In my entourage
people laugh
I got used to it.

In my center stage
I was the comedian
who never likes
his job.

In my closing remarks
their entertainment
was fulfilled.
I on the other hand
got drained
from my mistakes
turned to be pretty
funny,
never was that
my intention.

Friendship is a priceless gift,
It cannot be bought or sold;
But its value is far greater,
Than a mountain made of gold.

For gold is cold & lifeless,
It can neither see nor hear;
And in the time of trouble,
It is powerless to cheer.

It has no ears to listen,
Nor heart to understand.

So when you ask God for a gift,
Be thankful if He sends...
Not diamonds, pearls or riches,
But the Love of Real True Friends.

when everything everywhere
whispered in irresistible languages

hey you there
stop resisting

i began to surrender
was flowing free

stretching
wings flapping

toward the unknowable
inside

experimented with ditching
body as identification
name as identification
personal history as identification

faded off
mad word searching
explaining  justifying
reiterating too much information

i loosened my squeeze grip
on intellectualism
tell-me-how-to-be spiritual books
whatever the famous someone
said once then got bronzed over

i surrendered to universal unity
where i lavishly decorated
my living changing dream
with my own snap choices

i was flowing with fresh
synergetic synthesis

returned outside to pedestrian streets
where angelics mixed in
wore transparent disguises

i began to flow
forgiveness out and in

skipped a light fandango
splashing puddles was
answer to inclement weather

i set wooden faces
to smiling after
i switched my own

i rolled on through
perceived stop signs
of the everlasting no

incinerated all my karma with
nownownow
wonwonwon

made myself
stock still

experienced
yes yes

relaxed awareness

breathed
emptiness

opened all my hands

Guilty

I'm forever in rain
My weather don't change
It's always pain--
In a mean-streak range;

Pain for breakfast
Pain for brunch--
The rain is steadfast
So it's pain for lunch

I'm forever in rain
Come sunshine, come moonlight
It's always pain---
Somehow it all feels right

Before the thoughts flood in to cloud
your judgment, ushering in rain,
clapping thunder--

Before you are dripping wet--
clothes, and all-- jumping at every
flash and roar of frowning heaven--

Before you give into madness--
reading pessimistic meanings into every absent gesture--

Can you be a little bit more patient? Stand ground a little longer? And maybe--- out of the kindness of your heart--
find out why?

It could be that the heavens break loose to answer the cries of a thirsty earth,
It could be that thunder is poetry in
light and vibrations,
It could be that my fist is clenched to welcome warmth


Can you be patient?
...
and maybe start asking why too?

Gently painted on the evening sky
By a Hand, infinitely Divine.
The orange orb rests assuredly--
And of its supports to be seen, no vine.

Its reddish-yellow mixes sublimely with sky-blue--
Now it flickers clean-white, now golden-black--
A truly-- deeply fascinating view;
An arrow drawn to never miss its mark

I think it scrapes the epitome of beauty
Since it encompasses a beholder's eye
With a tolerable show of bubbling fury--
The sun-- setting behind the evening sky

In it I see-- a requiem for brighter days,
a regret written but well expunged;
a solemn oath for darker years,
and a replying breath before it is plunged
(In a sea of darkness)

This is a curse on the heartbreakers
that left us stranded in the island of
Hope-and-Love, paddling away,
unnoticed, in the dead of night, on
the only boat we sailed to the
mystery-filled lands

This is an apology to the hearts we've
broken in our self deluded attempt at
avoiding heartache by fading
gradually away like the sun when it
sets beyond the horizon lines

This is a thank-you note to Time, for
the penniless healing it affords, and
the scholarly teachings it imprints--  
never once failing us since we began
to exist, and

This is a lamentation for scattered
scars, for dispersed pain, for
heartbroken hearts, for dead or dying
dreams-- we are like souls living on
a battlefield strewn with mines
...

This is a goodnight song of hope to
carry us to tomorrow,

This is ink for our pens
...

This is for me, and

This is for you

prophet tongue with
stabbing perceptions
i gave him my name
while in bed.

soft white curtains
though still chamber thick
cold steel hands
and the room sliced into pieces
by morning light
but haunted by night sounds
crept into open wounds of the heart

chills.

his hand
resting on my thigh while he snores
summer bruised and adventurous
though callous youth
with his unbandaged scabbed knee
skating last night.

moment forgotten in the carride
but a stone monument staring
at me on the kitchen counter.