of Armageddon,
Residing in the Nine Rings of rajas,
The most fruit bearing peninsula of
Illusions.

Tearing through the center of
My pinwheel of paralyzing
Hypnosis,


      Something reached beyond depths for me.

It, somewhat, portrayed itself,


As Light.

Mystery.               Mystery.              Mystery.


mar-                                             ­                       mar-
ble-                                 ­                                     ble-
eyes                   ­                                                  eyes





                                 noitcudeS
                                 Seduction

Hear my words,

Time is like the stamp on the envelope that contains a letter and a poem shaped like the gentle vibrant rose on the side of the stream of reality.
Take it as it is,
But don’t beg for it,
Let it be what is is,
Constructed fantasy.

Orpheus became king

From knight of sin

Future, to be determined

Of the arrival

Of the hearses.

Crown on his back,

Electric nerves squirming

In his brain

Like the jail

Of a hundred legs

Or at least,

That’s what we see.

Blood stains his eyelash

In the shade of
Capitalist reality
We are shackled in
Societal tendencies.

Seen as a whole
Individuality is drowned in auditory
Hallucinations
Procreating sensation
In riddle.

Whatever happens on Earth
                                                  Stays on Earth
Past living tracks
                                With ideas
                                                   Indefinitely
                                Dispersed
Past evolution of
RNA transcribed to
DNA double entendre,

We maintain
A recreational frame             that of
The beautifully rough,
Raucous-sharpening strokes,
Of Mr. Max Beckmann.

Heaven sent in a forest hue shining from
Mesmerized playful thought,
The crimes of love are back in my mind,
Directing my consciousness
Like the **** ******* I am.

I find myself hindered in a rotting caucus like a maggot.

*******.
Once again seduced by chemical reactions and the love of affair,
I find myself crumpled by the air of conquest
And love.  
                                                         ­                                 The thing is,
                                                             ­                I never say what I want.
I tend to hide behind trends of
Illusion-ic syllables
Metamorphosing syllables
Portraying a fantasy so the reader doesn't suspect the victim,

But why's that?
Why can't I be living in a sunlit den of honesty?
WHY DO I LIE TO MYSELF?

I cannot answer with a statement,
Rather, an observation on the individual's reality.

I live in a world smothered in doubt.

Doubt in my skeelfulness.

Doubt in my appearance.

Doubt in the own gait mi shoes nest in.

I live in a world smothered in doubt.

Doubt in the recollection of my memory.

Doubt in my genuineness.

Doubt in every flailing limb moved by the wonky neural synapses.

Doubt in what these synapses create.

Doubt that I am humble.

Doubt that I am of value to a person.

Doubt of reaching Rogerian congruency

Doubt that I will never be the person I want to become.


And this doubt lowers my fedora and clips me into
SIlence,
The opportunities pass with the fragments of time I remember
When I am not intoxicated somewhere I am not supposed to be.

OH, how I wish I could grab you by the arms
And twirl you around in the midst of this of this morning dew fog
Of doubt we reside in for not speaking up.
OH, how I wish to swing your arms to a rebellious melody of the
Norm, and laugh at this norm together.
OH, how I wish to kiss you on the cheek and safely escort you
To your abode where we cackle at feline tendencies and
Chinwag nonsense of
Which sauce is best with gnocchi,
Which toppings you prefer on a taco,
Which swimming stroke a fish would use to saunter to Atlantis,
And if you were to be with me,
How would that make you feel?

Yet, here I am again,
Reverting to the same **** syllabic texture of a Barolo.
                                                 I am a fool living in a stubborn illusion.

I wish Mother Universe would burn my face instead of meandering
In means of seduction and silence, but it's an example of my impatient pride.









At the end of the waxing moon
I live in a world of smothering doubt
With voices tickling mi cochlea per saying
I might not be best at anything,
Nor do I say correct phrasing,

But the one thing i won't let my subconscious trick me into hallucinating
Is the confidence to amplify the manner I would care for you and
Wish to see you blossom beyond my comprehension of vocabulary.

I hope this image of convoluted pictures in a kaleidoscope
Remain steady keel,

These are my thoughts,
And you are on my mind.

I don't believe I have the necessary ability to be more transparent than these words written on canvas for a sector of society to notice,
And so the ball remains lassoed in your court,
Pleading to be shot.
Maybe one day you'll release it to explore a world against societal norm,
Because why live by the norm anyways ya know?

In this world of smothering doubt,
I can't showcase what will lay in the future,
I can't express what our paths intertwined would resemble,

But I can portray my confidence in my feelings for you,
A gasp a light to grasp at
In my world of smothering doubt.

SO I'll keep my fedora low,
Hoping, for the ball to stumble into my court,
Over yonder,  by the strawberry penny lane
In our intertwined minds

Visions, similar to Jehovah
Splash in the bottomless ocean of
Charlotte ink
There established in the evicted
Cul-de-sac of my fragmented mind,
Fractured over this Epic of Time.

Dancing with my feet
Swinging with my arms
I walk, over puddles of tears and fears.

I lower my head, to notice
My rapid presence in action,
When I accidentally glanced at
The mirror mirror on the ground
And my reflection;
                             The actions of my past
                             Are imprinted in the crevices
                             Of my forehead;
I step back to breathe.



So many roads, so many roads,
And yet I find myself here here.
So many roads, so many roads,
And yet I find myself here.
Oh so many roads, so many roads,
And yet I find myself here.

I find myself
Looking in the mirror
Reflecting on
The actions
Of my past.

So many roads,
So many roads,

I don’t know
How I find myself here
Again, but here I am

did I buy the hooks to my skin?
why am I in this store?
ten dollars for a pillow, Capitalism’s double
     how far is maine from tennessee?
              how far is tennessee from Idaho?    how close is Idaho to my Dreams?
I can’t wait for corn fields and their
    dried,
wrinkled                 smiles
                                                       can I still sing?
                                              can I still
                                                       socialize?
                                                      ­                    am
I buying happiness, or
investing in it?
                                                             ­            am
I traveling towards something, or
away from it?what if my song and melody keep my feet flat?
                                                           ­             am
I               the one for Her?            does She still think about me?
                                how do you move on from nothing,                 how do you hold on to
nothing.
                    am
I a god gliding thru pain,
          or just another pawn in this game?
Why do I write?        

                               there are the hooks to my skin.

I feel like
I’ve gone through

57

Lives
Of disbelief.

S
L
I
C
E
D

Into

1
3

D
I
A
M
E
T
E
R
S


(now picture a tsunami following over your cortices, like a cherry blossoming in April showers)

The opportunity to see Artist grow is an experience
Pulling on the strings of imagination.
Ideas mixing with ideologies
While Artist's talent flies yonder people's heads,
Giving the mind a chance to wander with
Loose predictions of predicaments only prevalent
Past current hands of clock towers hovering over
Boston's Freedom Trail, somehow ending at
Caffe Lil Italy.

Artist is on an elevated stage
Holding a piece of mysterious wood
Infront of billows of hairlines,
Presented by
Aliens from The World of Perplexed Tunes
Scattering under the grey sky
While the patient moon waits
Behind a cotton curtain.
  Rhythm was then resurrected.
     The next second,
     Perspective changes.
                                            We are now at
                                 The Show in the art of music
                                     While the crowd awaits
                        The next centennial syllable of the story
                               While an avid listener is caught
                                                In the grip.
Now,
He understands.



I applaud talent in a hierarchal sense,
In an illusioned matter of society.

I appreciate, the determination,
Leading to trees singing melodies
Whenever Artist appears with her weapon of choice from
The fifth dimension;

Presented to a four-dimensional audience.

I hear the joy in the tone,
Yet I feel the turbulence in the voice.
Something has hurt one.

While the hat might not sit correctly on one's head,
Sometimes it can't
So it can;

Spark sensation, Create imagination,

And understand the meaning of where we are
On this melting *** of a lightning bolt
Thrown by Zeus during a psychotic episode
On laced LSD, or maybe
Traveling through space,

The space, in the middle of her curious eyes
Where fictitious time is lost.

So, Dear Artist,
I want to say
Thank you, for helping me grow.
Thank you, for giving me the chance to grow.
Thank you, for the connections I never would've been able to make
If you had decided to never take the stage.

If you need me or this message again,
I'll be in the back of your mind,

In that scene,

Across The Other Ocean,
My focus over the horizon of metaphors,
On the other side of reality
As my feet remain glued to the jagged shoreline,
The sand on my toes washed away by
The waves of life created by

The Mother of The Other Ocean.










As my neurons recall the harmonies
Chiseled by you,


My mind drifts away,

Still thinking of hypothetical predicaments,


And it's endless possibilities.

Misty like sheets of satin
Look at the seed grow
Around the hole in its
Heart
Or like a butterfly’s
Reincarnation

I feel like








Is
Trying to

                                                                  LEAVE.

But everything
                           is moving
                                             to the
right.

My mind slips
Into ten thousand
Bumble bees,

I forgot how easy
It is for me to
Slip into melody
From things that
Occurred from the
Periphery,

Oh if a bird could talk,
Oh the stories she could tell.
Oh the stories of bliss,
Oh the stories of gloom to pass to the youth.

To fly sky high, meet the ground with no sound.
To be encaged, without a goodbye,
To be so frightened, that she cries.
To not search for big bills, but try grasping her hope of potential to fulfill.

The tears of mother help a plant flourish, until it is restricted,
For she lives our fear of a depart from home, without a parting.

Oh if a bird can talk,
Oh the stories she could tell.