I wish sometimes I was a man of music.
I see the right side of a tune sometimes and my body seems to feel rythm. My hands and fingers slide over imaginary guitar strings and invisible ivory keys.

My ears vacuum up the sounds of beautiful music, from instruments to midnight breezes.
From simple words to metaphors and phrases.

It seems sometimes my inspiration comes from places that ears perceive as open spaces.
My heart beats to stake it's claim, to find its rythm in a vast world of sounds. A world intricately detailed and expressive. That not only whispers but shouts, that bursts out of the spheres and penetrates the cosmos with sound.

A world as grand and explosive as this, that overflows and spills onto us. Into us, even.

A world like this and my heart beats. To find a heart beating like it's own.
They seem to sound the same, but ears that know the difference can always hear it. whether loud or subtle.

I wish sometimes I was a man of music. Because poems can't seem to write the way my heart beats...
but it does help one to realize the difference, between "beats for" and "beats with."

My heart used to believe it was beating to find some tempo smooth as itself.
But it was beating in tune with someone else's tempo. it was beating with someone who hadn't been heard yet.

I wished I was a man of music, but to be honest, I feel poetry is the only way to properly say that sounds can become trapped. Like an image can be captured, sound is trapped in the wind, and whispered on to the world.

If my heart beats, it is flown on the wind.

If your heart beats, it is flown to the moon and back.

I heard your heart beating some long time ago. When we could hear those things. So my heart started beating in tune.
To find your heart, and let it fly me to the moon.

If I was a man of music, I'd have made a poem to sing to the wind. And it would have drawn you towards me.
But I'm a man of poetry, and all I recall of finding you and trying, was imagining a sound I heard in a dream.

Singing in a spotlight to a single beating heart in an empty auditorium. She stood there strumming upon rays of light, and humming vibrations to the tempo of her heart beat. Mine couldn't help but keep the momentum, but feel the rythm and accept her composure.

Now I hear the same, every time your hands touch me, and your lips whistle melodies into my mind. Things you say get stuck on replay like songs or broken records.

Things we do become sewn into vinyl, as the needle undoes our threads and leaves us naked.
Leaves us whisping through the air, and when the record turns off. You're stuck to me, stuck in my head like strands of smoke from a candle, tangled and gliding into each other.

In other words,
I was never looking for just anybody.
In other words,
I was looking for someone to fly me away, to a place where we already existed together.
In other words,

Not a day goes by that you haven't flown me to the moon.

Righteous anger is justifiable.
When it is called a pillage by those who do not understand, or those being enacted upon, it's context seems savage. When in fact, this anger is in its complete right.

A reasonable length of time to be angry is as long as the injustice prevails.
Where are we, if not in a place where justice is considered the norm?

We are here.

Standing upon our own bones in a burial ground we built ourselves,
By unceasingly digging graves for all of our problems and hoping the earth would provide wealth to our homeless.
Sometimes burying a problem only feeds it.

Instead of hiding it, we bury it in a shallow grave.
We allow it's toxicity to seep into our gardens, into our watering holes.
And it poisons us, it feeds us with inhuman practices guarded by a Cerberus built of lies.
Lies so poor in foundation we wind up burying our dead right along shallow graves.

Graves having constantly more and more dirt thrown upon them, failing to understand that a deeper hole couldn't even fix what handfuls of dirt sprinkled atop shallow graves are believed to.

So,
Perhaps the time has come.
For the dead to rise, because it's the dead who suffer. Poisoned while resting in supposed peace.
Perhaps it's time the dead find their expired hour glasses and empty them.
Refill them with gunpowder and make due for lost time.

Maybe these overgrown infants deserve the lesson, the one they fail to realize.
That shallow graves are swept aside by heavy rains.
That the dead don't rise on command, and that they lie in stillness by their own accord.

The streets need to ride the rising tides and open the empty plots. To begin writing the eulogies and engraving the tombstones. To commemorate the last of a dying breed.

And bury them in the cemetery behind the Heroes of Failed Revolutions.
Bury them in the graveyard that lies in the back of
The Fletcher Memorial Home
For
Incurable
Tyrants and Kings.

Falling slowly into blue, clear skies. The sun ripped from its cloud and fogged, muddy in a crystal pool
Blink
Feel full of heavy wet thoughts, feel full of bright light from the world away.
Blink
Feel immersed, scattered and diffused, splashing and flailing in less than gravity, in more than pressure, in one, In a million.
Eyes close
Hear them, swelling and screaming, answering to the ripple now the wave, answering to the wave and the goliath through an infinite amount of david.
Hear the finite amount of me, the muffled muscles using fingertips to scrape the edge of the horizon, piercing to the other end of that universe of light, that universe of breath and that universe of different molecules.
Float and Blink
Open eyes paint a portrait of panic, of perfect balance and finger prints sliding into the deep end.

Open Eyes
And find myself in the deepest end, remembering how small I am now, tiny 4 foot body in even tinier 10 foot pool.
Gliding slowly, watching sunlight enter and energize chlorinated molecules of H2O, rays of broad bright becoming bland broken bits.

Failing myself, body gives in to the heavy wet, I feel endless in the wave between the surface and the floor,
Endless in the breath caught between tight lips and shriveling lungs.

And infinite again, I feel endless in the water, endless between my lungs and poison prison water cells.

Breath in the darkening sunlight,
The deafening Goliath,
Created by a million little bits of water.

And sunlight rises again, over the horizon of the 10 foot pool. Molecules sliding from my body, particles separating from my skin. Ejecting from my lungs.

A new David standing above me, the Goliath unflinching near me.
Breathing slowly into clear, blue skies.

Its a form of grace, I suppose. That rides the lightning and passes thunder to the tired baritone of the gods.

This grace that shadows envy for lust, that tempts the straight bends to the curve of the wayward arrow.

Its your grace that filters the light, that grates the beams from the ugly, downtrodden sunlight.

Its in dreams, a grace that multiplies darkness and gives us the shadow from every blade of grass.

Its that grace, that hides away and cuts my hand on its teeth, that begins to tremble when I rise.

I wished it was all just a dream.
- P.S.

I was all caught up in a warm embrace.
Watching skin slip softly past skin.

What an idiot...every day, if I could, would be another day I'd prove it.
Would be another day and all that time, to prove how I deserve you.

What a fool...when golden sand slides past your fingers, and the flakes cut you, and the scars are a reminder of how you forgot to hold it. Ill only ever feel like you slipped by me.

What a wait...that forever may never come, and that your heart will always remain a dusty photograph. I don't want you to be just a memory.

What a world...the one ill continue living in, without your hand in mine.
Oh...how ill miss that comfort.
How ill miss your comfort.

Dove,

Hello from down here.
Hello from the tether,
From the place you come to visit.

Dove,
I see you now and then,
Full of grace,
Not afraid of the sun,

Not afraid to let those proud rays of light mingle on the edges of your wings...not afraid to spread your wings.
Somehow the wind doesn't change you,
You fall and glide,
Feathers like leather whips used to tame the sky.

Dove,
The wind hums lullaby's compared to your call,
Clarion and clear,
You are the fortunate beauty.

The delicate wisp of the wind that follows the fall leaves out of the atmosphere.

Dove,
How you've tempted me to fly.
To find you,
Chase you through the bright blue,
Into memories that bleed the breeze.

How you've tempted me.

Fire is a sad being. If we personified fire and made it a person, we could say that Fire is lonely. 
Fire has one true love, 
Fire loves the Air. 
And if we personified the Air, we could say that it is longing.
Air cannot feel the passion that Fire has for it.
When Fire burns, it destroys the Air.
Yet the Air lives for Fire, giving its life to feel some small embrace,
to hear the delicate whispers of the burning bush.
Fire crackles, trying desperately to speak, 
to convince the Air to stay away.

"Let me wither, 
Let me flitter,
Let me love and you will dither...
Love of mine, We can not touch.
When we do, you burn away.
Love of mine, You are too much.
Let me leave, so you can stay."

Goodbye, Tomorrow.
I've never loved you,
Because I couldn't,
Not because I didn't want to.
If I understood for even a moment what love meant,
Then maybe I'd be okay with waiting for one more you.
Waking up made me want you always,
Living now meant you were never here and if I had my own way you'd be my only way.
You made me anticipate the new and hate the old.
You made me live on the brink,
I was always your lining,
You were all my puzzle pieces.
Ill miss you more than anything,
When yesterday passed and you became Today,
I knew then I'd never have you.

Goodbye, Tomorrow,
You would always be my hopeful heart,
My fingertips running down the warm length of my dreams.
But don't miss me,
You don't need to.
You never saw me,
We were only really here in daydreams.

Tomorrow...
I've wanted you more than any girl,
More than gold,
I've wanted you more than zen and peace.
I've raced for the sunshine you promise and have always come around the globe to realize its the same sun.
You've tricked me,
Every moment I felt warmer,
Wishing for your embrace,
Was a moment I spent in ice,
Realizing you'd always be Today.
If I was wise,
I'd have known you were always here.

The thing is, Tomorrow,
I'm not over you,
I've just come to realize I love Today so much I can't bear to let you come between us.
You'll always be here,
What today is,
You have all the potential to be.
You grow from the past,
Into the present.
We think of you now and then you slip away as we come to learn,
You aren't for thinking of but for existing in.

Today is all the Tomorrow I will ever need.
Today is always trying to be you, Tomorrow,
So don't believe that I'm leaving you for Good.
Just believe that I'm leaving you for Now.

So I took over a few thousand dollars,
So that my overdosed skin could holler.

Though it was dark,
I stayed in that park,

Thinking
"Cokes turned me into my father."

jupiters moons.
Is that an answer?

No questions and the way it falls

it feels like empty river water.

No I don't,

have passions to chase.

Its more of distant callings,
yearnings from the empty
burning

that is inside the hollow bark of
withering willows.

In immortal words we look for meaning,
In the singers we listen for feeling,
Like little rabbits mortified,
Searching carelessly to find a sign.

But if we could just do a bit better than that,
Maybe wed know,
Where we could be at.

This is love lost and nothing at all,
This is breath last,
And try not to fall.
This is tempered souls tied to every role,
To every single one of us all.

This is first steps and milestones,
These are listen for nothing and hear the world groan.
This is like golden leaves,
Like dying trees,
Like diamond rings bought from violent things.

We keep digging deeper to find something above us.
Sometimes words are words,

Made to fool you into meaning something more.

Some people want it all.
But I just want everything.

Some nights I feel like emerald and wonder if its less than I'm making it out to be.
But I run my eyes through every detail of your face by memory, and I listen to all the different octaves of your sound.
I can't help but remember your words in conversation,
Can't help but remember every conversation.

And I come back to it all and think of the way we touched. That was different than every other one because I can't understand how one person could hug with so much love.

And I follow the silliest rules and I follow the silliest people.
But I can't seem to get to where you are.
I can't seem to find those lights like I did, it feels like they just keep burning out.

And believe it or not, I need you to get through the day.
Just some memories of cold moon light drowning warm lips.

Drowning frozen toes.

Some nights I feel like ice cold and wonder why this is so okay with me.

I know you like a christian knows jesus.
Of the body, in the mind
and there my fingers trace your body all the time.
The outline reminds me of the apple,

a taste ill never know described perfectly to me,
resting on the tip of my tongue,
your scent hovers over my taste buds.

I know you like musicians know the ocean,
every note, every single molecule sliding over each other
to express the shore crashing white noise into the beaches,

to find the most beautiful note in a sea of endless sounds,
when my moon light fingertips pull the chorus from your tide,
your blissful quivers when my sunrise palms cross your horizon.

Over the hilltops,
Over the hilltops,
The canopy strokes color into the sky.

Through the valley,
Through the gorge,
Where the streams whisper sweet concrete.

Past the skyscrapers,
Under the smog,
The sunrise shatters at the peak of the day.

This dawn light,
In moon light,
Glitters on wet grass like broken glass.

I've become tired of my life yet again,
Can't escape a sinking feeling
That it isn't real.

Sometimes life seems
So coincidental, the way
Things seem so convenient to

Exist so specifically for the sake
Of ourselves. And that the
Science of things

Is always and
Will never stop changing
Because science is figment of

Our pre-existing world that
Builds on top of
Itself.

Like
Beautiful ivory
Towers building themselves
Up for us. So that we may climb a
Tower of babel and destroy our shackles
And talk face to face with our immortality, or
Our creator or our destroyer or our fears or our goals.

But its a far off notion that none of us would under
Stand anyway. Were all terrified of the things
We don't know. We all scramble our jets at
Least twice a week. Lay our tools to the
Side and indulge in injustice and
The suicidal tendencies of
Decent living. What
Are we doing?

We shifted speeds on the overpass and spiraled forward into the future.

But I mean, where else would you go?

The byways turned into highways that turned into skyways,
and I fell out of the car every time Id blink.

Open swiftly and the terminal second was subliminal past,
lives Id never known yet felt so full of.

In the car I was whole
human
and heart beats and
didnt need anything
but the wind in the
window
and the lights past
buildings in a
blur.

Somewhere else I was traversing through fate,
guiding lights towards Atlas that he may drop his burden and see.

-P.S.

Somewhere way down a long line of cars and roads on the opposite end of broken down gas station near a bedside tavern.
You were lost near a bushel of birds.
That chirped when you walked by.

And there was a cloud directly above you,
white.
Puffy.
Lost in the blue blue sky.
Only it wasn't.
It was shading you from the sun.

And you walked under an oak tree with a knothole in it.
Whispered your dreams in to it's trunk and walked away.
An apple fell from an oak tree.

Somewhere along the way you stumbled over the curb and forgave it for bloodying your elbow. The sunlight kissed your skin and suddenly there was nothing.
Like superman,
the sun made you strong.

And the radiance of yourself by the river as the logs drifted on.
Moon sparkle and bathe.
There was purity.
There were answers.

So said the squirrels as they squeaked about you in the branches.
I had another cigarette and forgot all about it.
-P.S.

What was mysterious, was also the answer. The silence of lights with no hum. No electricity to bind me to the beauty of its glow. Where the eyes of heaven were above me in the dark. And it was radiance from glory.

2. He took his hands from his eyes and wiped away the tears. The droplets sprinkled a canvas of black. His fingers spread the maroon of a soul. And the portrait grew, it was birthed in blackness. But this canvas turned to light, and this light burned to sun.

3. I saw through the eyes of an angel, through the eyes of a lover and a thief. Angels cried bullets made of stars from above and the thief stole the heart of his love.

4. What would the world away from life be like. To be quiet and still for the moment. The sun over mountains with no distractions for miles and the moon could be heard from below. In the time that the wind would traverse the plain, the stars would have all done the same.

5. I could see no love above the lost. I could see no hate or disgust. The simple problems were missing here. The solutions were all mysteries but everything was figured.
-P.S.

Gone tomorrow,
Restless puddles that ripple and borrow.
Stealing glances from pedestrian feet,
Children jumping through fire in the street.
Through broken windows and through coldest ice,
Taught to be naughty, wrong to be nice.

All the kids on the roof, the ones with their laces,
Tied to the gutters with upside down faces.
Moving past shadows that cling to the wall,
Racing toward madness to bring forth the fall.
And here in the kitchen, the bathroom, the bed,
The blood was so fresh and so thick and her head,
It sat in the corner of a long lost regret,
While the kids played with guns to try and forget.

Mother open your doors, don't leave them locked.
It's zero hour now and the rifles are cocked.
Here we breath revolution through the soles of our shoes,
Our broken hearts welded, it's time to make do.
We came with our bullets, we'll leave with our blood,
We'll walk through the doors without a slam or a thud.
-P.S.

It's been so long, darling sky at night. That my eye has caught your grace. It's been decades in a corroded brain, through cavernous fractures of a rattled skull. That the issue of your depth has been discussed. Oh starry night, that the fingertips point. That the dim and the bright would be settling tonight. And it's been a long time since I let myself in to your pull. That I glossed my eyes over with reflections of you. And in regret I'm here. Looking at you, my dear. Remembering that face on the moon once more. In the comets as the star shine hits the shore. Somewhere in that infinity, I lost my eyes to god.

I sat on a beach and spoke hard dreams and sunsets.
In my eyes the glare of a rebel sun ray.
And my hands were on fire.
Underneath the sand there were murmurs.
Distant prayers and hopeful mumbles of a society of mad men forever counting grains and pebbles.
-P.S.

But the splendor of light reflected from the dew drops.
Eyes like the nebula in heaven that gave you your first breaths.

Some nights I wonder what machinations lie in the vast valley from your neck to your legs.
What fragile barriers between you and the bliss of fingertips leaving craters from goosebumps.

And my palm lit your skin like Hiroshima.
We were lost in the nuclear hollocaust of hearts.

I fought the thought of you making me sober.
-P.S.

Piano keys are dreams that illude me.
The sounds are so sensual, clacks that mock the gentle twinge of a note.
Like guitar strings plucked just so, sound as the weeping of stars.
Light that seems to melt away from its whole leaving a void.
I feel as though the world has become so much easier to hear.
The silence from indoors is a perpetual energy that feeds us.
Keeps us safe.
Yet the ecstasy of light on a dark night seems to call to us.
The blur of a grey black in the night sky that meshes so well with street lights.

The winter calls clarity to our eyes,
and the world seems to stand still while snowflakes move past our frozen bodies.
And each flake catches the bouncing particulates of a glimmer, making the air crisp.
Like the sound of ivory tickling the soft ridges of oxygen in our ears.
Commingling with the illusion of light behind our eyes.

And the foot prints in the snow,
foot prints searching for the morning glances of a sunrise from dew drops that are months away. They seem so lost.

As lost as unwritten notes to a beautiful mind.

As lost as a concerto performed in an empty hall.
-P.S.