Like the air we breathe,
my insistence seethes
for every aspect of my
mind consumed.
A cloud of perfume,
our sacrifices in full view
of what we know flesh to
be.

Because the text in it got me flipped in it;
restorative authority; properties
beyond what sciences
dismiss in it.
The truth in it got me fulfilled in it, because
within it  I was granted wisdom, understanding
that made me renewed in it.

Like the air we breathe,
my insistence seethes
for every aspect of my
mind consumed.
A cloud of perfume,
our sacrifices in full view
of what we know flesh to
be.

Substantial to the chosen few; I can obviously
identify, because they walk in it too, refuse to be
torn from it, while demonic forces ceaselessly
pervert to **** our minds aligned to it,
yes our souls too.

Isn't it obvious the signs keep pulling at you
to interpret why in Christ we stay vigilant in it.
The Faith to it has us immersed in it, we feed on it
because in it we keep finding you, our master,
creator, and perfecter Yeshua to those who
knew; Jesus to the interpreted Greek, Latin,
eventually English language too. Doesn't matter,
the phonetic superior power of your name
has me calling out to you!

With every breath you've allowed me to
have, to every uttered word, hoping not to waste
this incredible gift. I profane my fleshly desires
only sanctified by your forgiving patient
reconstruction, what many cannot see,
you've removed me from tragedy.
In service, in word, in action, in love
in every single facet...

Like the air we breathe,
my insistence seethes
for every aspect of my
mind consumed.
A cloud of perfume,
our sacrifices in full view
of what we know flesh to
be.

Made to again run with me.
Slashing past branch and vine,
leaf and twig;
The sharp corners come upon
us as we turn with grace;
the precision of scalpels,
and mirrors, like a raging river
made peaceful.
The horizon dips beneath mountain
tops, while the wind sweeps across
our bodies, cooling our brow,
drying our flesh.
We dart like birds of prey
through the canopy. Our shadows
cut beautiful forms against
the untrampled scenic landscapes
unfurling below.

The sun at our backs, the moon
before us; we've become catalysts
for the movement, the new days
ahead; the memories of what
has passed in our stead.
Motionless no more,
our voices expel upwards, given
wings by foresight, our power,
and might.

Swept away, avoiding precarious
terrain; landing at the doorsteps
of ears that once dared not listen.
Now they too are becoming filled
by the cacophonous wails, bellows,
and tears of adventure.
Their once stagnant souls ignite,
for greater insight, grandiose
perspective.

They're beginning to hear the roar
of undiscovered rivers of thought,
the hiss of yet untamed mountains
of complacence. Imaginations
scream to life, action bubbles in
their blood.
Onrush of emotion, the unspoken
words of panic, betrayal, and ignorance
manifest into tears for still
lifeless forms.
Grasp onto hands that are running
to again bring to life what
has yet to be seen, from mouths not
yet encouraged to speak.

Peer into the eyes of existence;
shackled no more, our many ways
of endless transformation.

Throw down your predetermined
notions, sheath your convoluted
accusations. Hear instead the
crashing oceans of discontent,
shaping rock into footholds.
Hear the whisper of tall grass
swaying in rhythm with the enemy
they conceal, formulating, and
engineering an end to their eternal
heart beat.
Made to again run with me, our
boundless vivacity, our forever
expedition.

Rising from between phylum,
from vein to flesh;
subcutaneous to cutaneous.
A reminder long since forgot,
"I have a voice, I have thought."
Arising to glisten its sharpened
teeth against the ambiance of moon
and star, sun and cloud.

From the base of hairlines,
to the nape of neck,
sculpted shoulders take shape.
To fatigued arms browning in
accusation to a committed work
the cowards will not overcome.
Shoulder blades to channel of
back, down to the rim of stained
in stench trousers; down to painted
in blood and mud boots!
The Revival!

Animalistic urges to again
strike unprovoked, to perch oneself
on high viewing all as consumable
yield.
Soul and trust,
effort and angst.

A strengthening pulse beats
sound to life, from behind improperly
protected cochlea.
Shaking rustic chords free of
their complacent sediment to again
speak, speak the words of those
whose breath has been taken.

Lest the warrior, the leader,
the cook, the house keeper,
the accountant, the clerk, the postman,
the janitor, the mechanic, rest forever;
yet they steal themselves away some time;
by candlelight, flashlight, moonlight,
or campfire, nursing their childlike
exuberance for expression back to
true virility.

Passivity bites against bit and bridle.
Now screaming passed smashed, and
cracked teeth, "They're coming!"
All captured by heads against cold
ground, soft grass, burning concrete,
and propped pillow.
A dream coming to life once again
rising against flesh to cool our
forever ascent.

"Don't make sympathy your resistance."
CdeM

Shook, shattered, mistaken
the earth rumbled under
dominant footsteps.
Allegiance to the forces
I no longer align with.
The besmirched search
for a grasp of just what
will cause me trouble, firmly
established you'd all like
to see me fumble forth
these words, to show my
insecurities.
But through his purity
I am walking with divinity.

Escaped through the tiniest
of crevices.
Dwindling light;
it was no beautiful
sunset. Cheeks soaking wet
flavoring each stanza with
the salt of the earth,
because you called me to
be this since birth.

Reaching forward, a leprous
hand retreated, sent me upon
my knees praying.
Screaming, "Please heal me!"
Into your word found comfort,
but by your Grace, I started
seeing. Faith the pronouncement
and the hatred, the doubt filled
vitriol commencement.
The news blares into a deafening
void, fallen martyrs, and I see
your Kingdom come.
The seasons changing, the
waters warming, your prophecy
is what I'm discerning.

I call out to you, and you answer.
Not with the love of others,
but the confidence of knowing
they hated you first. My sympathy
is only but a second, then I smile
concerned only with what's mine
to capture, and spread; so many
too can eat of your bread.
The life we live, I now forsake
because if I'm not opening
eyes, and awakening hearts,
then your stripes meant nothing.
"My people die for their lack of
knowledge..." but if there's a purpose
you see, then I'll walk
between the walls of water you
parted for me. All Praise be to he
who they hung, and he declared in
love, " it is finished."
Thank you Yahshua, in
you Yahweh's will be done.

If only to encourage others, if only to
implore you to fight back, to show yourself
before the Creator of our Universe,
to employ the tools at our hands.
In a realm we don't see, yet know all
too  well. To put into action what Yahweh has
given us.

What is this incessant fighting,
which consists in my head?
To justify you?
There can be no justification, for him
who set in place every law.
The moral, the physical, and natural.
So then what are they, and why do they
persist?
A battle that rages over me?
Spilling over from the ethereal battleground
in which carcasses amass;
Physical, and all too tragically spiritual!

So chaotic, but perfectly defended, kept
from me as unseen and trifle.
So as to distract me wholly from
the purpose of my mind, which is
the adherence, the observance of your law.
The appreciation of what you've given me.
They're falling, and failing, but boast I will not
"...Lest (I) fall..."
Sincerity is the incredible grasp,
of how far it would be, and how upon that
"rock" (Yahshua) I should be rendered
tiny bits, the refashioning of,
only he would know.
From before the creation of the world,
you knew me, and this very moment.
I will squabble, stumble, and quite
possibly fall. But my Abba,
by your will, through your GRACE I
acknowledge, and profess your TRUTH!

El Shaddai you make genius out of the stagnant.
You create fools out of those full of their
own brand of WISDOM.
You allow those who fear you to move closer
to you, if only to know your peace.
You show patience to those who ignore you,
for those who curse you, a patience,
"...That transcends all human understanding."
That there could be no sweeter words than those
configured by my savior;
than those known to come from your mouth.
The filling of this vessel is allowed
only by your breath which keeps me
alive, yet you love me enough to let me
choose you, thank you for my FREEDOM!
Thank you for refilling me with the
understanding of what it truly means to
be empty.

While the battle rages on,
I in respect to you fighting for me:
Place the belt of truth around my waist.
I firmly affix the breast plate of righteousness
upon my chest. Protecting my heart once so
cold now of flesh, no longer stone.
Pulling down tightly the helmet of
salvation over my head guarding my
thoughts of you in Christ Yahshua (Jesus.)
Lacing up, strapping upon my feet the boots
of the Gospel of peace. No matter
the slopes or the inclines I may stand
and not slide, confident in my footing
the grasping and espousing of your
wisdom.
My left arm adorned with your shield.
It glistens under the rays of your sons
light. Affirming to the enemies the
plight of their arrows, and their darts.
When I raise my shield of FAITH
in defense.
In my right hand my weapon,
"...sharper than any two edged sword,
piercing even to the dividing asunder
of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow..."
The word of you Yahweh.
That I may sever all that tries to bind,
and tether me to this finite existence.

I stand a sheep to the slaughter,
for sure, but I too stand a soldier for
you El Shaddai, my SAVIOR Yahshua
Hamashiach.
Defiantly  announcing your name
my battle cry, and the skies open, all
you've granted me if I only offer my
complete submission. AMEN!

Holy, Holy, Holy are you EL SHADDAI.
To be blessed is to seek a deeper,
interwoven understanding of your sovereignty,
of your abundant love, and your magnificent
GRACE.
Your words, the word of ELOHIM,
brings purpose into the full view
of your unyielding power.
To walk amongst the descriptions
of your word is a comprehension
of just how lost we are in your sight,
through ours.
To know in my soul the perpetual fire
of your altar; to hear the cries
of sacrificial animals, to have my nostrils
fill with the aroma pleasing to you.
To rationalize what now seems
barbaric, done only through the
infinite wisdom of your PROVIDENCE.
Your thoughts can only be evaluated,
imprinted on our hearts if the
intention is yours.
As I visually articulate the painstaking
sacrifice of man,
I am humbled falling at your feet
sobbing;
for what your beautiful perfect SON
endured through your eyes.
What i am is nothing,
you are the great I AM,
pleased only by our hunger for
every word that comes forth from your mouth,
our thirst for YASHUA'S immaculate
wisdom, his perfect TRUTHS.
I close my eyes, and present
myself at the entrance to your Temple of meeting,
as a sacrifice meant only for your
dealings.
Use me my ABBA, my ELOHIM for your
infinite GLORY,
to bring the perpetual fire of
YASHUA'S sacrifice, the unquenchable
observance, for any who know
repentance.
As every piece of acacia wood was placed
so too my bones,
every artifact, my muscles.
Crafted to make your new covenant
a dwelling place, a new Temple.
Good in your sight, so I know now
who has laid my foundations,
who has constructed me.
To be a doer of your calling,
yearning to be good in your sight,
the sight of EL SHADDAI, my ELOHIM.
In the power filled name of
YASHUA Ha'MASHIACH I praise you
YAHWEH, amen!

Disclosed just enough,
that I recognize I will never
have closure.

Stillness under blanket;
while frantic thought sparks fire,
marching toward the center
of sensation, like taste and
memory.
Even as the firestorm subsides,
there seems one ember
found purpose.
A wick the end of candlewax
transformed to life,
past ear canals and sight lines.


One light in an exponentially
growing darkness;
no shadows to speak of, or through.
No!
This light is for voyeurs
perverse enough in theory
to hypothetically pose quandaries
as to why, "...that light still
flickers and glows."

Head motionless on pillow;
a congregating group of bodies
assemble themselves upon rolling
bluffs, conjured by trips
yet materialized.
They murmur to each other,
their own perfect language.

You'd think the noise would ruin
this delicate silence, but it's
quite the opposite.
Their soft utterances act as
a breezes finger tip, touching
new resolve into the leaves
decorating the tree of life;
rustling ever so gently,
each one individually so the
branch doesn't move. That
would be far too much commotion,
and the wise owl needs not
a feather ruffled.

Just the leaves;
whisking a few away,
they never fall, they never stay.
Just fly along the currents
of your breath;
all this movement in rhythm
with a vehicle still recuperating.
The corners of the mouth pull
upwards, towards the tops of
ears, nostrils flare as if the
body is there,
but isn't it?
An emancipated feather moves
vociferously across glass tops,
making not an imprint,
but instead playing the tune of love,
joy, and prosperity.

In a library full of picture books,
and worn tennis shoes that lay beneath
monikers which are announcing timelines,
and referencing emotions;
the feather feverishly scribbles,
but not a word is written.
The doors swing open,
the light punctures the tranquility,
the ****** is being ripped away
watching as everything drops,
now simply motionless.
This is what it was like when
we used to sleep.

Belligerent- at war, designating or of a state recognized under international law as being engaged in a war.
Decadence- A process, condition, or period of decline, as in morals, art, literature; deterioration, decay.

Belligerent decadence,
may I reproach your horrible
agenda?
Fore-score wasn't a play on
words. These years have passed
as unwillingly as we've
accepted your rule.
Hyperboles creating a sense
of dissidence, because judging
anomalies is a task better left
to the proficient.
Maybe now their decadent
dissidence may materialize.

Belligerent decadence,
is it for you that sympathy
now grows sour?
Sour enough to please a pigs
trough. A malignant canopy
erected for weary heads,
yet finding relief means
resolution is what's being fed
to hungry bureaucratic slave
hands obsessing on getting more
for nothing.
Obsolete, ritualism has become
more copied than read. Is one
agonizing grin of disgruntled
workers creating the back drop,
for proud men raising a trophy,
the emblem of monetary
perplexity.

Not enough make enough.
So belief can die it's painful
reminder,
"Faith cast as dice, when no
one believes there's a chance."

Belligerent decadence,
remind me to remind them,
the people you so rally to scourge;
that interpretation is not
better left for your eyes,
but theirs.
Remind me to speak in
rag tag metaphor so as to
dispel the wrench clogging
their system.
Remind me to encourage
them to explore further;
beyond their machinations,
so they again can see this
machines engine.
Maybe the clog is yours,
but like every circulatory
system may fall victim to
stroke like conditions so
shall yours.

Belligerent decadence
rise up fallen brethren,
falling faster than the
history of Columbus.
How long till we see
the incredible hyperbole
being played out so
deliberately? How long till
we seethe for proof,
the products of ignorant
disease.
How long till we find
life's anathema like genius
executed upon every casted
ballot?
The forsaken taking heed
making up the norm for the
moment.

Empty rants, mind slowing
products infect our once proud
carriers with poverty, and
disease.
Creative incentive tossed
upon the coals of cold furnaces,
define all eyes and see all
ears believe.
Then again if you haven't
given interpretive thought a
chance, belligerent decadence
will never vanish, but upon
this battlefield, your soul
will be brandished.

"Belligerent Decadence!"

Disparage me the words,
and I will whisper sincerity.
Hide from me my insecurities,
and I will bare you my purity.
Barrage me with tyranny,
I'll witness to depravity.
Show me strength,
and I will teach you posterity.
Abide by wisdom,
and I will give you integrity.

Developing within, a conscious
thought, a work in progress.
Reminded, yet my eyes can't see
what it is my soul yearns to hear.
The clothing a thin veil for the
shame I feel. The smile, an
imposter for the agony I carry.

Come across the gorge of clarity,
receive the outstretched hand
of my charity.
Grace me with your demons of
infirmity, and receive a closed
mouth, an open heart washed in
unity.
Give freely your inheritance,
and receive abundance that surpasses
all monetarily.
Stand upright, for we all stand
together. Stand with conviction,
none of us are worthy. Stand with
resolve for none knows the journey
of the other. Stand heart exposed
for we've all felt incomplete.

Hone your craft, guard it with
ferocity.
Be bequeathed a right to remain
in anonymity.
Focus your eyes on that which is
above, be made fertile for the minds
that crave guidance.
Humble yourself in the task you've
undertaken; but to simply mark
and remember where you've been,
and what you're becoming.

In the essence of torture, you'll
find self condemnation, recognize
this contorted disfigured lie,
****** it when it's forked tongue
comes to sit at the door step of your
ear, the portal to your thoughts.
Sweep it's carcass away as you would
cobwebs or dust bunnies, but remain
vigilant it will come again, masked
as some other idea you hold of
your own failures, your own
deformities.

Show me perfection,
and I will say God.
Talk to me of wisdom,
and I will silently nod.

It cannot go unspoken this time.
Split in twixt, bifurcated,
so one half couldn't recognize the
whole.

Blindfolded by rage, scarred
by the ravages of what if's,
the open metaphor for pain.

Removing myself from the
standards I began to set.
Unrealistic, out of reach,
unattainable.
Blurring my vision, by bended
elbow, making excuses faster than
solutions; sinking slowly without
a branch, only an empty bottle
to adhere to.
The calamity called for peace,
and I've listened.

Her hand innocuous at first,
now radiant, strong, and sensual.
Grasped hold of me,
ripping me up from my rotting moorings.
Providing proof there's
still strength in my devices,
my incentives, in my hopes
lie my dreams.

It will never again go unspoken
through my action, it will be heard
careening off foundations,
piercing eyes, and lancing ears.
Words conversed by glance, and
through touch.

Reformed, refined by the beautiful
touch of the divine.
It will never go unspoken again.
Once broken picked up, and loved
back together.

It will never again be unspoken.
The words, the elegance, the clarity,
it all must be perfect, perfectly annunciated.
In me I've found freedom.
Through you I am once again
welcomed into your kingdom.

As fresh as the cresting sun.
As renewed as a parched root system,
sipping from newly fallen rain.
As strong as the piercing scent
of death.
As inspiring as a color never before seen.
As beautiful as an uninterrupted
view of the coming horizon.

Tracing my tracks against the
dew soaked grass.
The stride seemingly effortless,
but that imposition of thought
betrays the plight.
A vehicle of processes unseen.
A coalescing of doubt, fatigue,
and soul shrieking fear.
The listless sojourner bides his
time, by hearing the winds
flow through the branches of
trees sheltering his tumultuous,
tortured head.

The mirage of freedom begs for him.
The anticipation of impact beckons him.
The theory of altruism entices him.
The actual silence imparts peace on him.

As brave as a child facing life with
no hand to hold.
As defined as the microscopic view
of the macroscopic systems moving
around me.
As invigorating as a bath in a cool
blue spring.

Renewed, reborn, raised.
The tearing pain of exhaustion earns
no acknowledgement.
The screaming agony of muscles
garners only more ambition.
The eyes of a weary sojourner
shows sincere empathy,
real love,
amazing faith.

Surrender yourself,
lay prostrate,
know your place,
and by grace,
they will see it upon your now
smiling face.

Sharp residual, a residue.
Built up animations yet to come
to life, by the movement of limbs,
words, energy, actions.
If not to empty them, at least to
mock myself in a mirror,
watch my image come to life
upon the ground. The last vestige,
silent perpetrator, a shadow
more direct than aversions
to practice in speech what will
only idle; sleep while
waiting for the now to become
never, to bleach clean the war
torn attrition no one could ever
listen to.

Just another panic attack,
as the surrounds of peripheral
color themselves darker than
the center of attention,
my disheartened hope makes
focal point, reference point
numero uno.
There can be no growth forward,
when emptiness contaminates, like
a spill upon a slate counter top
of a soul. Super absorbent, no fiber
can clean the mess of this, this
story untold.

Still, many versions exist,
have existed.
Written, copied and kept
as sacred script. The letters,
the poetry, the books, the
pleading lost vesicle; words
written by blood, birthed by
deepening scars, covered by a sincere
heart.
Cutting along the edges,
remembering to stay within
the lines, just make sure you're
gone, completely cut out.

Chased in perpetual silence-
watching the steam circle,
then dissipate, a taunting of
my attached heart floating,
rising, disappearing above my
cup of coffee.

I like to think I drink it for
its energy inducing pleasure.
I can now rest assured I drink
it for the memories, the
memoirs, the voices, the
fidgety way I can distract myself
from retracing the incident all
the way back.

Conscious enough to know I
must rise above the toxicity.
I just feel sometimes,
"I can barely breathe!"
Why my God?
Why does it feel like my words,
my sincere want to again
be me falls helplessly,
empty, uselessly upon the
deaf ears, the handle of my steaming
cup of coffee.

Half empty, half full,
when it comes to coffee this
psychological tool doesn't
feel too relevant.
Tepid now, do I warm it up?
Do I throw it back?
Do I get a refill?
There seems so much more
I must trace through the
tunnels of thinking.
Beep, Beep, Beep,
start- murrrrrrr-
I topped it off, then warmed
it up. Looks like another long
night of soul searching, open
desk top windows, and
reminding myself I don't need ****
to get me through this.
Beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeep!

I've concocted a beautiful new
image. One I have not the
artistic capability to reproduce,
or audacity to bring to life.
But my words, my coffee,
will be both the art, and the muse.

A skillfully drawn eye.
An eye in all its symmetry,
eyelashes, eyelids, tear duct,
pupil, coloring;
green if you're asking.
From the edges fingernails have
buried themselves just around
the eye, and have already
begun tearing backward.
(presumably, there may need to be
the structure, or knowledge
of a brow.)
Blood has begun running.
Some of the blood has formed
channels, tracing the well worn
path of natural tears.

The streams culminate at the
base of the eye, where droplets
are forming.
Below this eye, their destination.
A journal, a notebook lay open,
the title at the top reads
"Insidious Vapid Amor"
A pen lay diagonally in
orientation across the page.
To the right, or left depending
on the artistic rendering,
preference, a cup of coffee.
The page, the rim of the cup, the pen
are spattered with the droplets
from above.
But in the coffee rises
the conical effect of a droplet that
has just crashed against the
surface tension of my coffee,
anyone's coffee.
-One last sip-
but not a coming goodnight;
chased in perpetual silence,
while my empty coffee cup reminds
me I'm empty too.

One chance to say it again,
Before it's gone.
One more chance at agony
soaked irony.
One more chance to feel secure,
while whisked away by doubt.
One more chance to sing that
song at the top of your lungs,
to receive in discourse ominous
looks, uncomfortable adjustments.
One more time to cry alone,
truly because no one's watching.
One more time to cradle yourself
in an image you'll never forget.
One more time for the scent to linger
upon bedsheets you know you'll have to
wash later.
One more time to cut a silhouette
against the concrete.
One more time to purse your lips.
One more time to hold them longer than expected.
One more time to touch their soul.
One more time to tell them,
"yeah I know."
One more time to whisper,
"It's now or never."
One more time upon the grass,
in a car, a bathroom, a theatre,
their home.
One more time, because you just don't
want to feel alone.
One more time on the phone,
the ringing in your ears,
it's just got to be them.
One more time to imagine the
what ifs before you can truly say
goodbye.
I wrap myself in you one more time,
close my eyes say goodbye to
you now, one more time
forever.

Goodbye.

A callous self deprecating emotion
springs to life inside me.
The recognition that I can be swept
aside, buried beneath the all
encompassing societal rug
berates me.
A callousness sparks inside me.
A hunger for the flammable,
the all too metaphorical
combustible agents flutter
just outside my incendiary
thoughts, my actions.
So for only a fleeting moment
the intensity of our conglomerate
fire may be perceived, and
paralyze the darkness.

This callousness has caused
imperfections, markings, scrapings,
defacing the beautiful vehicle
I fly upon.
Carried by its wings, its divine
focus there isn't a second to
notice.
Resting only to refuel,
the weight, the burden are too
much for one spirit to
hold.

So where's the love?!
It too is found in this irreplaceable
callousness. A fondled idea writhing,
weeping like an infant, whose
mother can be seen, but not
touched.
Restraint illicits too much
confusion.
Bottled hypothesis' shaken
until the contents are so wound
up they beg for release.
To explode, exposing their teeth.
An earthquake rips through
their vehicle, making new
formations where old ones
have long since eroded.

A callousness festers in me,
for inaction is the norm,
and this weathered vehicle
has been thinking, not doing for
too long.
So with each new word,
a step forward, a destination set,
a redefining of the unrefined.

Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.

The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.

A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.

So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.

Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."

While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.

But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?

He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.

Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."

"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."

Sultry, seductive, and you make it look effortless.
Yes, I take note of what you wear,
the style, the simple placement of your hair.

I make it a point not to stare,
it would feel inefficient,
it would feel wrong,
it would be a sincere disservice.

I want a creative way by which to enter within your reality.
That surreal place of justified perspective, that permeates
every fragrance I smell, every sound I hear.
I feel like you are everywhere.

Makeshift words spring to life the moment I see you there.
But they're absent of truth, for I cannot allow your eyes to catalogue me, force forth any proof, the feelings, the hesitant breath, a stammer, an insignificant gesture.
No I must make you feel I'm in control,
aloof.

I'm compelled to give you earnest,
sincere respect, simply because your persona
proceeds you, your words form before me
without a single muscle moving.

Just WoW!

The butterfly flutters, distracting
from its inherent beauty.
Skittering across sightlines
in sincere purity;
flight pattern may be
viewed as erratic,
yet the precision with which
it lands, a delicate triumph
for the eyes.
Anyone keen enough quickly
discerns the perfect skill,
the amazing grace,
the pristine purpose.

As if placed by an Angel.
The butterfly stretches its wings
to catch the rays of God,
whose artistry is now on
full display.
Quietly taking on what's
necessary, seemingly eating
the colors from the flowers;
just enough to ignite the
imagination, while watching again,
as God takes flight.

God's Electric Butterfly!

I feel like I want to
trace with Angels, be
given the color by demons,
all so I can view; in retrospect
of course, just what's unfolding
before my eyes, produced
by a moving hand, holding both
tragic wand, and elegant scepter.

A savage ache in my wrists,
in my fingers escalates,
cascading pain, it's like biting
one's lips whilst *******.
The ****** approach of a spinster,
finding the sinister, or beautiful
images racing by in blurry flurries.
A fictional figurine encased
in a snow globe no one
shakes anymore.
A conversation piece, small talk
for the sake of ending the
silence he so viciously clings to.

We all would, if we too saw
the threads he grasps from
glares, staring eyes to him,
they're as visible as your
discomfort with the moment.
And the movement of you feet
tip him off to another delightful
treat, but you'll know nothing
of the attention you've garnered
he's far smarter than that.
How else is he to view you
in your natural habitat, only seen
when your movements, your actions
are considered voluntary, deliberate.
If he clued you in to when you
alerted him to watch, the
partisan dance couldn't
begin.

He's cutting fresh imprints
of you for later.
Some he'll make sure you know of,
others, he'll leave you beyond
wondering.
You shouldn't show him curiosity,
lest the moments of what,
and, or when torture you
well into the night.

Whimsy!?
Sure,
If you must place a condescending
tone to something you don't know,
but clearly want to.
Maybe it's easier to act as though
it doesn't matter.
He knows you'll be back, not now,
possibly never, but when he's
there, your thoughts are his too.

Torn from the womb, rushed
into a warriors labor. A failing
patriarch with eyes of sterling,
sleek in shape, displaying a
desperate smile.

Engaged in foaming conversations,
which seemingly drip effortlessly
upon the ear drums of systematic
recoil.
Cause has effect, descriptive, and
random, while tragedy nurses
folly.

Monsters leaving carcasses,
one after another. One more steel
ringlet latched around necks
like a noose.
Prophecies of habit, of vengeance,
seen only when one comes clean,
the acceptance, the truth of
religious martyrs, religious sages.

Still teetering on the edge of
impossibility, human form
infected with fantasies, and reality
based television becomes the
docility of technocracy. Easily
trapping the ignorant watchers
with denial, while fallen soldiers
lead a life of misfortunate
revile.

Gather together the worlds
inequities, and think only of each
bygone quality. Bind them together,
coalesce the congregated minority,
and strap them upon surface to
air missiles. Ready, aim, fire.
Rain down manufactured hatred,
upon their difference, their
deference.

From the windows of paradise,
I see this perjury, praise be to simple
solutions too enigmatic, because
the tactics are so similar to prayers
and hopes. God drain them of their
breath, strip them of their life.
Hold onto the image of a
limitless sky, while another rocket
races across centuries.
From one aisle to another, from
one dogmatic doctrine, into the
hands of priests, bigots, and
demi-gods. The clerics whose
spirits are our questions with
out answers, not the worlds
intentions, driving these vehicles
of intercession.

Drawing the curtains, so the early
morning sun cannot lash out at
my eyelids, whose images create
dreams within themselves.
We can see the blood running from
***** and body, reminding that
life, no matter how defiled, no
matter how tragic, or how inexact,
is still a science, a process of do’s
and don’ts.

The limiting of ambition, restrained
by our reality, relegates progressive
proposals to fictitious daydreams,
or to a drug induced psychosis,
yet this cancer will grow, extending
tentacles exponentially, cradling
the heavens.
Death after death manages to
make reality so simple.

A suggestion of ******, of
genocide, an elimination of
competition, of difference, of
doctrine, of compassion,
without interruption, the dream
of our future is the plight of
those being tortured for
sovereignty.

The words like the colors should come to the fore,
furiously.
Unflinching resolve to viciously slash at canvas,
or parchment, or delicately craft a deep emotion inducing delicious diatribe in image.

It's the context that views the blank space,
it's the content carried forth in stroke
after stroke, stenciled line,
after stenciled line.

The fire ignites from within the core,
that sets the essence into progenerative
existence.
Maybe for the eyes of another,
the therapy of a shaken psyche,
or simply so the soul does not smother
from the excess creative exaltations
sitting upon overflowing shelves,
a constant mind processes,
and saves for later.

And the stoic honor blank parchment
offers through kinetic waves;
any device for liquid release is grasped, grabbed,
dipped, or wiped, removing old color
replacing with new. If you could enter
the room, you would smell the creativity imbued
in the air, an aromatic ambiance both synergetic
energy, and compulsory release. A lust for example
of what resides for later dissection, but for now
the craft should be the only focus, its
transmission all the chaos this world can
handle.

And the hand seems to move in rhythm
with the whirring sound of the fan overhead,
the refrigerator in the kitchen,
any innocuous distraction forgotten,
so the fury being executed precisely,
remains the filling of empty margins.
Corners aren't confines, they're guidelines,
reminding there are no limits here,
set a new precipice.

The colors should scream to the next canvas,
the ink to the next page.
Each turn, each emptied tube,
comes wonderful release, magnificent creation.
This is my artistic mayhem!

...And as we move,
so too does the mind.
Shaped by divergence.
Rendering the oncoming landscape
for our poor pathetic little mind's
to comprehend, whilst true,
natural fertility is shed,
dropped to the ground,
recognized as little more than
detritus, lost to the process
of reconstitution.

As interpretation seems to be prone
to spinning, so too does our willingness
to become dizzy. Blaming disorientation,
never lack of focus.

Only what's in front of us can
slow the onset of nausea;
instead we choose to consume
the calamity, pridefully ignoring
its immensity.
Finding ourselves bent over,
heaving up what's left of the carcass
we're all devouring.
Giving back to that which we all spurn,
the nutrients of survival.

I can't stand the made up plight of man.
The maladies we allow to
overwhelm us daily, simply because
the grind, the acceptance is better
then the stand, the resistance.

All I see anymore are walking effigies,
doing as they're told, becoming exactly
what they were cast to be.
Succumbing to the malevolence
of playwrights whose power
only exists because you've given it
to them.
You're becoming their form of social
interaction.
Now you're stuck between two cameras,
but you can't be bi-focal.

"Faith needs no form of refuge."

Gloriously swept away down a beautiful corridor,
both thought and experience.
The light seems purposeless, and the newest of all eyes begins receiving the inlaid context springing to life, and they all seem to like it this way.

No obstacles, only a clear path beset with many delineations.
It's the very real idea that any and all paths are yours to be taken without regret, absence of remorse.
The skin prickles itself to life. The body convulses, yet remains still.
It's the inward reflection, the silhouette just beyond the corneas that's dancing.
And even if you wish they could feel it, there remains a beautiful selfishness about keeping it to yourself.

No matter, you bring it forth with spring charged steps, composed breath.
It's the example you set, the smile cast forward as a fisherman's net, capturing all the unwilling fish.
No need for verbal explanation, they'll understand if they choose, but again this is simply for you.

Your touch carries a power far more kinetic than a lightening bolt, your look renders them catatonic. Filling with questions, but overwhelmingly more so joy.

"I want what they're having."
A simple sentence you now know as prophecy.

Urging them, "Dance with me, while motionless, speak with me wordlessly, carry me without the burden of strained muscle, exist with me amidst the beauty of this corridor, and its choices."
There is a definitive, deafening buzz, it's LIFE, you can hear it now in the purity of this silence.

This cannot be contrived, so you open all of what was once you, to forcefully experience it.
You no longer feel your heart beat, only the rhythm of others, who like you choose raw existence over questions; which would only serve to break this incredible transition.

It's not from where you came,
or where you're going.
It's stationary simplicity, and everything
seems to move with you, not around you,
almost through you.

Leaving reflective vibrations which resonate not to be felt,
not listened to, but understood, not explained, remaining a ripple generating outwardly without pause, without cause.
"Please don't explain me, don't expose me."
In this silence it's truthfully the loudest.

Answer it for the last time,
the repeating lie after tapestry takes away from the
gory inside story.
No camera crew, just smoldering blood rising into sweat filled smoke, the fumes of the hidden bodies closed behind each newly erected closet.
Harboring this much, there's no way one can be enough.


I choose chop sticks, because my fingers are kind of new to this.
You know, the gouging out of the third eye.
The only vesicle, true interpreter that may give me away.

Slumped shoulders, but head held high enough to see the rhythm preceding me, the want he's trying to ignore, yet there is no music, just the sound of wind washed hair, licked lips, and flittered eyelids.
Close then open,
open then close,
close then open.
He does it fast enough to make a movie of the moment.

Each a new still, hung in a darkroom he dare not enter; for the negatives are everywhere. The solution is what he's trying to get right.
Exposure, timing -he's no shutter bug-
That's why he chooses chop sticks, his fingers are just too new to this.
You know, plunging his hand into water without getting them wet.
It's a miracle he's picked up anything.

The presence here is stifling, relating more to the heat in the moment, not for the moment he was forced to acknowledge the heat.

He thinks a cooling down period is absurd. It's better to melt away and have memories, then frozen forms unchanged, scrutinized,
catalogued, and preserved for the sake of posterity.
Trust me, he knows how tainted, and reshaped memories can be, but he likes to have faith in the integrity.
Claims it makes for better character.

While I'm still trying to figure out how to use chop sticks.
You know, because clay can be messy, and if Daniel son has taught us anything, it's what you capture that's so **** impressive.

I can see the pool of liquid emerging from the sides of his head, many want to think it's saliva, you know, "pool of drool."
But I know better; through trial and error I can tell when a man's been crying.

This isn't boredom, he too tried to figure out how to use chop sticks, but gave up one tasty morsel away.

"The elegance of chance is knowing you can't know."

Palpating the empty cavernous realm of intellect and morality,
I find a restricting noose constructed of the finest strands of insecurity, but it's more proportionally comprised of self-doubt. Each fiber's soaked in a vat of social restraint, the ineffective capability of people to deny injustice. Choosing instead the intoxicating mirage that hereditary lies has handed down throughout the centuries.

Helping the constructors of irrationalism build their platform upon supports of popular opinion.
Equipping it with the ingenious trap door many a potential scholar of entropy and fatalism has fallen through. Snapped necks they suffocate on the breath of pseudo-liberty; as the French have, and Americans still do.

Hands bound behind their backs by indecision, latent anger, the belief in a system far from progressive. Where morals and codes of conduct are tempered, and deliberately shaped into devices of torture sugar coated, and worn pridefully without knowing the restrictions nor the pain, any form of progressive thought is absent. The mass majority select intellectual stagnance over the enlightening evolution of attempting to understand the human condition.

They are not to blame.
For shame and resentment are left for frugal debates over each new candidate, sheered from the same wormwood poisoning the stream of consciousness ****** by a nationalistic fervor full of flavor, no long lasting integrity, only iron clad walls of discretion and misrepresentation.

Traveling great distances, shoulders encumbered with regret, apathy, and triviality; the phantom that is a patriot has left his burden laden tracks for the next poor sap to find his way far from freedom, closer to slavery. The yoke fits loosely but unlike the bumbling oxen his purpose is indiscernable, his capacity to think of a way to escape is neutralized by the bag of oats and blinders he himself accepts; by abhorring what he’ll call disrespect and irreverence toward a slave driving body masked by the right to live fruitfully, albeit sedentary.

The joy of complacency is not holding responsibility, not feeling accountable for any choice where the dangers of rational thinking may awaken the bitter, savage realization that he is merely a by-product, a cog in a larger scheme to keep freedom a longer journey than it is according to the whip holder’s theory. The excruciating knot is pulled tightly together by hunger, so the worker satisfies this hunger with more intricately designed knots. His concentration isn’t in untying it, it’s merely compounding it with greater enigmas he’ll leave for the omniscient to decipher, and untangle.

He’ll wash his hands of the assignment and swallow what he deems nourishment, but the hole is never plugged. The hole grows and the abyss growls, the sounds of thousands of souls in constant traction, but this man of many fantasies can have no distractions. His focus remains selectively aimed upon projects the future will later ruin, yet without foresight the ambition has no name so the cycle remains the same.

His lifeless body now swings to and fro above gallows where the omnipotent applaud the writhing spirit of free will convulsing violently; gyrating while the sedated world of the executed continues being recreated to disguise the sincerest, deepest pain he’ll never know, because knowledge is will and the power struggle is one of isolation and possible destitution. So only when he wakes after his fate has been sealed will free spirit, and free will assault his no longer inebriated body, showing no mercy and reminding him of every time they tried to save him.

He’ll scream in utter agony placing his voiceless soul amongst those bellowing from the abyss he never tried to close. What’s more, choosing to ignore such an enormous expanse of nothing, makes the punishment perfectly sufficient, and succinct with every bit of skepticism he had that such a void of expression, virility, and endless suffering even existed. The twisting twine that holds this wretched, still body of reason securely above the wastelands of awareness makes the most insidious noise. It’s like rubbing famine and pestilent ridden bodies together; the crunching sound of bones absent of mass, riddled with brittle chip marks where the consciously aware soldiers of misfortune have attempted to shape spearheads of vindication, but are then left where they were found because even the potential tools of warfare are less sturdy and strong than the flesh bound mind of sterility from whence they came.

So there is nothing this heap of biological ingenuity and imagination can offer, but to swing in each gusting breeze like a sign posted “No Loitering,” “No Trespassing” would when pushed by the conglomerate gales of assembled hundreds. Ignorance prevails, those who fight are made to accept this evil mantra not out of doubt, but hope that once one awakes before his/her spirit and will has been completely removed, they’ll feel the refreshing irony of those who prayed silently that their army of insolent rewriters of justice has grown by one more.

Still breathing, within a masked struggle fought on separate planes of reality, behind curtains weaved of Kevlar, lead, and iron, many perverts of theory co-opt covertly in absolute anonymity fashioning plans: the plans of liberty, freedom, and prosperity.

They’re his only means of acquittal. Slashing the ropes and allowing those long since dead to die in peace, and those whose breath still has a bit of resistance to fight; the chance to view in full honesty and tragedy the gallows where weary travelers of theory are beaten by conviction and moral restrictions.

...And it wasn't the ***.
It couldn't have been the mood shifts.
The way you lifted my spirits doused upon by the days end.
...And it wasn't the emotion.
It couldn't have been the quiet,  "I'm fine." Without a word spoken.
The I love you seemingly through gnashed teeth.
...And it wasn't the kisses.
Latent anger retraced with soft open lips.
Conversations through wilting eyes, the irony of them being so wet.
...And it wasn't the touch
The way even now my body alights when not a fingertip is present.
Hands sliding down my beard laden cheek, feeling the sincerity through every flicked whisker.
...And it wasn't your body.
Soundlessly resting while I traced your shape beneath the blankets.
The way your hips moved as if you were dancing, and all you were doing was talking.
...And it wasn't our future.
Names of our children, without a filled chapel.
Arousing romps about this beautiful country, it's borders ours to conquer.
...And it wasn't you.
It was my drinking, and I curse the bottle I've now since set down.
I've never cried so hard, hated so much, looked for darkness in all hours of light.
...And if I could I'd want that one last word to be a phrase caught in your head, remembered before bed, I love you.

...I'm sorry.

The Eastern Sun rises,
refreshing the petals of
a distinct silhouette.
A common field of birth,
the pains of creation,
shaped by opening buds.
The lingering fragrance of
beauty fills the air, as each
endures their ends near.

Enriched with life,
the ground absorbs what
amniotic fluid has yet to dry.
The failing sight of third eyes
perceives life, not the utterly
vicious cycle retraced for
the populous, by fragrant
scent changers.

Decay is what their future
dictates, and each of them
gives their best, hiding any
deformities history has made
manifest.
The enormity of their ambiance
is set by their perfume,
The absolute feminine.

Waiting, never seizing,
waiting to be picked, propped
upright, placed in the newly
formed vase of the aged.
A container, a vessel passed
down throughout the generations,
the centuries.

Now the living arrangements,
the social concepts are set.
A meager conversation piece,
a lasting assembled accent to
assuage people into comfort,
not outrage.
The scent lingers, neither
over powering, or weak.
Just a perfect rose delineated
from it’s profound Sangreal.
The continuous pattern of the
perfect feminine.

My obedience collared me in conversation.
My “Individualism” castrated me through sentences.
My “Independence” killed my fire for success.
My “one-mindedness” turned out enlightenment and ushered in
My new Abyss.
My Concept of race was planted by those making us feel distress
about an issue they progressed.
My words are power to myself for I figure the puzzle and touch the pulse.
My thoughts can never be cherished unless in life I’m made to perish
by my God given inheritance.
My reality is their creation.
My monogamy is mental ******* .
My freedom is the slavery they cannot see.
My society is the mentality they cannot free.
My Hip-Hop is what their culture is not.
My who done it? is fingers pointed at shadowy figures pulling Martyrdom’s Trigger.
My anger is their love for forced ignorance,
but they still raise fists,
yet never resist.
My capitalism is their mistakes sign posted throughout history.
My psychology is lengthy conversations over a couple cups of coffee.
My sociology is Anarchy after I destroyed their mores.
My world is what lives on in my head!