You give me the feeling,
Of Dido on the funeral pyre,
And I am the wood

You have me as some beast of the wilderness
Fears God in the spear and the teeth of metal
And I cannot help but run towards it

You are a sickness that has developed in my head, an idealism that may do nought but destroy me

You are terrifying and controlling, destructive and wholly
Consuming the flesh of my brain and in pain Perpetual

And you go on not caring.

Standing upon a terminal of the Pacific,
I am as calm as the waves.
As the sun falls
The colors gradient and gasp an infinite breadth
Of nothingness between the bowing photons.

I am dreary and blue,
Blue as lapis,
Listening to the waves that make no sounds--
But the sifting sands on the edge of the earth.

There is haze on this day,
And the light asks me to see it differently
Than all the days before
It calls to me, an empty voice, saying to me

That it carries the birds
And the winds
And the gulls
And the sins
Of my friends and brothers who live amongst the hills
And dine amongst the trees
And cry together between their sheets

Of metal and mold
Plastic and cold,
The earth gives me a shiver upon my skin.

In this everything,

I am lost.

In this moment,

I am skin.

On the border of the horizon that cuts
The oceans and the air
Ships without sails fight the gales and win,
Coming to rest in their deliverance.

WORDS!
APHORISMS,
THOUGHTS,
PHRASED

CURATE
AND SPAKE
FOR
SPIRIT'S NAME!

I give you
the fire of the soul
The blood of the earth
The dust of the aether
In the gasp of the known

A liquorious draught
That tickles the throat
Where providence sat
And closed heaven's door

HISTORICAL SPAT!
Spittle and drivel
The fleshy sacks grovel
While Satan
Clawed his nails
at the sand

Of souldom!
Cast amidst the stars
And Not moving very far

A *****
No more
And Gamorra absorbed
Before that perpetual want
of more

HERE, AND NOW!
the scent of battle on the wind
Sulfur and toxic gas
Humans behaving mad
Leeward of the path
Struggling and daft
Illiterate and crass
Fallow fleshy sacks

I am in love with it all!
A raving lunatic with
romantic comedic timing
And no taste for time
dining
But on the feast of the bone
And savored moment

I will be alone!
Except for you, poor soul
Who reads in these words
Your own fated toil

I miss you, I love you, from even beyond the pale
My words float in the clouds
And scrape the sentimental trails

Back home once again,
Maybe find my next trend
Or Hear HIS next sermon
And go tell a friend.

Soon it'll be me
Staring down the nebulas
The contortions of the sky
The stars that wander by
In my eye
Bright
And almost divine

Just practice nodes
Trailing the wheels
Rotating per Fortune's minute
Decisions

This place
The vessel I will abate
At moments end I feel the hand of fate
RIP and tear my string from the yarn
And born again
Somewhere in the galactic arm

Sometimes,
The way I like to understand the soul--
When someone goes "home",
And their body fades

It's a great cosmic spigot
Running endless
fresh water into bright buckets
On this waning summer day

When feeble little hands grasp at plastic
And hold the sweetwaters
Close to the chest, bringing them along on journeys to the distant sands
With every step spilling
Tiny pebbled beads
Of that water onto the ground
Gradually shifting the weight
Until comfort holds, unaware
The space between the fingers
And the pan

Eyes glazed with redness, tired

The little one in us falls asleep
As waves lap quietly at the sand
And the mountains rumble inevitably into dust

And the feeling of the earth is lost
And our body, like a rusted telescope mount, unable to stand
Cants
And spills the whole pail
Into the pale
And we leave this place as we began

It is not my job to be a poet,

not my job to spew hopeless clauses

Not my job to weave callous causes

Not my job to print insipid logic

Not my job to parse sight through the darkness.

Not my job to tell souls to behave

Not my job to give credence to knaves

Not my job to sell this gold to the state

Not my job to give words away.

No, it's yours - -

Yours to obey, yours to disdain

Yours to compare, yours to reapir

Yours to create, yours left to fate

Years of the past are not of one date

--

Not my job, not to wish or to pray

Not to shine one's soul with spittle
And lacquer its grain

Not my job to place words, no, merely to give
Not my place to give words that do not serve fit

You all know better, you all say so
And for note, with a sad, careful bow will I go.

Reverberate
The souls
Given circumstance by historical
Methodology and theoretical wanderings