On cold and windy, rainy night,
I sat beside the fire’s golden light
with such an intention then to write.

To tell what shadow I had seen
pass by outside my window screen-
supposing I knew what it could mean.

Wet cobblestones in alley glisten-
but would anyone out there listen?
Even one would warrant this mission.

Hearing the tired branches sway,
I wondered then how I was to say
what no prior sentence could portray.

I sat, reaching for all the things
that crying wind of cyclone brings-
but silence! Now the blue-bird sings!

How long I sat in aimless wonder
for that spell which I’d been under,
hearing now just some distant thunder,

but few words would come to me.
My pen would’ve set the world free-
but all that flowed from it was poetry.

In blackest day, or brightest night,
of longest vision but shortest sight;
in a single step on an endless road
of mindless thought or breathless ode,
I stumbled over the shadow cast
by ancient present and modern past.
Here I discovered a light that shone
on wonders wandering, all alone,
and onto that faceless, nameless ghost
who whispered this to a wooden post:
“If all who judge were to be blamed,
as all who boast were to be shamed,
and all who hate were to be healed,
so all who hide could be revealed,
and stones forgot how sand had sinned,
then spirits which they call the wind
would carry them off as a faithful friend-
and only then would this road end.”

Australia they say is filled
with all the things that get you killed:
snakes and spiders, birds and bats,
venomous dogs, and dog-sized rats.
But none in counting could ever forget
the continent’s infamous national pet,
by which you bet I mean the fly.

Like rocks with wings, or drops of dry;
like drones of death, the scouts of hell,
the souls of all the men who fell
to thirst along this twisted track,
or like some angry god’s attack
they swarm in shapeless, shifting form!

A black mass like a violent storm
is aiming for our ears and eyes!
Swatting is hopeless, but still one tries
to ****- just one! To no avail-
it’s easier to **** a whale.

Dizzying sweeping, swoop and swirl,
they’ll never sleep- just loop and whirl,
cry like a hammer who’s driving a Hummer,
then clothe us like four coats in summer.
Here paradise waits with a wave and a cuss,
and we found it after the flies got us.

This room was dark and loud, everything glowing a soft yet piercing
shade of pink. The ceiling was abuzz with sinful distortion
of mind and body, the floor writhing and squirming in lustful torment,
and all in between was this dark ****** exchange of dreamy madness!
December screws those tightly into that packed basement, all but a few
puffs of cigarette smokers who huddle at the steps peaking over
and yakking, and though their bodies freeze, their eyes shift about
their edges, lingering fearful and sorrowful over the doorway as
it appears in some hellish biblical portrait depicting the absolute form
of lust and desire and jealous agony, sin and *** at its highest organic peak. Like hesitant lemmings, like grounded birds, like chickens
they dare never enter because they may never enter. Unwelcome
are the fearful and the human from that dark sinister ****** presence who came here for love and then found none,
but angelic girls in heavens twisted favor may come and go as they
please!  How angelic they were too- cold and alone, drunken and
undressed they open themselves up to heat of the floor and lose their
minds and manners to the pervasive rhythm pulsating like some heart
between the swirling psychedelic patterns that adorn the walls,
whatever a heart may be they shine, and the heart sways heavily
through the flames and the devilish young men, handsome!
Charming! Their smiles bring these girls to their knees again and
again they play them like harps and the girls are played such
a silky and shrouded lullaby in which they find brief silence
hidden between waves of fashioned euphoria,
silence comparable to the silence one finds sitting in the midst
of an elephant stampede while the whole earth trembles to the horizon,
and it is a silence found only when one is sure beyond all doubt that they are completely
alone.

Tonight the wolves are prowling;
I can feel them in my blood-
and in my ears they’re howling
in wild rage against the flood.
The moon is in my eye,
and in its glow I’m overflowing-
drowning in the starry sky,
and clawing madly for a thing
which moonlight isn’t showing.
In naked wind I feel the sting
of sleeping decades in rotation:
I mark my plot, make darkness sing,
but summer, fall, winter, and spring
eclipse my shallow indentation.

What some called faith was only fear-
distraction was all that they held dear.
I tell you the truth will be hard to hear
if you've still got something in your ear.

I've got nothing, and nothing is mine.
I've got no god who gives me no sign.
I've got no church, which suits me fine-
at least I'm allowed to enjoy the wine.

At night I can sleep on solid ground,
and listen as nothing makes a sound.
In the daylight I can look all around-
finding delight where nothing is found.

I too have witnessed the ethereal glow,
not from above, nor from below,
but from moonlit footprints in the snow-
from nothing I came, so to nothing I'll go.

The ugly boy
saw the beautiful girl,
fell under her spell
and was lost in her swirl.
In whirling wind,
he fell into the sky-
but she was a storm,
and in passing, would die.
So then he would fall
and get caught in the trees,
to go back on loving
like the rats and the fleas.

I think
therefore
I am
afraid
the hand
will take
what it
has made
and I
will fade
into
the snow
before
I find
a place
to grow.

One million and one tiny houses span this city
where one million unsatisfied lovers sleep.
Does Romeos childish grin see more
than these unlit brick roads reveal?
In darkness lovers die alone.
Oh Romeo,
          what did you find in her eyes tonight?

To talk
like best friends on a midnight walk,
to sing
like it's the first morning of spring,
to laugh
like you just found the first giraffe,
to cry
like the falcon whose wings don't fly,
to love
like you're falling from far above,
to hate
like they've stolen your empty plate,
to learn
like tomorrow our books will burn,
to read
till you fear your heart will bleed,
to teach
to the children the power of speech,
and to do
unto others as they'd do unto you.

What is still out there
that I am yet to cry for?
Lie for? **** or die for?
What treasure lies buried in the folds
of a shifting world, tossing me
like a baby in a blanket
in the sea of storms and creatures
of all creation?
Is love what calls the hero forth
into the battles of the giants
stomping on the soul
and beating the heart with hammers
in the desert where we lie waiting,
cold and wise and old
and in disguise as sheep?
Is love out there?
Or is it in the night, breaking
silent suffering scarecrows
with the brothers of time
and screaming from the open sunroof
of a car overtaking dead midnight traffic,
waking the pastures of a reckless
and restless youth?
Is love what we were chasing
when we were racing?
Or is it something far above,
and beyond what we have yet become
as children in the womb
of life and sorrow;
will love find me in tears
of a final breath for all that was
lost in seamless sleep and
dreaming?

I ran though those rotating doors
where men were doing silly chores-
polishing statues and waxing floors
outside of those redundant stores
that line the air conditioned alleys,
ten foot poster **** sallys,
and symmetry in pale valleys
beneath the ceiling of Elysium;
more marble in here than an art museum.
A sad omen for whats in store-
just which god is this temple for?

I bought that Norman Rockwell mood
I surely absolutely needed,
then headed for the court of food
(for shopping does leave one defeated)
where I was so kindly greeted
by a man who’s head was beaded
where his eyes were meant to be.
Some would stare, but no, not me!
I ordered white chocolate ***** tea
double espresso and sugar free,
but sugar overflowed ‘til it coated the floor
and I’m already craving more.

I then stood up to take my leave,
and lock myself at home to grieve
for what prosperity had done;
our towers now eclipsed the sun.
My gentle stroll became a run,
for underneath fluorescent haze
the walls and marts became a maze-
some escalator MC Escher craze
which drowned me after several days.
The secret which I had not known
was simply that the mall had grown
and stretched itself right out the door.
Which god is this temple for?

I would not be so impressed
to hear a king had made a guest
of me in halls all lavishly dressed,
and blessed with every new feature;
I have known the smaller creature
to be the greater teacher.​

Yet nor would I be so relieved
to see that not a soul had grieved
when in the next he was conceived,
deceived as he was by mortal power;
despite our divide, we do yet cower
together from that final hour.

When you jump into the raging sea,
and through the gates of misery,
do not forget to get your hair wet.
Do not forget to forget your pity,
and don’t forget where they cast the net.

When you’re waiting for your train,
do not forget to become insane,
for here is where your fear is met.
I know the nature of your pain:
You will give more than what you get.

When you huddle in the cold,
watching your empty time unfold,
and all of your joy is rooted in regret-
don’t forget to whom your soul was sold,
and do not let them win the final bet.

When you’re buried into soil,
and let to rest from all your toil;
when your corpse is roasted on a spit-
darkness will still have the light to foil,
so long as you did not forget.

You are the love of my life, my dear,
a love that grows with each new year,
so please do be truly willing to hear
me confess: my love has left your rear.

I knew you'd find this news alarming,
and regret I couldn't be more disarming!
I know that I am no Prince Charming
but who in here is your health harming?

We used to dance beneath a burning sun,
and then when we felt like it, we'd run.
Remember how often the day was fun-
please don't tell me those days are done.

If you love me the way you say you do,
you'd love the song of the summer too.
You'd love what I love, the way I grew,
and more so still, you would love you.

I do
because
I’m afraid
to.

I swim
because
I’m afraid
to dry.

I drown
because
I’m afraid
to fly.

I dive
because
I’m afraid
to die.

I live,
because
I’m afraid,
alive.

Standing with friends on a nameless shore,
I feel somehow so grateful to be so unsure
what wonders and horrors destiny has in store.

I go in, and sit where the waves are breaking.
Repeating, rolling over my head, overtaking
all of the spirits- now shivering and awaking.

They did not sleep, yet also they did not stir-
for the land they loved was occupied by her.
Now she's gone, but they're not as they were.

The light is low; the day is coming to fiery end-
but there are certain things Apollo can't defend
and why should I not call the night my friend?

On this howling nightmare night,
wake together into darkness,
voodoo puppets pinned to pillows-
voices cancel out vibrations,
silence loses way in rattle,
village loses way in war,
metropolis shatters in the window,
Nightmare, I'm awake once more.

.          Design is flawless of the diamond city,
an organic stone equation spattered messy
green according to plan
and yes then red and then white and dead,
but would a single cloud churn the heavenly blue abyss
had it sparked against the steel will of mankind?
          So maybe the stars do play us for puppets
on threads of gentle gravity,
          And maybe the mountains move us
more than we ever wished to move them anyways,
          And maybe Gods thorny love spat you out
at exactly where you're just about to be.
          But what were the chances that still recovering our vision from the blinding eyes on the day of judgement, we couldn't yet see
that we had already made it to paradise.
          What better world have I to explore than this one
where every traffic light signals the endless passing
of the rhythmic energy of living,
and every passing soul reveals yet another bridge to cross or street to follow
behind their wild eyes where America was never short of lands uncharted; In the Diamond City I spoke to the warrior ****** masks
and recognized the voices of the restless spirits of the west.
          Their feet pitter patter between
colossal walls of natural and carnivorous symmetry and ponder the pillars of ancient Greece so everything feels so modern, as if its own existence were somehow premature, and it was.
          Young, in their claw
towards a concrete cocoon they sleep past these cement giants
who channel rivers of breath through hands and hairs
and endless leaves and lungs that rustle around above them awake,
all of them oblivious
of the showering accomplishment of now.