Feeling like our love
has started
all over again
from the bike ride
to the serene sea side
from locked fingers
to the lonely road
exploring places
watching the nature unfold.
Romance in the eyes
yearning to go insane
in your arms, into you
through your wet lips,
our hearts beating
in deep confluence
drenched in the rain
in this blissful silence

I wonder if the ocean
ever gets tired of being pulled by the tides
if there are days
she just doesn't want to rise
and instead,
wallow in the abyss of her cries?

What about when
her feet are ripped from the shore
though she wanted to stay
a little bit more?

Caught in the fishing line
of time
barely stepping into a moment to play
before it's washed away.

Ever changing are the tides
her heart rides
and it's really no surprise
that's where the magic lies;
in a place hard to find
when she's sinking down blind
but when her face reaches the sun
you'll know it has really begun.

I'm wearing dead man's underwear
I ask what's wrong with that
Something you see they no longer need
Where they now are at

From Jockey's whitey tighties
To boxers by the score
Don't much matter to me
What this dead man wore

With the right amount of detergent
The proper amount of bleach
Like I said four lines back
Don't matter much to me

Now please don't rush to judgement
Or my life preconceive
We all have our different ways
Of carrying on their memories

Me...I just do it in dead man's briefs

I write in the trance of triangular years
whose reverse-osmosis has done but clear
the last memories I held dear

and somewhere along the line of
perpendicular feelings, Love
found its nesting in my heart like a dove
seeking the shelter it was deprived of

because maths and science concretize
my malady. Brittle beings, they vaporize
like mist exhaled for exercise.

These faces I try to exorcise
are the only ones I recognize

I only bring this up
Cause of what all's going down
All the nasty rumors
That are floating here about
Up and down the sidewalk
That and this side of town
All pointing to what the world's been doing

I seen it in the papers
Even watched it on T.V.
Keep thinking of the saying
All that you see you can't believe
This time I think they're making
A bigger fool of you and me
With all the things that the world's been doing

Yes a fool of us their making
But it's time that we weren't bought
Take it the way they gave it
With a grain of salt
Lift the latch on top our heads
And pour out all those thoughts
To what they tell us that the world's been doing

I may have arrived here early
But I ain't staying late
It's going to take no time at all
Saying what I gotta say
I know the right direction
And I'm not heading in the way
To any part of what the world's been doing

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin *** help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that *** staw a sow,
Or fricassee *** mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro ****** flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis

With regards to Thomas Sayers Ellis*

Look at the
    Lucent lava lamps,
Dark craters
    Hiring hands.
We walked,
    Mimicking magma.
Hot, why is
    This heat?
Forget Vulcan
    And his illusion
Of kaleidoscopes,
    A rip tide
On the shore
    Of our conscious minds.
We held fire,
    Pretending to swim
Underground,
    But only out
Of pure respect.
    Some had boots
Made with
    The clippings
Of funky tripwire,
    Others wore suits
With goggles
    Clamped to their faces,
Gripping like
    Bay Area earthquakes.
One-by-one,
    Jang-strangs were
Attached to us and
    Hurled into the Pit
With rhythmic rituals,
    Waves of S and P
Flailed away
    Like flags.
One nation
    Under a new.
No one looked away
    From the fiery daze.
No one wept.