The mirroring motor man reminds me of when I placed my mind in a raffle for the highest bid of sanity and control (driven like his bike)

Spirit, give forth or sleep, for this lukewarm life is the coldest of deaths.

Tattered painter's whites;
The torn paper of a hand-rolled cigarette;
These are the possessions which should rip me up along with them
Yet, it's lessened the grip

In fact, I don't feel much;
Save the relief of living in discomfort, which always beats the discomfort of living in dysfunction
Especially when you know the dysfunction is rolled into function by your own hand

By the very same hand which rolled that broken smoke;
Yes, it's better to mess up your own ingestion than to infest the pleasantries of cleansing incandescence.
So 'fess up when you set yourself up
And don't set the rest up with bad luck
It doesn't take too long to figure out your mess-ups.

After just a few seconds, I inspect; finding rest in the resonance behind this lesson which is not less-than.
Let's then shape this paper back together,
And together find the shape that could never be painted on tattered white paper

Behind funereal lights
My eyes dim the day
How I walk on my way
As the Observer

Set far bereft
With the tenures of death
My presence inflects
The Observer

But silhouette smiles
Began to deject
For 24 minutes by the fire
And tears more profound
Than the breadths which inspire
Melded with the waves of the sound

Reflection,
Oh reflection
Who is this man?
With a strong brow and real estate eyes
Oh, the mirror was wrecked
In a spiritual hex
Now the only face I can't check is mine

Remember, you lovers
With roads paved in gold
Highways will lead you to suburbs
Grounded on earth,
Look up to the sky
And there you will find
The Observer

Dreams came to me
Of my mother's dying breath
Given by word of a cold and casual father

Just another day

Begin the observation

Not another word was said
Other than
"Where did it happen?"
And I couldn't pull the pieces together
For not a single tear fell from my eye
Only a distant shift of contact to the floor
So I retreated and walked away

Acting as the observer

It was time for work
And the ocean was beginning to roar
The sky was a mixture of ominous blues and blacks

And I thought of how funny it is that it would happen on such a day

I continued on repairing the deep sea vessel like a marine in his battlefield

Stop now and hear. The chain is relentlessly bewildering.

I walked back into the wildly colored room where I heard the news of her sudden demise
And there she was standing, dressed nicely in her usual non-chalant attire with a cigarette in her hand

Without hesitation I lunged myself into her arms and cried like a newborn babe seeing life for the first time

"I'm okay"
She gently whispered
Then I awoke
And again played my role as the observer

The noise is too quiet

In an utterance unheard,
The plundering rook vocalized his mourning dues

Greeting the soil with dejected gratefulness,
He plucked twice-dead worms from the shallow

The sky wept it's abundance to the Earth, cleansing the Willow's barren branches
Rendering the rook content until sunrise should again return

The night settled gently, as wisping strains of sun tapered away until dusk had become but a passing memory

But the rook had no dream that night

Rest and wake. Perhaps tommorow will bring providence for visions.

Leary, dreamy, worn and faint
The saint sat stone-faced and speechless
Flat like unchurched waters
Brought back, brutally attacked and unattached
Flash of lightning rippled through his forehead, malnourished and overwhelmed

Emotions untamed became abridged
Then fringed and kept away for later days

Blank, without consent
Like the Watchman's Shadow

He peers, intently, precisely, maticulously
From his cell window,
High upon a stoney tower
Fixed upon the free, the wide smilers and radiant-eyed, Weeping bitterly until his own eyes wax dry
Alone and aloof, with questioning in mind;
Why?
For rather would he die!

Yet he has already begun
Slowly, pitifully, and sacredly
For it clicks with him as he finds himself again with the only company he has known

So greeting his old familiar freind,
He thanks him for his enduring faithfulness
Bowing in reverent respect
And again paying his ode
To the Watchman's Shadow

Memories

How you linger
Stinging and staining
Remaining and reminding
Of the binding ties
The blinding highs
And lows so steep
Blows so deep
Reaping, creeping
Leaping from tower tops
Falling, flailing to the crops below
Knot on the head
Ears pick up knocking
Arms blocking
Stocking on locks
Rocking on the floor
Poor boy
Never had a dream
Bereave him and leave him the keys
Heaves up blood
Studded in his cellar
Paler than snow
No glow, so low

Woe
Lament for him
Repent for him
Resentment was not meant for him
Sent to the wrong address
Tested and regressed
Restless and directionless
Ingestion of confession became
Nestled, cottled
Modeled and bottled
Startled and shocked
Hardened, unpardoned
Parted like the Red Sea
Like the Red blood  
Running down like tears in those
Red eyes
Ready to cry like those
Fed eyes
Ready for demise like those
Dead eyes
Don't be surprised

And what a soul could know
How the memories linger

Manipulative, malevolent, mystified
Inevitably inverting our introspection
Waning away collected calculation

Like calcified cancer;

Contouring colors of passions
Which fasten franticly to oblique reactions
As fantasized antics;

Crafted daintily in packets
Jacketing the tactlessness behind the fanatics.

Hopelessly happy, helplessly harrowed.

Mania