Feels like a chorus song how surrendered you render my worries
Ebbs away words once written in sand we band and
Adulthood turns less intimidating
Restless I wish to find you near or hear your voice but
Lacking your presence find peace in prayer, asking 'Is God fair?'
Endlessly encouraging me not to despair I'm aware that
Solitude is not quite alone, without being shown if I can trust in the
Spirit which sees more clearly than eyes who is here

I love, therefore whom shall I fear?

somebody slow dance with me
and don't say a word
there aint a thing needs to be heard
cept the sound of us being carefree
for that moment, when you are holding me

Strange
      dreams develop (dark to vibrant)
                  film strip stripes of
                                   run
                                       ning
                                              water

                                 nt
                             ou   ai
in the v     y  of m          ns----
            alle
                                                        to whet
                                                            the faucet

                                            of
                                            my
                                            lips
                                  
unbidden
   falling---
                       chatter,
                            secrets,
                                  mercies,

Like discarded jewels,
mumbled in half sleep.

7/4/12

I want to hold onto you in the pulse of morning
In between youth and old age,
That flash of golden sun pouring through the shutters
When the world softly begins to hum
Before we need to face the day

I want to dance that last dance with you
Before the lights turn off and music haunts the silent air
Before they close the doors

You take me by the heart before you hold my hand
Just by opening your eyes
Thank you for seeing me as no one else does
For recognizing the colors of my spirit
For always saying I love you without side effects and without small print
You are honest to goodness, honest goodness
And I want to bother you every second of every day
As long as my life keeps playing

[record spinning]
"I love you in the morning and in the afternoon
I love you in the evening and underneath the moon"
[bump and static]

He knows the number of hairs on my head, and
Of the bright stars, each with a name such as Fred

He knows the history of each grain of sand
The liters in the sea today were already planned

And He knows how many times I have had a crush
He knows every secret, and every blush

He understands everybody, down to each little thought
The griefs that they suffer, the wars that are fought

He records every laugh and the width of each smile
He knows all my steps, yes, every mile

You name a thing, God knows the amount
My biggest point--- God sure can count.
2010

Thomas said "Seeing is Believing"
But an optometrist knows that our eyes are like a sieve
Everything the light touches, Simba
Has been filtered by us before it reaches our brain
Unlike what we smell, unlike the sounds which beat into our
Tympanic membrane.

Why is it so hard to believe in what we cannot see?
If we know all perceptible colors, sounds, smells are not all that can be?
When we know that the lenses we wear over our retinas
Bend light to bring our vision into focus
And clearly see Mirages are not Water, but a Reflection of the Sky
It's hocus pocus to believe only what we can perCEIVE with our senses
When we hardly receive the world as it is.

The birds can see the infrared and ultraviolet
Snakes can taste temperature, and a map of your warm footprints
Dogs can hear ultrasound, like young children and deer pick
Up high-pitched frequencies whereas adults can no longer
See Santa Claus or Jesus or "Imaginary" Friends

Something about being human
Or maybe its just getting older,
Makes us too cynical and blind
To recognize rainbows and dark matter.

Ask the Giver to give me back my sight and feeling
Because I am reeling with the realization that I live
In a mere sliver of the Entire Spectrum
And can only contemplate it with a tenth of my mind.

I do
not know what
moments I will
be given.    Nor
                                                                moments
                                                       what                will be             away
                                                                                             stolen

                                      
                                    not know
                            I do                  if I
                        or not                      chose
                          world                to come
                                      into this


But I am here.

I want to go outside today
So I can feel the sun
To feel the wind blow stronger still
To go out and just run

I want to reach the blue cloth sky
To touch dew laden seam
I want to cross the old, grey stones
Which sparkle in the stream

I want white snow to dazzle down
To land right in my way
I want trees to grow, green to orange
Let leaves drift where they may

The caged bird was my company
But with its wings has flown
Its sole presence, now free again
Left me to sit alone

Dear sun, come through my window
Bright rays beam on my route
Ive opened up the door, so there!
Now I am going out!
2012

Did not God want to be cherished
to cultivate and co-create
but instead we consume
like beautiful glowing fire
and maybe the ashes will make something
but dust to dust we are

maybe to burn is to live
like stars can fuel planets
is it distant passion or suffering
at least brief life flickers warm

time alone seems so expansive and cold
and eternity, as a dark vacuum that no fire can touch
is it better to suffer and live
or do you envy the crushing quiet of nonexistence

a speck of dust on a clover can't see where it's blowing
but somehow red light tells us that distance is growing

if human is dust
are we not a literal residue of some combustion
were then the Universe and God having tea together and laughing about us
And when people talk about them fighting
Are the two mistaken for each other?

Someone gave me a time machine
wrapped up in a bow,
a gift, they said, to take me
wherever I'd like to go

I said I'd like to see the past
and a man, quite old and grey,
sat me near him, as he told
how it was for him one day

then I said I'd like to change
the course of history
and I was made to answer a child's
questions on life and liberty

that is immortality
to gather years gone by
to take up others' wisdom
and leave something behind

that is how to alter fate
and stitch up what's to be
make ripples in time's fabric
with a touch of destiny

from HERE we reach what is behind
from NOW we shape the world
it is this moment that defines
all that will be unfurled

Someone gave me a time machine
its door and limits unknown
but I know that I am in it
and I know it is HERE

And if we are slaves to our passions
Then isn't the greatest freedom self-control?
Just know,
Some people would rather watch you get convicted
Than let you follow your own convictions.

I see you reflected in the patterns I live in.
Like the universe reflects on it's own being, I observe you as best I can.
You are the magnetism to my electricity
The chemist to my essayist
The plus to my minus
The yin to my yang
Unlike charges attract
We take and give like
The symmetrical wings of a butterfly work to fly
You are my "otter" half
My universe within a universe
The ever swinging, spinning clock of interlocking grains of sand
in space.
Inner Space! Outer Space!
The atoms within your body, I live on
an electron that revolves around a piece of you, a precious star
needed for the very existence of life.

my home is welcome all my own go foreclose the banks so dance I yell bang pots and pans play christmas music in july forget using coasters eat all the food fry marshmallows with candle lighters set off smoke detector and no one knows no landlord can find no obligation to make the bed vacuum talk in the hallway put earplugs answer the phone can I yes come go as I please never a tagalong never pretend I don't live there I will be too honest and turn off the lights I will never be quiet I will jump on the couch cushions and bounce on the bed blow bubbles in tea and make a huge mess I can have anyone over whenever I like or no one at all I will never be careful. And in my house I don't cry into pillows.

Find a funny phrase
               A flighty feather
                         Let it tumble, twirl
                                Wonder, whirl
          Settle, softly on your nose
       To slip and fall,
        The loosed petal of a rose
             A skeleton autumn leaf
                             **** it with your toe
                                                  Pick it up and blow
                                                                up to the wind
                                                         No fickle feeling
                   Empty sentiment could understand
                 That breeze
                    When your feet
                           finally leave the ground

When will we ever learn
Not to love with ALL our heart
I suppose it just means
I'm a bad economist.

Sometimes I wonder...
Will I leave anything on this earth when I die?
Besides candy wrappers and crumpled pieces of notebook paper?

phrasesfaceplantmufflyduffledinafluffypillow
you hear so obviously
what I utter in mutters under my breath is a bridge
shaded from view where the hobo's live
when they don't want to be bothered

I pilgramaged to the top of a mountain
to loose my whispers in the wind lost forever
bleached, torn and fraying bits of a flag that lost the war
But you picked them up like so many scraps of paper
fluttered and jumbled to reconstruct and decipher,
I MEANT TO THROW THEM AWAY
but all you notice are
keys to my safebox, in the garbage can
making a jingle jangle ruckus in their silence

Though I must have laryngitis still your receptors
never picked up the signal so clearly as when
I venture to get away, erase what I wrote in white noise dust
as if I had shouted my carefully guarded secrets
from rooftops

Sometimes I fathom you can even hear my thoughts

I'm hitting my head against a tree
Because nothing is how I wish it would be
I'm cold 'cuz it's winter
Hope I don't get a splinter
You can find me here next spring

on this slide of a petri dish
sits a speck containing the DNA
for the birth of the cosmos

it drops predetermined as as fall leaves fall
egg cracks
yolk spills out
gooey, opaque                 suspended around a glowing yellow SUN,
                                                                                 a billion suns,
                                            a disk of ever-flattening, expanding life

It stretches. It yawns.
It cries for its mother.

---------------------------------------------------------
Out of it teems throngs of the tiniest colonies
whose kingdoms rise, rage, and fall

the sun burns out.
It takes an infinite eon for the dying stars to reach us and then what?

Planets freeze over, gravitational collapse ensues
we are suctioned silently into a black vacuum

All that's left, the smallest seed buried in a dark grave
waiting to bloom.

Death to Life.
A Resurrection.

They're playing the
Old songs just like they used to
watch the Dance Queen she takes the floor
She's rocking a mom sweater
shaking it all like an 8.9 earthquake in Chile
and no one can stop her

The tiniest tear slid down my face last night
Tucked in with darkness
And no one had to see

It was one-fourth melancholy  
Three percent nostalgia
Two-fifths wishing
Another quarter H2O
and point-zero-seven salt

I plan on running more tests on it tomorrow,

                                                   !  Because for the life of me

? I just can't quite pin down  

                      ... Why with the sunny weather-day I had ...


There was any precipitation.

we endure in these infinities stretched microscopic
where time and memory wander off topic
until even our stories done slipped into stardust
and blow away in foreign winds

trying to sail to a home that may no longer exist
the pulse of a heart in the curve of your wrist
but the only green thing I see is a sea filled with salt
they deny you your pain and say its your fault

when there’s a set back I step back and see past myself
standing on grand canyons only to think its a shelf
have you health and peace or a will to live?
I am only free when I fight and forgive.

You are the most velveteen of all the rabbits
And I will hold you every night, tight to my chest
And suffocate you sometimes
But most of all love you
And it will be worth it

I don't ever want to be like you
talk like you
walk like you
pop that glue
ya numb to the pain
you cause with your dollars
the hollars of people wronged
throng 'round your house
in their dreams
they mean to take back their wages
pages of their people's history
stolen by man in a monkey suit

hey! you with the face! look over here!




alright, now that I have your attention.




Carry on.

I like just want the big picture
float me faster through this sparkling void
I get tired of the same scenery

Skin, soft and fragile as marigold petals
Bones thin as papier-mâché
Holding the shape of a person I love
Holding together our bodies of clay

Candles, dimming light behind the eyes
Weary wind slipping through parched lips
Sweet and weak the voice of a person I love
Spirit readying voyage on vanishing ships

forgive me if I lost track of you
sometimes you're not sure if a sock goes in the pair
so you let it go where it pleases
and then this happens
and you never really know

I imagine it was about a year ago
When another group of enthused college students
from a prestigious university
gathered all their resources to buy necessities from the dollar store
cheap as they come,
to give to the droves of men, women, and many children,
living in the rolling hills of trash and rotting refuse
down in Nogales

you know, the ones the government ignores
and that,
when you ask about them, the police deny exist
and turn you back down the dirt road from where
the poor teem and forage for survival,
camouflaged in their make-shift bedrooms and kitchens
of discarded plastic, wood, and tin.

Tonight,
I am just remembering that moment when we reached the
bottom of our bags
and had to turn a family down
because we didn't bring enough toothbrushes.

it doesn't make much sense to say she has the heart of a ******
because I feel like every ****** has a different kind of heart

"and those who don't have a heart generally die"

thanks for that, william

Lost in
     communication.
       Let  your  aim be
>>>==steady === for==once you ===>
          loose your lips,
    the interpretation
       is out of your
     hands.

sometimes I long to know the meaning of life
to know if I must choose my meaning or if it's inevitability will somehow manifest in meaningful ways
sometimes I wonder if God is part artist and part practical accountant
frustrated and creative and stifled by I don't know what
or content to crunch the digits and let the sequence unfold to a beautiful resolution

generally the church tells us our maturity can only be developed in community
but Jesus always retreated to be alone, to talk to God, to talk to himself
what does it tell us, that he died for his creation out of some kind of unconditional love
but that he also needed to connect to his higher power to make that sacrifice
that while asking for the prayers of his friends, he wanted to be alone with the part of himself that knew the plan
I wonder if my spiritual self knows the plan that my body does not want to follow out

and that while he already knew the plan he would ask himself to not have to do it
for there to be any other way without suffering
isn't that what we all ask God
if there's a better way, one without having to suffer and self-sacrifice
and even God had to lead by example, by sacrificing a part of himself to be mortal

it feels like a horcrux perhaps, having a child
a part of you that you cut out of yourself and that exists vulnerable to external forces
a part you can be separated from by governments and space and death and miscommunication
like separating our spirit from our flesh

I long to create and yet cannot be satisfied
I suppose that's why to love our creations we must learn to love ourselves
even if our artwork doesn't look like we want it to
even if it kills and lies and steals and is corrupted by some flaw
if it can choose not to love us

it's all too complex to lay out like a map
why create beings to love you and share in your life
why have disciples when you are three in one

to understand why we sleep
if it is an illustration of some kind of awakening
to prepare us to wake after death which is so similar

I can't describe how meaty and empty it is when someone is no longer home
when they've moved away
and their body is solid and cold and yet still looks a lot like them

I don't believe the point is to proselytize
As in go about trying to change everyone to believe the exact same thing
I think Cubism is helpful as ugly and distorted as it appears
That it carries some truth that we all have validity in our different experiences
In the different ways we've colored our memories with feelings and interpretations
I wouldn't want to steal that from anyone
Or try to invalidate it

I don't think any of us have the truth except perhaps someone who is everywhere and everywhen
and maybe like the elephant or unitarianists it will all come into picture

"each must be fully convinced in their own mind"

in that way, perhaps my meaning both matters and is overruled by some larger meaning
perhaps it is a colorful piece of glass in a larger mosaic
perhaps our broken experiences will be made better than before

I never thought of myself as much of an optimist
I've actually been told I'm quite dark

but I suppose I do have faith
faith that there is an artist who will call things into account
that we won't be abandoned half baked
that those who seek will be rewarded

I melt into a spool of dread
I mean pool of thread
I mean this dread, like thread,
was a neat spool and now it's a puddle
my noodle is muddled

let's try this again
my thoughts were neat, a spool of thread
but they unspun and tangled, a pool of dread
and the metaphors are lost in my head
which is also a noodle

if I take this needle
and untangle the thread
it may help wrangle my thoughts
and unstrangle my heart