If we have been so far away from home, yet so longing to see you
doing anything else would be far too natural.
Should I have been trying my love
a while before
and relax after listening to my Lord?
She was going through my life
With only sensation in our minds; yet
only games for anyone else.
Basking in the best wishes
from all my friends over-easy,
we were going back to see how to die
of course, but we had no intention at all
to make love with ourselves.
We only had fear. Fear for our us,
found floating in the time that was
slipping away.
Sometimes I don't know anything about you.
Other times
you could not be known more by me.
If I could fly away from the shadow
the dim sun draws on my face
as you stand on the ever-far horizon
I would.

Who want's a love poem?
A thing about some guy and some girl
and how something's just so **** blissful
or just so **** sad and dramatic?

***** that.
How about we find something we can swallow?
How about we forget our little cry-c's,
and take half a **** second
to
to
to write a **** love poem...

It seems I run here
as if it were a confession booth;
concerning looseness of eye or brokenness of tooth.
I find my penance here
I find my penance here
and now constantly
and concertedly I understand.
What I can see to be sin is simply a symptom
it is not the disease
and it is not a matter of debt, but lack of income.

I have taken no pleasure in my beloved.
Where is my joy? Is it not in the Lord and the fullness thereof?
I have been fighting a battle already lost.
To pursue to imbue in myself a passion
while the stone of my heart remains as a frost.
Striding for the ends to produce means has no ration.

When I read that faith without works is dead
and then pursue works to produce faith
I'm dead.

Reset pv4 pin ID add host lvl
with my broken concentration,
while the reboot computes and
command prompt prefers
and no I don't have the router,
but yes I'm an administrator.
Who is in charge,
and who is punishing me?
Superstition sends me around back into the
Ground beef while I'm repenting of my sins
to get my hard drive running smoother,
like it's a catholic father
who just gets crotchety in the presence of gigabits
and lil ***** who won't behave
and condemns this piece of crap to an early grave.
Oh, but maybe it's just I need to unscrew and then pull out and blow off and put back in...
doubting it all again and a big circle starts anew.

Well, here you have me again.
In repentance again; a requisition for mercy at your feet.
I have not seen you in so long, and it is because I have not looked.
I have not taken the time to enjoy my father's company.
Why is this? I will tell myself to read, to write, to think, to record,
and do not do it.
Shouldn't this be forth-coming in a natural overflow in my gratitude of your blessing and glory?
I treat you like a blimp, like a ladder.
I worry about my image, and how I will present myself.
I worry, but I do not address anyhow, and it is vanity.
Lord you are my portion, and you are my prize.
I am not perusing you out of lack of anything else to do.
I am sprinting after your coat-tails for the sheer goodness of your substance and presence O God.
This is my confession Lord. I have not loved you.
Help me to remember my first love.
Let me drink in the milk I first tasted.
Bring me back to the beginning again, that I may remember your deliverance for me from the hand of darkness.

Alice in her wonderland could never have imagined
that the bounty of the promise land was not found in her companion.
She would have sought to  make him king
she would have bought him everything.
But falling short of all her providence,
he would need some sort of evidence;
to show that indeed twas he
who from greed was very free,
and could love her in her poverty
if say, from above she'd loose propriety.

When I sit to listen and to
contemplate
I have no music in my head;
only machinations.
The words within my mind are dead
for soundly vanquished is the inspiration.

Passion
is
fleeting

It's one of those days; those days when you feel like a looser.
You feel like there's a pressure pushing in
from people who are busy;
who are better by their busy bodies
budding and boiling over,
filling the life you try to look through with steam,
and as the pressure builds, you
sit and sweat and worry,
trying so hard to hurry.
"What to do?"
You'll say,
and in the end you'll stay;
stay in that sultry salty sweaty *****-up that you are.
Cuz on that day you feel like a looser. You realize
you built your life like a pressure cooker,
not a steam-engine like you wanted.

If the perfect
last end of
the wrong thing
before and after
the last could be
molded faster
than a fastener
then why not
return to the gurney
and be wheeled about
on a short-term journey
through the keyhole?

I wonder while perusing a pile of personas
at why I don't write love poems
of a wistful and musky air
that froths, overflowing
with emotive schema
towards some ******, yet tragic end.
I suppose I actually do.
But they're much different than the usual fair,
less dramatic at least.
Sort of like wine you've let sit for a while
in a barrel
before you let it out again.
Mellow.

Professionalism
Intelectualism
Institutionalism
say they,
Yet I see a dishonesty;
a self with-held reality.
A cloak of convenience to cover
the frame of fragility, infancy.
Hostility, I shall avoid and thus comply
In this little white lie called policy.

Unidentified monograms
we are floating through a machine-gun pterodactyl
that shoots lay-zer tiger gamma-ray photon blobs at a flying bag of nuts.

We ride on a an escalator accelerating toward the speed of sound
towards a symphony that shrinks in our synapses and breaks our bonds. Without words we wander towards a waxy floor
and slip or just trip on a trampled stumbling block of sand.

And I cry at the sight of a man who will probably die for the sake of his pride; who had lied, and cheated, and been mistreated for the sake his gains that caused him pains, but were vain and empty and deserve no sympathy. (for sure)

He will endure for the glory of the cure which will have no discrepancy, and will illuminate the enemy
when it comes within proximity
of the light of God,
which burns all flesh.

For patience is a virtue that the universe attains to, with billions of years gone passing in a flash now.
With breath and reason there will be a passing of this season by the times and dates marked down at the bottom of the page under sub-section be
after "I am" and "I was" and  "I shall"
and there won't be a televised broadcast.
There will simply be radio silence for those who are listening.
(Yes they are indeed still listening)
Towards a siphoning of nitrogen out of air into the ground
without sound but with space.
All to be brought back out again
out to spin again;
begin again.
(Better than the last time)

I am a glass of skim milk.
I am a reconstituted congealed protein fixture-ate
molded like a rack of ribs.
I could be alien technology
if I weren't christmas lights and a projector.
In fact if I were any more prosthetic I'd be...
a picture of a painting of a plastic rose.

I'd be at the globe theatre.
I'd be lear, othello, hammers, macky, romero and roz.
Cuz I'm a lick-on-stamp of higher education,
and I'm a bottle of **** that you find under your seat in the van
when you're so thirsty you can hear Berbers in the distance.

I could be the mermaid on the front of wooden ships.
I would be the black olives on your gordita cruch;
and I'll smile at you with 9 inch long teeth
as I dutifully hang your laundry in the rain.

With dozens of laughs all covering up
tender spots I'm too chicken to cry about
I am a master parade floating up, up,
in the middle of the street,
Til I fall with a ******* box of bottled bourbon *****
for my buccaneer bravado's.

And fists
I make while walking
and beating sticks
I carve, still beating,
with imaginary reasons
that I find a bit disturbing.

When I go walking I go walking off into the ending
cuz I'm just killing time while trying not to go crazy
i-I-eye-shouldastudiedmore
I shoulda beat up my *** drive in a dark alley
while it was still raining,
and a I shoulda
red more
bled more
sweat-ed more than I did,
cuz I'm standing here in a bucket
with the thunderstorm looming
clutching onto a flag pole for dear life
like it was my mother.
Hoping just for one big bang
to send me off into the twilight
to shoot me out past the moon once again.
Cuz I'm drowning in the rain that doesn't hit the ground.
and I'm smiling like Bob Wiley on a tree stump,
as I sip at strychnine
like it's Chianti.

This isn't a poem
this is just to make you think it's a poem
really it's just a few splurs of verbiage
thrown onto a template
and then you probably wonder what kinda template I'm using
and then you probably google poetry templates
and then you might think to yourself
that's bullox
you can't make a template for poetry
and you'd be right
cuz I'm lying.

This is the time
when wakeful day is covered in a sheet of drowsy twilight,
and air
is cool
but not cold.

The lights are dim, but not dark
and the sounds are quiet
but not silent.

I can feel my mind fall drowsy
caught in the muting mist of gentle energy,
and dimly blinking electricity.

I become a raindrop within a horde of raindrops
a hundred miles above the ground;
a plastic bag caught in some exhaled breeze
that floats about without a sound.

My own ego clings to me, like a friend without companion
it seems afraid to be abandoned,
so I have speaks with it awhile.

I learn a list of all transgression, and preach long sermons to the night.
Is it listening?
I'm long gone, and would not know it otherwise.
It's beginning to turn to darkness,
and I have too much on my mind.

I don't really know
if I did I wouldn't write it down
if I knew I would... I would
know
What's the back of this mind doing?
Throwing up spaces of random places
and memories from crusty corners
crumbling as they move into sight.

eh, ferk it... I'm going to bed.

I remember how
I miss this time of night.
When the lights are stretched,
all the world looks black and white.

There are winds that don't blow, but cling
and sounds that don't break, but fall
and voices that don't call out, but trickle along.

I smell the murmur of cars as they sift through the dark
and I catch flying shadows
as they chase shadows that hide
in the silence for warmth.

This time of night I remember
there are things that listen without hearing
and there are things that whisper
without speaking.

It is cold, but only to the touch.
It is dark, but only to the reader.
It is quiet, but only to the sleeper.

It is the death of day
and it is dignified
ever deeper.

I love you like the apple
that transgresses from a tree.
It is pulled downward
and away
from calm familiarity.
Into the abyss of earth it crashes,
and is bruised.

And as the skin of all my mirth, will then decay
it shall infuse
with the origin of its origin
the birth by which its birthed,
and thus the end of its beginning,
and there forever stay.

So I shall count my loss as winning,
and ne'er again the two confuse.

She soldiers on
with a limp
from an old gunshot wound
that put a stammer in her soul.

She hesitates upon standing,
and often winces at an over-hastened step.
Stairs are her nightmare, as is most anything up.
Like being trapped
in a cage made of rubber bands
she is limited, but can force her way
in some direction.

She wont tell you how she got it
nor even where it really is.
The thigh, the hip, the gut; as is anyone's guess.

My money's on somewhere else.

She is dissolved in some solution
made with three parts carbolic acid
two parts toothsome regret
one part
pure concentrated time.

If I could pick her up and carry her
I would
but she
would scream, and kick, and holler
I know. So I'll let her limp
It's her way.

I don't mean to be trigger happy.

Blue is not sure where to find the propeller.
The motor boat sent to scotch the shimmer. The waves
break inside a jar, and the little pieces are swept up by the wind and made into mist.

The Jar is shaken, the titanic sinks,
and the seagulls peck at our eyes.
Covered in barnacles, the new-found fish men
wander onto the sand and get coated,
as in cornmeal,
ready to fry.

Infatuated and floundering
they wander
to water again.
Drinking death hand over fist,
they ring themselves out with simply a twist.
The fish flap their fins so forcefully;
trying to
be flying to
a sea called the sky.

With a crumbled-ed crust they say, “motherboat or bust”,
but the navigation of aviation is a compilation of great frustration
for fishes whose function
is on boats, wrapped up
in those silly greatcoats.
Yet they made it, or so they claim, and with only one flounder or flunder who had made a blunder to blame.

If only old skipper had been a bit quicker, he wouldn't have had such a queer story to claim.

Welcome to me too.
Thanks for coming in high-altitude, if you're really into them.
There are new-tutorials, and I'm not going to need one.
Why not do the news? I love plain and simple.
Free-market sloping losses will do this;
because of bipartisan politics.
Luyendyk news is crowded by Audi's and by partisan politics;
I don't like my partisan politics.
Star tutorials are tutorial-soon.
This is a new tutorial for my into being given to the jury
in tutorial.

People present their uh dreams,
and a jury room is like love;
a little atmosphere me in a circle,
meaning we are (he is) related to the moon .

I'm the serving the Newburgh tutorial right now
around this one:
The new green play I'm into.
This one’s just a little on the Brumbies
cuz glass needs it to learn.
I am the circus mom pursuing your doom;
a mistaken rampant around jug-glass John,
inputting the bar’s shiny leading to the bottom-thanked step.
Number one is singing your doom on.

Be an unloaded nerd, like a dump truck dumping dirt into our hearts
while holding the whole lamar,
and perfecting the bar starting with p.
Put on the range
near the whole ecosystem in a in a bubble.
Second thing you gotta do is earn it,
you do this, but we plan to our dirt up to nine innings.
love things American
like me
in the new godliness.

99 dramas trapped under so now I'm a real utah zombie,
and lines,

The dirt on my fingertips tells me I’ve been living my share of life.
Barefoot weather under forests boussom and twilight’s singing.
Passer by on agile chronicles of all perfectly ordinary everythings
slips off at the hint of fraction, contradiction, restriction.
Short and Primal-Stooped can nothing but ordinary days
be spent wandering: lessened by the shell of much disgrace.
Found no where but the ground we tread, and the blood we’ve bled.
Calling out to stones or Screaming at the air,
To find our names in the pidth of every nothing we have yet to see.
Often the clue of exactly why
we paint on the face of every
needless, ditty, grotty, blathered, ******, accursed, body ****** like a worm into the cold ground
to be eaten by time as a morsel.
Oh what a blessed blessing be it to be Mortal!

Inside the sun
while afraid of serrated edges;
he shouts at his gun,
and he speaks of wedges
to **** the kicking-bird.
Yet the sound was unheard,
Therefore ineffective was a discouraging word.

Nearby three lovers undead
for them three tears left unshed,
as the misery of apathy is laughing in bed.
The flowers must push up themselves
his time round,
but if you would dare to compare,
Ye might sleep in a flower-bed underground.
Still these crippled are crumpled
and the crackle of wheat
is a sound oft untested
beneath peasant feet.

So Apollo’s beginning has met the Apollo’s end.
And while science sends defiance
it has found us a friend,
who eats not the lilly-flower
when blood is in flight,
nor covers you sun-beings
when the time is not night.
For in each egg there is a dream that is dying,
and in all minds a clear-seeing
first birthed by the light.
So caress the face of that faceless that's crying,
so it will hold you
while being held fast
in the night.

I was walking through the Courtyard
holding children in my hand.
As I glanced upon the scenery
they fell from me like sand.
So often searched have I,
The path that I had tread;
seeking all the children
lost that I had bred.
I hope they are safe and warm,
More than that I hope they are not dead.

These children give me all I have
and their life force and mine
are much the same.
Yet ask me not to Identify all,
for sharing are they, my name.
I keep them near me as best I can
for to lose them shall cause me pain,
and I shall adopt so many new ones
and by them I shall gain.
I actually cannot see them
yet six trillion I hear I have.
They are so inclined to wandering
I might loose some with just a bath.

Gemini sheriff of happy town
kills all the frequent cow-catching waffle machines.
He rounds up all his cowboys
and retires all the shepherds in a cloud most curious.
Somewhere soon there will be a better thing to do
than reach for the cookie jar all life long.
Unfortunately there will come so many who also wear the star.
All them good folks are stuck in a stampeding herd of confusion.

The days blur betwixt again or not.
Jumping up and down across the expanse
go Jack and Jill and all their twinkling droplets
of their painful of water.

For if earth is mother, Sun and Moon are Son and Daughter.
As weeks go by without number
and the sands shift and time winds on to
Rob and plunder. All man’s devices are ripped asunder.

All remains as it has always been under the sky so old.
The masses cry in pain in the winds so cold.
Fall away from the wall.
As morals breath flies from him like a raven;
without call. No end, no death, only a perpetual mechanism
are man-kin who are spent.

Yet so seldom grateful is he for the life to him lent,
and such a fallacy is this.
Never forever is the endeavor forever together.

What is strange is the lack of reason,
that blue is my favorite season.
Sadness be my bottle, and sorrow be my fuel.
Darkness shows me where the light is living, and so
blue forever rules.
An ache of puzzling pleasure
is the thorn of dark despair.
So oddly is the sound of strained emotion music in the air.
The wall of bleak depravity is like a blanket warm and soft,
enrapturing me in melancholy and keeping me aloft.
Woe is so soon my watchword, and waning resolve my cry.
Teardrops are like candy, and moonlight my exclusive sky.
So addictive it is to weep I say,
and many would think me mad,
but still it seems depression is the best I’ve ever had.
The reason does not matter, for I shall find some cause with ease;
and the season of blue,
while its ways ensue,
will give me such a tease.

Mind numb, but really only asleep.
Blank, unperturbed, but that is impossible.
A white and blank sheet of paper is the impending rapture of peace.
We are commanded to improve the page.
Can one write on white with white?
Nay, a darker shaded mark one must leave.
For to write  a story one must have
both the black and the white;
Put in print
no need to sprint
to find what is said.

The Great writer made the world white,
and introduced a plight that allowed him to write.
And the print said to itself,
“The writer is out of sight; leaving us dark, cast and in the past.”
Til long at last all the paper shall be made anew.
In that day the page of black and white will fade to gray,
all the same will be arrayed,to start again.
Don’t ask when, just know;
That all will go from simple
to complex
to simple again.

Chasten Calypso declared to be clear;
humming a mumble inside of mine ear.
Always heard, but ne’er understood,
a whisper so willing, decidedly good.

The rapture of doomsday is said to be near,
but an ounce of the evidence has yet to appear.
There are several factors that could end it all;
the pride of mankind is destined to fall.

Hastened Calypso declared to be clear,
rumbling a rumble, fueled by a fear.
Often forgotten, yet forever engraved;
those who are faithful have already been saved.

Dwindled and swindled, the man may soon ask,
“Your person is puzzling; take leave of your mask.”
Now the raven is calling, to bring out your soul,
but all you have left is a void with a hole.

With chastened Calypso declared to be clear
she is tumbling a bumble who’s drunken with beer,
and thought the cliff it is climbing is sharp, and quite sheer,
if the bumble dose stumble it won’t shed a tear.

Where we are looking and what we will find
is based in illusion we have made in our mind;
Always is heard, and is ne’er understood.
It’s a whisper so willing, decidedly good.

It kills to be so close, and yet so far.
She lives inside my mind invisible, and twinkles like a half-seen star.
Only words shall transfer forth, and it’s a misery of sorts.
No face shall I see, no flower found to bloom.
Only a corpse of memory sealed inside a silent tomb.
Where one is blunt the other is bashful.
Where one is close the other is far off,
watching like a seagull.
I watch her like a dream sealed inside a glass case,
I’m not the kind to break things...

Speak to me about the way the wind hits you.
How the air of your mind is stirred.
Give me a taste of your soul music.
That I may fly aloft like a bird.
A rustle, a whistle, through the boughs and brooks
of your words fall pitter-patter
on my attentive eyes and ears.
A dream of heaven; an after-life.
A wish for peace, and a cease of strife.
Yet I shall share a vision of what has always been.
A connection to the infinite.

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask; but Patience to prevent  

That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

Only when the rain comes does the road I travel down reflect all light directed to it.
For in the hazy sheen given to all things
in such a dreary-gray drizzle all that shines
finds room to grow indefinitely.
The headlights, and the stoplights and the store lights and the city lights; the pretty lights
all tumble down and find themselves woven
or rather painted on every curbside, every parkway, every avenue and mainstay.
The intersections are much like a pool of paint and water,
giving birth to a shimmering iridescent daughter.
While in the cool of night when the water falls like air,
I can do nothing but stop a while and stare.
Only when the rain comes does the road I travel down reflect all light directed to it.
Not but a metaphor is this.

Seldom touched are the ways which we can circumnavigate ourselves.
So little searched are the depths at which the spirit dwells.
Yet quickly recognized is the truth that there is something truer than ourselves.
And all depends on how far the human delves;
Into light, into dark, into ruin, into joy, into peace, into war, into pain into pleasure.
Into life and death, into poverty and treasure.
For though we chase after only what may make us smile,
there is more required to make life worthwhile.
Though heartbreak and tears may last through the years
deliverance shall be sweeter still than any passive happiness.
Far more beautiful is life with its portion of strife
and far more worthy is man who has suffered.

In fields where roses fade as finite flowers should
He watches from his mountain; mindfully morose.
Full of sound and fury; sad and surley.
As if made of wood.
He moveth not as a man might move
rather he gather a stretch of wind
and with it work a while, that he may prove.
He is free and clear, he has not sinned.
Yet lost to in trepidation
and filled for five years or more
he is. The child of every nation,
being but a borrower among the poor.
Carry no comforts nor glee
while whistling workers are whimpering;
their pain, an ease to see.
The game is paved with suffering
and always played so thoughtlessly.

Loneliness demonstrates everything totally.
To feel is to wonder; to dance is to plunder.
So take off your dress. It’ll do you no good.

Sleek silk off your body like a waterfall ******
falls to the ground like a puddle.
In the darkness you become the new moon;
unseen yet so...

I could not avert my eye, not for anything.

You touched me with the delicate stroke
of a single finger around my neck to my face;
too potent and mysterious to feel properly.

Then with a lurch I grasped you
like a magnetic vine whose very life force
is clinging.

We danced,
and gave
and give
to live.

A dream that I chase, is something I should not catch.

Asian liposuction feeling the fingers of my mind piling the ripped up chipped up crap from the side of the face to the plate put out in front of my lips to kiss the endless stream of a violent dream and all of the seams are ripped and I’m dark inside.

No where to be hyde or swallow my pride I have nothing left but my bare naked self in the cold of my unfettered failure.

Killing me softly with all the softcore underscore. Oh what a bore.
Such a slap in the face is the endless disgrace that peels though the soul like a razor maypole.

Grand is the shame that once was a game and ends with the fact that I’m deaf and dumb.
I’ve up and confessed.
So it’s over... but still missing
The body, the eyes, the flesh and the thighs, the hair and the lips unyielding.
The mind and the soul. The joy of the whole, and the love I could give so selflessly.

Twas numbing like a needle, or bottle.
Distracting from a cold, cruel, crack in the wall.
Yet up on the wings of an eagles
I’ll resist the pull of the fall.

It’s just about the same, just about all the time
The same graspy-gropey pulling-tuggery and un-buttonzippiness.
Like two eggs having to hatch all over again again and again. We question our shells.
Sometimes we’ll remember to wear packaging that comes apart easy enough,
so the present can be opened, put on the bed, beat the hell out of, and put back in its wrapper.
It seems so random.
As again again, no maybe not today, again again, so soon to see the sight of such a familiar stranger near. They fall together on sight as if shot, and tear apart the bows and strings again.

Two piles of oxygen cling and conform to one another
writhing and ceasing like a water in the wind
they get lost
and again again beating the wall with frothing endorphin's
feeding the bull and the bear
hoping to satisfy a chemical equation.
The Human element left asking, “How am I supposed to feel?”

Together they clash;
two piles of oxygen, two waves from opposing ends of a spectrum
force fit together with hopes of a harmony.
They make a new heartbeat,
and form a new flesh,
and learn to see God for a fleeting moment,
and then detach.

Cut in half they fly apart, now two distant starts on a chart
and wander as aimlessly as the many breaths expelled.
Inhale, exhale, open up, ****, **** and then ...disappear.

This speed-of-light life is made vain in so many ways.
We destroy ourselves with nature.
We **** our minds with pleasure,
and ignore truth beyond any attempts to measure.

Thus is the fate of the fleshly things.

“Hello. Get me a regular, cream no sugar.”
I am the thief, the slave, and the beggar.
“No, not decaf, thanks. How much?”
I am the pillager, the terrorist, the serial killer.
“Keep the change.”
I am the human centipede and the necrophilic, cannibalistic undertaker.

“Oh hey whatcha reading? Hmm? oh, no, I just got coffee.”
I am the Roman general crossing the rubicon, proclaiming loudly that the die is cast.
“Yeah, I think it has something to do with how they roast it; just makes it better.”
I am Plato; discovering the realm of the forms and discussing all things with all people.
“Yeah, that’s true...I don’t know why I can’t make it that good at home.”
I am the ascended one; making spiritual love to the soul of the universe and seeing all things.
“Somewhat remarkable isn’t it?”

Tell me a story about all the lost people
all the lost people in chairs.
They sit and they cry
all while wishing to die
and look up
and nobody cares.
Their bodies, they cover the rooftops
for they fling themselves high in the air.
They lie there in shame
for they realize all was a game,
and it gives them, oh such a scare.

Where are their raspberry Tuesdays?
They have fallen from the passage of time.
Where are their ***-raisin Fridays?
They have oozed from the last of the slime.
Our fancies and dainties are dust on the ground.
We incline ear towards decay, yet it don’t make a sound.

If the sight of you causes me death, let it be.
What more shall ever I plea?
Oh dear God, please oh please, show me your face.
Proven you are, near and far: more than enough.

Save that I can't bear to see nothing but dirt
again again again. So much of nothing to see.

Show me truth, beautifully.
Show yourself,
For being is beautiful.
The shadows of things I see: They are shadows of shadows to thee.
My dear love may you be
ever more in my mind
as my love.
Christ, I beg, set me and me free to see.
to see to see to see
the wonderful beautiful terrible beauty you and I and all in
we are.

The world is not but nothingness; may it pass on all the sooner.
May man who rules the pile dirt; may he slaughter himself in his vanity.
I don't care, I don't care, I don't dare.
for mankind is insanity.
It is truth we cannot find; we are limited so by our minds.

But oh how true in the light that you and I and all in
we are in your heart
forever eternally.
Let it be.

Oh to say it so dearly, It was a great show.
I stayed out and watched it for a good hour.
The wind had come out of some hidden pocket. Like a thief in the night,
it scurried out excitedly through the screen door flying shut behind it,
and looking at the stark line drawn across the horizon;
a wall of cloud with so distinct an edge of gray, and at the same time
so thin
as to see the shadow
blue sky on the other side.

It was just a sheet.
The wind like a blanket,
energy surged, and the blood pumped a little faster at it's touch.
Then leaves began swirling,
as if fleeing for cover around the legs.
sweeping over to the porch,
while the canvas of clouds pitched its ever looming tent.
On over to get a plain view of my street lamp,
watching the tree's now twisting like spaghetti;
branches twisting in ways you would expect to break them,
all with a humdrum pitter-patter of rogue raindrops,
accompanied by that shrill electric thickness...
that makes your skin simmer, your mind hum, and your eyes glow.

The light of the streetlamp showing all the rain more clearly,
and all at once coming like a horde en masse down a hill.
Someone had given the signal,
and so it began.
The floodgates were released.
The opera had begun in earnest, with it's effects and sounds, lights, action!
The foreplay had given way to the full force of wetness.

In the pith of the light it looked as though the lamp was now a fountain.
The lightning being so evenly dispersed, the sky like a screen to see a stroboscopic chaos, so serene.
The wind and rain so perfectly mixed,
so perfectly so to syphon off a single breath of mist upon the face.
I stood like a boy of six in a parade.
Enthralled by the power, the nonchalance, and the purity of might.
Humans and animals, cars and bicycles, birds and branches, all pulling a hasty retreat.

I watched and watched, and watched more, and never got bored, only a little damp.
I came in and went up to the bedroom above the porch and lay on my window cloud
and drowsily watched the show in a bubble, til the end.

Nothing lets me see so clearly like a good rain.
People who wish for sunshine everyday are idiots.

kikki obadoo bird in a
kikii obabdoo tree just
sitting there shooting the leaves,
mocking all the trees all up in the air,
no reason to run around town, and no reason to leave.
I'm amazed at it's song.
It has no burden or work to do. It does not toil or spin
and yet is clothed in that finest cloak. happy happy happy,
Like a second semester named sylvester the molester
there is so much I could do.

It's all a little fuzzy and I feel kinda dumb all of a sudden.
I just think I know, which is silly.
It's a good lesson in humility,
but since I am not
sufficient and you
are
please show me
what it is in your
word that I should know.
That we should show ourselves.
I love you God.
I love you with all I am.

Let the wordse flow, don't even care if hte spellin is right,
don't look back, not for a second.
Consume your own face today,
lean not on your own understanding
but on every mouth
from the word of God's divine understatement.
I love you so, oh I do, I must,
because nothing can inhibit my
love it flows free like a wave on the rocks
the tempest. You are to me
the unending sea
of love that pours
forth over the agony
I love to live in every day.
I am a wretch and my face is torn from stern to stem.
Where are you my darling? you are right here.
Give me not one look of nothing, give me only
bursts of something. I want from you one true thing, and that is meaning.
Do not tarry. Fill me with joy for this once in my life.
**** away all my depraved mad man mind, filled with irrational tribulational and hallucinational enemies
and ardent forms of torture.
Let me breathe for this once in my life.

I love you. I loven you. I lover you.
My passion should be locked away in a cage
it rages forth
like a lion in the sun
who knows no fear from
bird or snake or fowl fish or beast nor any set before it.
Let me trample you with love.
Give me no shred of pain for my deliverance has come.
Let me soak myself in your personassssssssLet me drink
to the depths of your mind.
Wash over me,
for I am unclean and thirsty, and so in-need of drowning.
give no second glance
at my scarred and writhing paws,
bound with thorns.
I am a creation of my own mind.
I am the uncircumcised bone tissue
that sits on the table and turns to dust
as the rains beat down with fury and rage.

Bleed me dry,
allow not a single trace of resistance from me,
take everything till I am nothing left at all.
Squeeze me into a shadow of what I once was,
for that is all I am.
A shadow,
give me life, give me shelter
within your soul,
let me hide away in your belly.
Do not force me out,
I am blind
and the world is soooooooooooo cold.
Do not let me detach from your face.
It brings me light like no other,
do not let me walk away in anger,
please for the love of God remind me that I love you.
That I know no happiness,
that cruelty has been my shadow,
that misery has followed me to the ends of the earth.
Show me again where my joy comes from.
Do not let me destroy myself by forsaking you.
I love, it is all I can do in such times.
I am trapped within myself.
Myself, and not you.

Lost in the memories she's given me;
though some feel more like they were taken,
and I still claim to be forsaken.
Still a broken tune without a harmony.

a bundled knot
a tree set to rot
numbness and void are the stilts I have walked over
this earth
on dusty dust and dusty rust: my crust.
No ability for me. I talk about myself too much I want to break away;
talk about you to you for you we will talk about you and you are you
you are more important than I or me...and even we.
so tired
tired of seeing me, being me, talking meish: the language of self.
Let it be!
see you, be near you, feel you have you hold you, be cast by and molded-mended to you. See you hear you know you show you, grow into you.

Watch you fly and cry and live and die by all your differences and wonderful beautiful strangenesses to learn.

I am suffocated by ego, and strangled by self.
Let me fly to something. One thing
that I know is not just more of me.
so tired...of me.

Andrew ate my tamales inside of 11 minutes,
and soon there will be more kerpustiuous ones ready to taste.
Watching ****** through three different windows; all broken at the moment.
Anyone have a sheet of blood to give to my mad mothers rage?
Let us copulate together for the glory of this fleeting age;
yet inside eleven minutes
the leaning waxy vomper mice shall dance upon my wig and deliver unto me an aching head.
So let me not,
no do not,
let me live
through this night so dark and shmear-ed upon this graven face.
Nay, let me live toward this learn-ed light with a hand to hold,
and away to learn your shining grace.

I am George the fisherman.
I have no use of my left foot.
The sky is dark; the air is cool,
and my good right shin
hurts from overuse.
I sleep in a hammock: stretched
between memories.
For I find myself hanging
from the one that is a second ago
and the one that is an eon ago
and they appear to be the same.
I say I sleep,
but really I just watch the night roll over me
as one point and the other converge
towards overlapping,
leaving me simply caught in a net.

I would use the force of mind to illustrate things.
To solve things, and to love things the way they should need to be loved by the air they breath.
I can't control the musings of my hairy body.
It ate my soul up and sprouted fleshy wings of blood and
and
and
hey.
I like you.
Don't let me talk too much and ***** this up.

I'm so tired O,
tell me a man would sleep
til dinner time.
Tell me a woman would sleep
til tea.
But I shan't be able to sleep
past the sunrise, no.
Not as long as the water is wet;
so long as it sits in the sea.
D'ud'r de amish kam ihkazee.
De darken'd cam-ami'zeen.
All running over the inset pain relieving incantations.
Through the traces of several places
as we crawl into the stove.
Half alive, half steryl
like the pages of a magazine.

why why why?
Only one in what seems like a desert of none
one face, one smile
still only a mirage, a muse.
It's been so long since my mind t’was drenched.
sympathy
why, so dry, am I to die?
I shall ever climb myself out of this sandpit;
but shall it ever escape me?
The winds ride over this land turning all I see to dust anyhow.
A mountain in the midst of my muse would not last.
It would be swallowed up by all this water.