Galaxies, solar satellites, the very Earth and its plates.
Whatever matter spins the reality, each one rotates.
Every unique universe growing its own ebb and flow,
Same as an ocean shall pummel shores then pull undertow.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Backwater cementing a new variant of tributary,
Friends become fish in this river of machinery.
The roiling rubber current proves to combust with currency.
Success succumbs to numbers as the economist counts me.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Gingko trees employed rats until society's reaction
Assimilated this lineage and reset its traction.
A different dispersal mechanism does not merit lament,
The managed are mute within the worker's woeful testament.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Sometimes a quest of faith begets a set from a cartomancer,
What good would it do to bribe the tarot and fake her answer?
For doctrine to deprive a man of god's hero in himself,
To trial and tribute his death to ascend on our caste shelf.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Your cards at hand, as is any fact of fortune, are from you.
All around are landmarks to map your light, vibration, and hue.
A presence is an action amongst quintessential stage props,
Weathered roles rehearse their sonorous loves watching ripples drop.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Turbid fury has no footholds on the great movement in your mind,
Gears that we hear were once a pursuit to prosper as mankind.
To disarm the victim's rights and loosen all nooses may seem odd,
Yet Devil deviates design and is forgiven by God.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Cities yearn to scrape skies built on products at the world's splendor.
Though trinkets become trite as we glorify a greedy vendor.
How could one commend such a clear farce for the multitude?
Selling milk to children's bones while our livestock store false fortitude.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Lifespans expand within this ****** twilight of barbarism.
History obscures so we light turned pages with euphemism.
Often forgotten is that our memory is amorphous,
Generating our boldest fears and cheers to those beyond us.
When its the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Pessimism or optimism; are not rivals of ones structure
Secular submission denies despair's innate rupture
It is built by the hopeful to share love after given grace
To construct a profound unity above pride's titled race
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

We are taught to worry for unruly folk until weary.
Doctors like leaders treat symptoms not seeing sickness clearly.
They stress the distressed to disseminate imminent spines,
Shattering that last vestige of a will searching between lines.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

The commandments should have demanded there always be one more,
As truth evolves in jollies or follies, being rich or poor.
Always a witness to your lemons that could squeeze a profit.
Limits can be more than second hands surpassing the minute.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Thus old cogs and smog of our familiar faculties rest
On the zealous peals of those who know at the hour of our best.
It is not easy to lift volition past sadness so steep.
As each day would raise a mile, we may grow to smile when we sleep
Now is the time, are you a counter or clockwise?

Lithe is the ballerina's lucidity
As the violin's language is eloquent
Through a minute's seconds lost in a moment
Oh, How the record must be kept in memory

To be spun in this garden of our axis
Then a new softness begs for the same apple
So that an old grace may sing a new thesis
Some forget to leave the dancer's dreams supple

Because the violin will continue to bend
And the ballerina will spin despite an end
Still, some forget within their pride to ask, "Why?
Does this cursed curiosity outlive its mystery?"

Then you trust in the revolution you chose to record
For this choice was made before, upon your own accord
From her emblazoned toes to her fingers in flight
As sure as a same sound could change, the answer is quite,

How many could be calling?
Eitherwise, it is exausting
To be held by own accountability.
Ability for account; a mass
Of those counted.  Weigh creaks
On these levers over my eyes.
A lover in disguise lies
The warmth of this weight.
Lazy and laconic to confuse
The schizophrenic.
Lord I hope these are my own-
If I myself am not the sovereign-
Elaborate equations voiced
From character calculations.
Clacking their sums
In my sincere consideration.

We all have that second or so thought to reach concentric clarity.
When I sing or spiel the art of it, easier to make a monster of me.

First in bombastic burst of a scent,
Colours from these winds heaven had sent.
A lift in my head with these winds in your hair;

Our old magic (trickless) springs a hatless hare,
Faultless as firmament spins a perfect rose.
Colours that can thin any illusion, in our music rose-

Whirling where euphony may curse thorns and pains.
Worst is how these colours stain clear window panes,
Where darkness had deftly set how fire rules awe!

I

Head, shoulders, bees, and hands.
Stings and wings apart,
From the anatomy of art
Despite the stills and shakes.
Two of twos for many stands.

Though at the fore reside the restless digits
Every thought, they spark and fidget.
The point is impolite, but that widget-
My leg knuckles buckle thinking of the quakes,
It tore through my index like new nectar glands…

II

One for rest the other for tests
And one s for the possibilitie
None are hidden from the complete set
of peering palms

right like the leaves,
left like the breeze.
Like the future
Told with tea.

Where these wrinkles will write their say
While these prints will match their way
Whistling while working; these knuckles will play
Whether it be told or felt- make it chalantly
Waiting with a tale for two in every day

III

I set them
With just enough pressure
To hold a frog for fun
Or to annoy a lame nun
Squeal
Down, the cuticles cry

Chuckle cackle fiddle,
Ruckus rackets and riddles
Are really a lot of fun you should try it.
Simply pry the favored tendon
Over that big red button
Yes yes, the American kanji of dissonance!

Excuse the madness, I refuse the discord.
Sounds do not have to be met with pain,
And fear can avoid disdain...
It’s an odd thing that jesters are paid for.

There is an education…
But there is no degree.
I also, cannot waive its fee.
What I paid was from within me.

IV

I had known a good friend fellow
Who once let out a grand belch bellow
About his crimes of cheese and wine

Toward a beauty so sweet and discreet
Her spinning feet fleeting from new feats
Whereabouts to doubt, still flies more than fine

I said to him “your sense is jagged
and your breath is haggard-”
so he interrupted with one of brine…

The failure is in my nature’s course!
Then my dammed machinations make it worse,
It seems as though who I intended to be

And who I wanted you to see,
Are wholly revealed as two separate scenes.
I must leave your metals unmatched sheen.

Well…As I trust you heard before,
Your bust appears to be a dusty lore
I say, you can’t expect her eyes to wait for rust!

A firm grasp on the glass.
She clasps a diamond overhead.
I pointed out with a wave.
A slam,
     Then rotating prints on his glass.
The hopeless *****,
     At the cheek she turned.
Whilst I drew on a napkin the-
Legendary Ten-Pronged Opposition Foundry.

Of course, those lights would close..
Excuse me, one other blueprint is exposed.
Canvas of humility, lines drawn like, self-drawn pens.

Perhaps three could wring something useful from this science

V

Her plans! her plans!
They dance, they dance!
As my matrix unravels,
The hiding holes disband,
Its light skips through the land.
This heat, though discreet,
Will shoulder like a man!
Torching every grain of sand
In to a castle of glass
Where the magic is as-
Crafts…of her own hands.

This is where she sings, here
Ask for where, and no song is there
The Tale is strained into strands
She sings there,
Now, she sings there


VI

Imagine, the swinging trees
And busy birds between fronds
Of these leaves, of mine, you see?
To ensnare and percuss
With your singing wrist
Yet you persist,
to pant and seethe
in these gauntlets and greaves…

A moronic oxidative process it is,
To be here and be there both.
Now that I see more strings
I would rather design dreams
Than to meddle a mess
Out of the mettle you chose to test.

VII

Why would one bother,
Vex the metal man’s nerves
Of alloy he dare not name

Mecca’s bolts smother
The work his death deserves
So he limps slow shocked by shame.

Reliquary shammed,
In sardonic preserves
Dark like the grace in his dame

Her bolts monogrammed
By her lack of wild game
Blinded by white in her cold

Her arms gently fold
His rebirth now retold
His machinery, untame

These split heart horns rammed
Dancing, a light the lame.
Dreams may anchor another

Inspire the lover,
You musical mother
I know it,
Your arts heal hearts after any worked hurt.

VIII

Until vissictudes
Crash down,
I lay my back on grazed meadows
With only the sky to cast shadows
Spinning clouds
Of those crafts
In their hands.

I swear I do not refrain my heart from its passion.
There was only one goal, to live as a quiet bastion.
No, not a drop of my mortality shall be leaked in fray.
Eyes will burrow, teeth will testify, my flaws, in disarray.
Yes, there was an attempt to control even the sheen of my glee.
The standards, statutes, stabilizers, and sticks I used to **** me...
****, prop, and stop any step, if the path was warm,
For that feeling meant change, and quite possibly harm.
"Why?" the question may arise, "live with such chill?"
Well, my beloved, only a loss constitutes a win, or a thrill.
At least this was my moral, as a child with no plan.
To live as man says he should, and can.
I have tried to uphold that life like a beat
Then life chimes, "To eat is to **** and to live is to eat."
Listen...

The applause's approval drowns my research in cacophony...
Whenever my stones start to slip, please run from me.

Stark dark black limbs
Breast eyes beak wings
Abysmal feathered
Garments; a messenger.
Mal to prefix, as well,
Remnants from the abyss.

Not malicious, for delicious
Is a delight dragged
Out of any carrion.
Not carried because
They carry enough
Is too much for
These observers of us.

Screeching their squawks.
Perched on boughs for talks.
Of malign imminence.
To coalesce friendly fragments.
Found at any crossing's discourse.
Gusting about an eerie force.
Beacons upon who to bereave.
Portent displacing fallen leaves.

So we re-member
Our piece by piece plummet
Into that omnipotent
Stark dark descent.

I am not confused simply busy
Now leave before I get grizzly.

Whatever do you mean?
I am here under strict orders
Of spontaneous curiosity
And I demand to know your work!

There is no work, only pieces.
I am a man of completion, not creases.

You are a mule molding in mire!
Old as rules and just as amusing.
I can see very clearly that this is
A pile of stones playing with
A pile of paper!

By my own universal exclamation!
I could not find a greater quotation,
If I remain as rocks, this is my notation.
One stone for each adoration.

Adoration? I see nothing of the sort
Only lines and space and ink and air
And breath and fire and ash and an
Old man with far too many abandoned
Projects.

Where do you see this fire?
Of yearning and burning, I do tire.
I have wheeled through many a choir,
Each lie is a life and each man a liar.
Now, do you understand my profession?

Not in the slightest,
You could be a blacksmith for all
I want.
My young vision has cast fishnets
On your old hands and we find you
Are not a sea creature,
Not a fish
A bird
Trash
A man
An oracle
A mortal
Nor a machine.
How am I to pull together this puzzle
When the only pieces i may use,
Are the ones that were never there?

I recall hearing that term once in high school,
"Urban forestry", a paradox, seemingly and yet,
That is exactly what it is.
Strips of land sanction to be aesthetically pleasing.
For whom, I have not a clue.
I would have preferred a lane or so,
Over the regular 8' by 1' square of trimmed trees.
I also grimace within the grace
Of those knotted furled fists toward a sky asking WHY!?
After a much calmer gardener had pondered the same word
Underneath his humming chainsaw
(Though probably for a more debatable material world)
Amongst other cuboid amputations.
Not to mention those solid soldiers
Whose attention is really standing dead in plain sight until
Wrinkled pavement is not enough ground to hold.
Then our hero makes local news in an inhumane, absolutely atrocious,
Final act of trespassing, vandalism, homicide, and suicide.
Of course nobody saw it coming.
Undetected and decayed for half a decade.
With so so many Ys it is easier to yelp for for those Xs
Crossing against our assumed perfect grids and parallels
To those stories of stacking passed from older cries
For HELP! Though those did not settle quite so well
So I proceed passing over a particularly loud leaf
Amidst this dry pondering
And snap out of the whats and whys and wheres
To take another look around at my illustrious
Urban Forest.
Unto a more practical pensive test,
Which side of that phrase,
Burdens the winning emphasis?

Well, still warblers and sparrows to inspire a song
For how this within time shall also pass along.

To look carefully.
It begins with a reminder to myself to look oh so carefully
Because this isn't just any time of day,
But the end of day time when the light fades away.
To think, that this happens before every eve and after every noon
Night pulls at the Sun so gently.
From behind the mountains
The anchor of time begins its distortion
Upon the Sun, its stress seems to bless the sky
In those blending hues
And spins clouds into colorful sweetness
As it demands an encore for a set too soon.

The mountains become flat nibbles into space,
Eating at the canvas
Where sky's light knows nothing of us.
It too, flattens buildings at the foothills;
A pasting of pastel flavor, drawn
By the distant gray air of sand and sea.
The glorified glass edifices at my shore watching,
Bleeding, in mocking colors of a time that burns into another
A time that ends in blazing defiant oranges assaulting the falling sky
In quarrelsome pinks and purples

I remember the tender
I must see this so softly

At the sinking light
As the mountains swallow burning sky
One ring at a time,
Lighter than velvet.
Heavier than vivid.

Humility rose, with this setting,
To stand against so many gradients
And recall the faux pas of permanence.
Not until it was gone
With its whims toward time.
Could I see, tenderly.
The width and warmth
Of their embellished embrace
Between day, and night-
Pouring that fragility-
From the last light.

Is this useless?
Am I useless?
Are doubts the mark of wisdom?
As the wise sit and wait.
The greatest advice I heard,
For my family to lift my chin
For my shoulders to lift our backs,

Is that the ground has nothing for eyes.
With one last look around I noticed why,
This debris is interesting, but deprived.
Stories. From what is left behind.
The beginnings of my deductive empathy
Sound like the pauses in my discrepancy
And sure, these countless questions can lead to great things
But when should I release my reticence for my wings?
Another twinge in rhetoric,
A singe in my time's tick

I must look up from the path to see my own,
There is no use in musing at buried bone.
A miser of different dirts will become rich among rubble.
Not believing that anything is worth its trouble,
Is a mark of death, not wisdom.
I am sorry for not seeing this prison.

Hold it fast
There is a current pulling
On the other end
Stay true
And that gold thread
Will shimmer through all that blue

He is not invincible
He is a word
And as sure,
As language trends
Man is a word
That changes with ends

An imprint in the dust
Tells a story, it must
So it goes on, the impression
Shifts and sifts in fission
Each syllable a worthy mention
Every step, a tale of tension
Lifts, begins- drifts and bends
To a point where inertia lends
A new start and a chance to turn,
Yet reward of light is where we yearn.

What of that reflective string
The last buried piece of shining
Trail has led your heels astray
There is no sand or dust that way
Only the feared fabled deep blue
Calm palms and toes can still walk through

Hold it fast, and forget our steps
Let them thread a new friend's depth
And when current grips in cold death.
We may dance with it, in a simple breath.

Golden apples, crisp sandwiches, and smiling milk
Golden boy, growing hands, and smiling eyes
Easy to learn those lessons woven by a voice of silk
Easy to yearn with countless ways to fly on free skies

Silver tongue to gild her hope in their enticing game
Silver lost on nickel and dime since the value change
Tough to beat that cowboy has wound up all the true dames
Tough to see success outside that boy's jubilant range

Copperhead and improperly read, now he is out on the town
Copper tools to trade between fools for a means through today
Hard to make it now that his future is a thought that brings him down
Hard landing and hard to stand knowing soldiers get to fly away

Muscle-cut, silent disciple by uniform and drill
On a new path where the steps are already named

Earning inertia and purpose as his hands fill
By the rifle, by his life, now he can cut through the future

Winning trust and won his chance at enemies to ****
Now they are dead.

Oh glory, oh honor, our hero returns home with tempered will
The war is over, he held his weight, yet from that rigid world he must depart

He cannot remember how the old rhyme went
He cannot tell if his time was well spent
Weary from angels shattered and morals hell bent
Wary for how neighbors treat what is different
Witness to blindness for what is done, and what is meant
Advertised pride for racist media and murderous government
Now his last hope is a child with lustrous intent
To ask,
"Sir, where do all the old soldiers come from,
     and where have they been since?"

A Terran, a Musician, and a Human walk into a bar and begin to converse in their unique animated fashions.  The Terran told colorful, heavily gestured stories of just how vast, vivid, and desolate, the world can be with adventurous direction and a little bit of luck.  The Musician listened intently and shared personal records of revolving themes and repetitive transcendence.  For Musician, it is simply a twist of perspective.  Then followed a volley of indiscriminate compliments between Human and Terran as Musician earned a few donations of an open microphone on this Friday afternoon.  When Musician returned with concerns of quality and substance, the enlightened friends had both agreed that the rehearsal was finely tuned, impeccable, even.  
     Shy and humming, Human was slightly disconcerting to their boisterous Terran and had to ask about those interests and talents that had not been discussed yet.  Human's eyes froze in small expansion though Musician concurred, compliments are fine but withholding one's self is an insult and a crime to all three beings in such a warmed gathering.  Human began with a facile face, then addled, as if a place to start had muddied underneath solid progressive counterparts.  At last, resolve returned with a solution to try at the open microphone first, mayhaps that would clear the meek performer's mind.  The invoked spirit of clarity overflowed beyond the stage as a silver silence engulfed the barroom.  Human's history was bursting of sky sharing resonant respiration once the song was sung from a place more real than truth.

I hunger for a Fuji Apple
And so Mount Fuji is where I grapple
The volcano's summit has me fooled
It is in the orchard these fruits have pooled

That time,
When the morning shook me awake with a new set of senses
Every pore opened leaving my old body obsolete and breathless

It was a great day, filled with glory and dried sweat
The sky would tell me tales of gore and criminal's scores
The trees sung of warriors that could handle any pest that crept
Sun and Moon would prance, ignorant of envious bores

It was a great day, rattled with sounds and prattles
Even gravel, had its mysteries of wondrous wandering
Waters simply grew a face, to smile of silent pondering
Grouchy and coarse the soils were, always whining of past battles

It was a great day, whistling secrets and flaunting immortality
At least that was how the wind would laugh, free and kooky
Fires did more whistling, between their cackles and endless dances
Then science was rinsed off the creatures to show the paths in their glances

Who was I to judge?
Woes of consuming spectra
Under despot rhyme

Then night had fell +
My eyes would dwell /
My hearts next swell =
Still a space to figure,

A time to measure:
The center of levers::
A fate for lovers:
A void...to test

I am old chinese fireworks
Lit to fly and ready to burst
Handcarved dragon maw to the moon
Not a fire in a sky too low, too soon.
Not falling flames for the world
     To wonder,
          And splendor,
               Then routinely return
To that smoke
              stack
             stacked
                             for Mars.
     "Man, we're gonna need that moon sometime soon"
     "Yup, since we're already almost halfway there,"
                 they
                         say.
Was the last I heard before
                                           my fuse.
Turned to fuel for a change of language
     As I seek to speak
With Lady Luna's gentle carriage
We came to an agreement,
                                               a little one sided,
Cause she is always oh so terribly inviting,
Now falling fragments for the world
     To quake in its plates
          And gush its wailing gale
               Then her waters roil a riot
Upon smouldering creatures
That have got coal for eyes,
      And gold for glasses,
Blind.
     To this Earthen texture of past masses
Mastering textiles upon any form, or ghost,, of carcass,,,
Although Gaia may bury and forget
I must reveal Luna's barren
                                                parapet
As­ a flame is all that I see
Ways to show what a flame can be
Earth learns to burn, for me, and we.
Yet little, brittle, Mother Moon belongs to the sea.

I have twelve new images in oblivion.
I have a name and symbol for each one.
They're called prison in one tongue
And Heaven in that dogmatic tome.
Though I cannot pick a favor with the name,
"In God's name" sums it quite sane.
It is a trick, I say, I swear, its all the same.
We Love the higher hope for a second home,
I love the second *****, our spiritual song.
Stars demarcate mythic euphony, wrong-
Yet right, a left path to eventual events; halcyon.
Finally! it reveals, it discovers, and it is done
As long as a single soul attempts the tone,
Whimsy finds weight in a wind to bone,
Heart, flesh, mind, the entire abode.
We abide to symmetry in singular nodes.
So I must resonate to my own roads,
For dedication to destiny and its role
Is a path set to reset those perilous holes.
To ferry peoples that forget to hold souls
Traveling on our belief in naming the Sun.

Ash cannot shackle
These songs that burn within me
My musical chains

What is the difference between
Verbatim and Vitamin?  hmmn

Perhaps it is the fITe within
Or the beta, - before hand

This lense flare, without a care
For every Faustian Recluse
D-&serve; but a singlefinalfatal sear
From solar contact to lack of h-ear

There is little wonder to the webster's
Perpetually lacking lexicon...
The Roman Frankenstein that IS
Protestant English.

From the truest intention of any scribe;
     Can   not   run.

And as for those hospitals and serums--
Another handful for another animal...
I am but a wishful poet
Walking the shore for the beautiful bubbles of the water twin;
Sand Crab.

"To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
  And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill."

[I give my glory
        to the glory
                      of nature]

Hello again my cute little coy butterfly net
I know that with time you may fray and fret
Though I wonder at which it is you wake to yearn
To be re-woven by one's intricate concern
Or the display of versatile reverberant things?
I recall your temporary retention of those beautiful wings
Your cornice of vivid vitality forever vicarious
Are you- the gentle jailer, nervous ******, or simply fastidious?
Those lives that you catch into your fluttering heart,
I suppose they may change you when pinned and ripped apart
Whether that be or they are released to fly free
In what you have yet to see spins your sense of serenity
So forget them, when you remember your demure nature
For history is just a child caught in sincere nomenclature.




Shakespeare's Sonnet #9

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
That thou consum'st thy self in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind:
Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it.
   No love toward others in that ***** sits
   That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.

'Tis I, Lester the Jester
The jay with no say,
Only a bib for my fib.
The non-mask will ask,
"Does he rhyme for my dime,
Or for the old sake of time?"
I shall reply,
"That is an old fool's try"
I am a fool with a new set of rule
If I sound nice,
You ought to forget about lice.
A smile on the face,
The polished penny is replaced.
If I look astounding,
You will forget the pounding
You are compelled
To give good and well
For today non-masks will say,
"His fable has no ground!"
"His rabble has no bound!"
If my feet remain mobile,
My words remain infertile.
The few that realize it shall proclaim,
"Send him to the pit!"
All I will have left to spit,
"I am merely a jester,
The real culprit is Jones of Mister."
The author with shaky shy tones,
I say, 'tis ole Lester Jones
For mine is Bishop Bones.
Jones screaming the reaper's way
On this day I skip with Jove away.
'Tis I, Jaster the Master,
The jay with no say!

Hey little dragonfly
I hope you know this ain't no lie
I know you got your superstars
And cozy elevator cars.

Hey little buttercup
You sure are one cute powerpuff
And I know That without a doubt
That you will always tough it out.

Ohh, we know I picked the coldest coast
Yet I can't say that I miss yours most
I swear I'll steal some devil's wings
Cause angels can be such slow things.

Not some bugs eyes on a stick and wings
Or a giant scaly scary thing
Your spirit and a heart of wind
That will burn and fly through anything.

.                                                                ­                                                                 ­                         Excuse me,
                                                                ­                                                                 ­   What have you got there
                                                           ­                                                                 ­               That could pass time
                                                            ­                                                                 ­   On this drudging subway?

Well.
I stack the plays like baseball
              and wait
For more words to fall
                         It
                                       Doesn’t
            Take too many squares
                       Because
You will never see them all.
     My hints are already here
     Your count and a little more care-

                                                          ­                                                                 ­  Oh, hold on- there is no way
                                                             ­                                                                 ­   I could keep up with what
                                                            ­                                                                 You say, though this rhythm
                                                          ­                                                                I­s contagious.  How could you
                                                             ­                                                                 ­            Possibly defer to me?

             Simply concentrate your stare
                          From the velvet in your heart
                                       And fill in gaps from the start.
You have read them through
                                       And looked around
There is no need
            To feel confound
                         Ment to be found
           However,
Most                 importantly,

                     ­                                                 Discovered.

                                                    ­                                                                 ­                        Well, I am not blind
                                                           ­                                                                 ­            I must admit but your
                                                            ­                                                             “Simply” is not simple, one bit
                                                             ­                                                                 ­          So I do know of music
                                                           ­                                                                 ­             And the brevity of art
                                                             ­                                                                 ­        But what could happen
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                When we part? Am I
                                                               ­                                                                 ­          To find another mind
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                      Of your kind to
                                                                ­                                                    Progress this text now unfolding?

             Nonsense my friendling!
Adventure is yourself
                                      And so many places!
        That
        Linger
        And wait
        Spinning
                         On all every abandoned shelf.
Though I am not of the scent yet,
You can follow those sages,
We keep our promise Upon these pages.
                         To one day unravel
                                         These
                                               Tempestuous
                                 ­   Ages                                                          ­                                                                 ­       .

I should sleep
Yes, that would fix it.
It has all things a solution needs;
It passes time,
It restores mind,
And when I finally, quietly,
Think of nothing, world becomes so.
Yet I still watch the clock.
Until I lose count of stories
That could pass in a minute.
That alone proves today is not done
Night has only begun
Some of these minutes help,
Some of these thoughts distract.
For hours I would follow them all.
Some ancient statute composed
From apathy & empathy & delusions
To place myself as dark, darkest
Oil to feed
And burn for others.
I had thought- By counting all of the quiet truths,
That I could drift,
With same sureness
Of repetitive sheep.

I have counted into an hour
Past night, but darkness has not set
Still, I cannot sleep.
I want to pass time.
My habits return to counting
I want to restore my mind, body, and eyes
My instinct cannot be ignored-
It refuses.
I simply want to fix this
These truths tick and tock so loudly.
I must think to nothing
But
It is not world and worries that follow
It is morning and its meaning.
My morning
And my...dreaming

It is not enough to think nothing
It is not enough to image something

I want to rest and escape, knowing-
More than so, return with a day that I bring.

Architect tie
Around the neck
of architexture
The prefecxture
is a mixture
hollowed betwixt
epithelial and
premium,

**He say ya can't
take the heat
Out tha fiya

This time there are no rules
For with rules come restraint
And now is not the time
For such things like ink
Require restraint.
Let repetition sing in snare
As sky freshens air
With every new drip
We could all take a tip
But difference is in those
Who listen,
And those who can only hear.
Fortunately the only test for water
Is want or not to drink,
But when it comes to testing ink,
We would have to ask,"What do the others think?"
Configure the pen,
Color it red,
And say it is just for emergencies.
Sell it again and live to do it again
     and improve it again and sell it again
          and trim corners again and justify again
And.

Sure, I could play that 'gain game...
However I decline. Because this time
There are not any rules

I wonder if I could here a sphere
And hurl that pearl back into your eyes
Or perhaps just one eye, a triangular kind.
Jumping from left to right and up the bridge of your nose.
A particular pose played by the pacing
Of these runes and spacing
Sewn together by punctuation skipping
Comma little closer and know
That I do not want the pearl, a dot, or its growing spots
Simply something similar to its glimmer
Solely that feeling of slowly spinning that sphere

Upon contemplative fingertips waiting to flick
Into an ear, that perfect whisper
That ticks and tocks for about a handful of seconds
Until bouncing hips are dancing to that kicking flick
That you wondered about so well

It is worn to reminisce on what is broken
It is worn to visualize the others being stolen
Broken just enough to be its own facade
Enough to melt anyone's vanity through massage
An hourglass could only shatter--never crack.
It isn't worth my time. says the true gambler.
Neither narrator nor character.
Whistling through the face, always betting
On becoming something between symbol and setting

Don't die
little flowerfly

i like laurels
Like daisy love Mystery

finish.








lightning strike.

























































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step bitch4 read.