a

knock

propels the eye
to see

what it could not see

in dreams.

the cave
is

deep.

some lifetimes
most lifetimes

cannot widen its mouth.

to step out
to stretch wide
to feel the grass
and the sand

leaves one
with no other option

but to use one's own feet

to stand.

the walls of support are gone.

I used
To be like that,

Someone that said,
****** if I don't
****** if I do,

I'm ****** all the way.

Then,

As I got closer
To an age
That had nothing to do with me
But
Biology and genetics,

I got conservative.

I forgot my initial youth

And I miss them
Everyday,
Only seeing them in flourishes
Of revelry

Where time, as it should be,
Is a non-issue and

Life

Takes precedent.

The letter
Rests
On the corner of the dining room table
Near the fruit bowl buzzing
With the occasional
Fruit fly stuck by a pin in the wall.

They leave it
There

As a mere reminder
Of who
Their son really was
Before their fall.

On May 3rd, 1987.
A sideways grin
Curled moonward
Toward a cloudless sky.

The doctor claimed
He was the most
Beautiful boy
They had ever seen.

Flattery
Was not something
The mother was
Accustomed to.

Liar, the mother thought.

The father
Fainted
At the sight
Of his wives
Ability, for
It made him
Think of his own mother
And how
They never saw
Eye to eye.

The father, he realized,
Had always been in the wrong.

The son
Allowed no fools
In his life.
He worked with his hands
Toiling land
For older men
That could no longer
Bear the heat of the sun,
The grit of the dirt,
The absence of comfort.

There is nothing better
In this life
But to be tested, the son believed.

The son killed his first man
On a dare
For a little cash.

A bad old friend
Dared him one-hundred dollars
The son wouldn't cut the throat
Of the boy
Who was cheating on the friend's girl.

For the son,
It was just another test.

The blood and the sounds
The dying boy made
Didn't bother him; it was the
Feeling of life slipping out of their body,
And how the son realized
One day,

That would be him
Tucked away in some cell
With little food
Little water

No family to say goodbye to
Or son of his own

To live on.

On the day
Of his execution,
He wrote his parents
A letter.

Mail it
After my death, the son
Asked the guard
Who's name
They had never learned.

It tells them
What I should have been,
What I could have been,
And where to find the proof."

The guard,
Being a guard,
Did what he was told.

They found
The son's manuscripts
In a hole
Under the bleacher's of
The football field
At his high school.

They told the story
Of his life,
Their lives,
And many lives that,
Unlike the son,

Would go on forever

As true words do.

I need the
Silence
A bit.

It's a good
Way to
See the fingers for once.

In the end,
That's all I am -

Right?

Fingers that listen to the rain
And nod to rain on my window
And the crying UFC behemoth
That ran out of testosterone and
My concept of wealth in America;

Of unity.

What separates us,
Is the dollar.

Solve that,

You solve the world.

In it
Rests the hours
Unearthed and
Move for what it is;

The purpose of action.

Memories then,
Without remorse,
And sad eye pharaohs
Whose logistics due not grant

Immortality.

That bet of action

However small,

Upon you or me or everyone -
Without remorse -

Does not grant

Eternity.

I worry
When he goes.

Then I remember

He left

Us so much

That tells me

To not

To not

To stay upon
The ship split into splinters

A day too fast

For there are others

Cold as the clay

Just not all the way.

I listen
To true lovers

Laugh

In the middle of the night
Through my thin walls
As dogs bark at ambulances
And the world
Braces itself for another burn;

And I

Suddenly believe

In

God again.

beer sonnets
and mis managed
bonnets

make sure
to ensure
my un-balanced

sobriety

my friends
they
say the same,
the same
old tune -

whats better than being drunk?

being dead drunk

morning for I
us; we

is a simple fact
of endurance.

ten hard-boiled eggs
and a boxing match
with an existentialist gaze

if one and one make oneself,
one can see
that the multitudes that we are
only together

is undeniable

as a boiler maker

at dawn

Lemonade Listerine
She says
Is the best thing to use
When trying to say,

I love you.

When were you
Milk is the same as bread
Sure you knew?
When it's you and you.

Stars, they know
I am you
What do they know?
I am you.

Songs of experience
A touched' river
One's who has said
And who has lied

To see is to see
Is to see

And never to preach

Or sell you down the river.

Imagine truth

For free.

Pressing forward
For no reason
But the smell of sulfur
Being too much
To take.

To retrieve
Is not the same
As to receive and
Is not the same as

To take
Day in n'
Day out.

Today I
Yesterday she
Tomorrow we
Two days and between Jupitar I will

Make certain.

Then,
There was the God's
Laughter who's spittle

At noon,
Were actually
The volcanoes eruption.

Man
This orange juice
I've never had it
Before like this.

Then,
I thought/We thought,
Watch who knows
The history
Of what we eat - where does
The foundation
Of routine originate?

What shape are we in?

And then,

Men and women fled
For no reason
Than their
Own
Revolution of autonomy.

At last,
They had a reason
To survive
For themselves.

I put the book down.
Imagine packing it in
Like that - true terror.
No, I was not simple,
I was down, so down,
Yet I hear the sound of
Someone, Something
Telling me I am here,
I'm here to stay.

Put pen to paper for
The

Martyr, with their nodding heads,
Hysteric,
Void of empath but,
Filled with Coca Cola.

I like it here,

It says.

I don't like it here yet
My name is your name
At the end

Of the day.

We all, in our way, are forced to agree.

Their body told them
To do what they did
Because that
Is what the body is supposed
To do - survive.

Have you held the flame to eye?
Sea song to ear?
Invalid barnacle cast in Childress savior?
Morning cloud star girl?

To flee the volcano
Is the heiress
Fleeing money.

To flee the dust of

To sense
The end
To foresee
The curling of one's toes
The death rattle in the lungs
The flutter of now fantastical memories
Soon to be spoken
On no tongue
Other than the one's you loved,

Is to be present,
Life in the presence
Of death.

When everything
Comes into focus
For the first and last time;

In the moments before
The after.

Those that make it
(Few do)
Clawed their way to the ocean.
Forearms, eyelids, nostrils were filled with ash
Yet realized

The next dawn.

I like
To think
Of the last time

I saw you.

You were

Someone else,

Weren't you?

You said you were.

At noonday sun
I could still see
The shade of the moons
Shadow
Drapes across the cold concrete
Of established law.

A scream sounded
And
Another and
Another.

No gunshots or
Riot police
Or anything like that.

That was reserved
For the people
Fighting for equality.

This was a different kind
Of sacrament.

Two days prior
Hesitation haunted
My daughter's voice.

"This is all too much for me."

I said goodnight
After telling her
Strength comes not
From fear
But how you endure and
Act in fear,

Transmuting it

Into love for one's that deserve
And earn it.

"You used to tell me bedtime stories," she joked.

"You used to be a little girl," I told her.

I did not tell her
There's no time for that

Now.

Well,
What's it time for then
Great layer
Of words?

Outrage.
Accountability.
Consequences.
Equality.
Progress.

Balance,

If there is such a thing.

Then, I thought of nature.
I saw rivers and rocks and
How the water moved over the rocks'
And how the birds sliced through the air
And when a seed dropped from their beaks
Eventually, a tree or a bush or some kind of something
Was born and from there new life new beginnings and so on
And so on and so on

And so on until us.

Harmony is an ignorant man's song

But ****

If it doesn't sound

Like Heaven and
Hell

Wrapped into one.

There's the dream,
They said
So all

Could hear.

I hear it.

You hear it.

We hear it.

Let's take it.

One second
One minute
Another minute
I promise and
That's it.

It's alright, I suppose.
I forgive you,
Until tomorrow,
Until tomorrow,

When I'll be more
And you'll be less

And we'll be the same

As

Yesterday.

I want to write

A poem

About the United States

But words

Will not match

My disappointment.

How did we get so helpless?

Maybe,

My anger will

Replace this feeling

Tomorrow.

Maybe the Tweet
Can become mightier

Than the bill?

America,
The land of
The maybe baby’s.

One more day one more week
One more check.

A mere series of prophecies
To keep our eyes
Off of thee

Until the time comes around
When they’ll have
Something new to offer me.

It's a soft mistake and
And a mismanaged moment
To say

You Were the last
Of my degree.

I took a soft
sapphire
And made it mine and
There was
Your nose
Who I needed to kiss
To keep
Divine

I have fun,
I make-believe,
I think,

Before I see.

I turned over a stone
And found inevitable wet dirt.
There were the mark of worms
And their bodies,
Presenting themselves to
Eyes, as of late,
Having a hard time to see.

I turned to face the river
And the river snaked down
The trail toward the houses
Filled with people, families,
Hopefully love. My finger
Rose on its own. I did not
Deny it's autonomy. The tip
Traced the path of the river
As if my finger were creating it
Out of thin air.

I turned ahead
And saw the path
I had walked
Many times. It reminded me
Of yesterday and the many days
Before: the constants; the abnormalities;
The changes in my life; the lack of
Change in nature.

I dropped my hand
Or my hand dropped me
Or neither.

I turned my body
And began back up the hill.
The sun had dried the dirt.
The birds sang to one another.
I felt lucky
To overhear their joy,
Their sorrow, their hope
In the present and tomorrow.

At the road, the hard surface of the asphalt
Told me I was back in my world.
I was back home, yet, it did not
Feel right.

I was far from welcome
And I didn't know
How to return
Or if

I even wanted to.

Some days
Time stands still
And you with it.

No task, no accomplishment, no satisfaction
Can propel you forward,
Though forward,
Is where you will go unless,

Well, you know.

Fulfillment, oh' another word for a shot of dopamine,
Another quarter conquered, another dollar earned, saved,
And spent.

Satisfaction is a dead-end dead man's game.

Revelry is in discovery.

That is where the spring is.
That is where the sun

Is always rising,

Only ever setting

When you do.

Words passed
That I and We
Baked
Make-believe
That never said enough.

I have a dollar.
Do you want it?
Ok.

The ocean doesn't.
The wind neither.
The ocean;

There's no convincing her.

That's it.

That is all.

Let's go about our sad inevitable business.

I make-believe (usage in action)
To imagine
Myself more than I
Presently am.

Who does this,
But you, I, and we?

I watched the ducks when I was young.
My stout Abuela,
Shaped like a Hershey's kiss
On the precipice of melting
In the noonday sun.
(Often we would skip classes
To exist, in my eyes
In a time outside of academia's restrictions)
They moved
Without trepidation or question.

Never once,
Did they have to imagine
Themselves greater
To perform
The act of seeing the bread,
Seeking the bread,
And eating it.

To make-believe is to
Project
The act on a vehicle
Toward greatness; something greater
Than oneself.

The catch, at least
In debates of happiness,
One hopes, when one reaches said destination,
Fulfillment resides.

Does it?

Or is happiness in the act
Of progress?

I am no sculptor
But untouched marble possesses an aura of hope
Versus the finished product;
An object of tourism and eventually
Falsely defined goals.

As Rimbaud spoke of arrow strings
Pulled back deep in the pools of mysticism,
I make-believe
I know
What the hell that gun runner meant,
Or what,
That hellion was feeling.

To inspire
Is to spur
Evolution.

In that sense
Is not all art
A variation of God, no,

Mother Nature?

I like to think so.

I hope so.

I believe until

Tomorrow.

A stone
Was turned
And
Is turned

To find food,

To create space to build,

Or used to ****.

Progress only leads
To more of the above.

Forget humanitarianism.

I started reading the
Treaty on Principles Governing the Activities of States in the Exploration and Use of Outer Space, including the Moon and Other Celestial Bodies and realized

We're just going to keep on doing this.

We are cursed
Variations
Of Cain's.

How long will we fight to prove
Our sacrifice
Is greater
Then all the others?

Funny how humankind
Muddies reasons for survival
For their true reason
For being

And

Unbeing.

I expect nothing
From myself
But happiness in the face of

The floodgates
Of our genealogy
That has no lock
Or key
Or God behind the peephole.

To be alone
Truly alone

And at peace

Is one's own masterpiece.

They used to reveal nothing to us.

It used to be
Leaves from trees to the public ground
Whose internal lines
Showed what they ate when
They weren't hungry.

And
When they saw that movie and;
It's ok,
Nevermind,
Let's guess about it.

No one ever said,
Let's not.

Maybe one
Opened up their love lives:

I was with him
I was with her
We were together
Through this night and
We made it
Until we no longer could.

Then,
Fabrications of myths moved on top of each other
Like late-night projections
Pushing pushing pushing
toward Nothing the world
THE WORLD

couldn't bring on its own.

I feel bad for movie stars.
I feel bad for pop stars.
I feel bad for fame because the ego
And myth has
Nothing to do with empathy.

To provide
Is never to feel
Fully.

To provide and step away
Is to say,

I am here
Currently,

But my grass
Grows
And dies

On another side.

We got there in the early afternoon
By a car low on gas and a bad back right wheel.
It was Thanksgiving, and I wrote.
My name down on the back of a Whole Foods receipt
Because I was having trouble remembering the
Double-clap and the lazy double L.

I have been trying to read more poetry.
And yet
My stanzas
Still come out like that.

The royal, we appreciate the energy.

There was my grandma's newly painted house.
There was my father, and I's grifted palm tree.
There were my uncle's five cars.
All parked on the ****-filled crack and mild sidewalk.
There was the sound of the neighborhood dogs.
All fighting for the honor of their owners
Who only really loved one-fourth of them.

I started to cry after I put the car in park.
I was terrified. This shocked her because I was one.
To only cry when I was really drunk.

"Are you really drunk?" she asked me, patting me on my back as if I was choking.

"I feel I'm saying hello and goodbye at the same time," I said.

Then I opened the door and said, of course not, not yet.

The gate was creaky, and the young black dog.
Was excited
Like they always were.
The one white one, the one my uncle got took from my neighbor,
Just stared at me with the absence of something.
That knew they wanted to love
But didn't know how to ask or even receive it.

My grandma wrapped up because of the wind.
She was all smiles as she talked about being ready to die.

Being forced to be outside in nature
Is not always pleasant, especially when the alternative
Is killing from an accidental posture.

I had two beers for the price of one.
And listened to bird sounds on Youtube.
That my uncle explained brought tropical birds:

"The really fancy ones," he explained.

Then he pointed to a dead pigeon a hawk
Had left the day before
And stripped me of my Esquire magazine perspective.
Of fancy
And recalled where the hell I came from.

For some reason,
I brought up Veterans Day.
A ripple of guilt
Snaked over the glass patio table,
Over the leek and chive stuffing,
The Pilsner beer,
The homemade cranberry sauce,
The too-thick gravy and the burnt turkey, only to land
On my uncle's ears, who said:

"Dad always told me, When I'm dead boy
You go and **** on my grave! Man like me
Needs a shower whatever way he can get!"

I nodded as she winced, and grandma said nothing.
My dad was inside cooking as usual.
One of the dogs, the young small black one
Excitedly mounted the brain dead white one
And ****** and ****** until the black one realized
He wasn't ready for physical love.

An anecdote spilled out of my mouth
About how I traveled to Normandy and saw
Art of the boats and the men and he, my grandpa,
That drove on D-Day.

My tale fell on deaf ears.

"Yeah, I went to Dad's grave," my uncle said. "And I beheaded him and skinned him as he asked. The man had a lot of requests."

"No, he didn't," Grandma insisted. "He no do that."

"I put a new skin on him," my uncle assured her. "Ain't going to leave my man skinless."

We had bad pie and left ten minutes after.
We didn't hug, so don't ask.
As we waved goodbye, I noticed a smudge of food.
On my dad's bulbous gut.
He had been very excited about his new couch.

"It takes up the whole living room! You and your sister can sleep in every corner of the thing and not touch feet!"

I did not cry as I pulled into the street but
I wept at home
In the shower
Scrubbing away the off-chance or the possibility or the
What-if-I-did-this of that

Family-packed afternoon.

They take themselves
To the twist in the road.

On the other side
Of the twist
Underneath the nihilistic sun,
Beneath the unintrigued ground,
Stands their family.

Science grins and tells them to make belief
Out of nothing;
For love and for sentimental reason
Is the trickery of comfort and
Of death.

They hesitate
For they have brains,
Not in the intellectual sense
But in the primitive.

The snake
The lion
The river's rapids
The mountains thin air
The snows cold snap
Knowing full well what it was after
Told them - hesitation is survival.

Instead, they stay inside.
They stare at walls and discuss.

Genetic engineering with deaf ears
And phosphorous golden sunlight
Bleeding through need-to-be-dusty windows
In the morning, the afternoon, at dusk, and at night.

They dance alone.
Forces that be - natural and not -
Have instilled a trigger
In them they dare not risk snap.

Now, they think, is now the time to rebel?
Against what?
Against who?
Against everything for the sake of freedom
Or life
For the sake of everything that is freedom?

A scream of hysterical hopelessness
Eludes a million and some ears.

This will be our great reckoning
And no,
The water will not recede.
There are too many dams
Already in place.

The thought of natural thought,
Now up for debate,

Merely shows

They were never at the fork in the road

In the first place.

Before its too late
Tie the bow on the Christmas
Present
And see about the back gate.

We're getting old
As we're getting young
And we know
Every song today
Will not be
A song sung.

Before its too late
Tell grandma
She convinced you
Love wasn't real.
Wasn't her fault son. It was theirs and
Their far off war with no guarantee
For sovereignty.

Before its too late
Whisper nothings at nothing
And play tricks on the dark
For once.
Make believe with belief
Because they're always telling us
What to hope for
As if they know the future.

Before its too late
Make the bed and fluff the pillow;
Do the dishes twice as the time tells mice
Whiskers and forever tweakers;
Sweep the floors forever
So we as one and neither
Can skip marry lou to a lost forest
For two plus two.

Before its too late
Learn guitar and how to howl.
It's midnight yesterday
And you should know how to do
How to do by two day from today.
We are our own trials and failures, and yet
We are still so beautiful.

Before its too late,
Strive to writhe with the struggle of the poem.
Dragonflies dance between
The consonants of madmen and madwoman
Whose muses know no patience
Or constructs of etiquette.
They come barefoot and naked or robed
And cast in the moonlight when they want
As they want for whatever they want; pirates
Of lore and violence.

Before its too late,
Do not fear.

Before its too late,
Adventure.

Before its too late,
Drink from the fountain and
Smile at strangers and
Shake your fists and their cousin moon and sky.
Break loose for thy noose
Is held by no other hand

But thine own.

There is the night,
There is the day.

I used
To know
The difference.

The difference
Used me,
Now I know.

Time
Tells
Me
I exist
But
Not how to exist
Within
It.

For time is it,
A linear construct
Of undeniable
A to B.

I have no exclamation
Of exhaustion or annoyance.

I am not young,
So I know,
No one is listening
Besides me.

Perchance perspective
In Missoula or perhaps
Somewhere in ancient Greece
Where the sounds still permeate
Within the rubble

(I can hear it)

Will turn the sphere
As it were.

I see the night
I see the day
I see

So I must believe

Or go

Utterly mad

In conspiracy.

Poem

They told me
In gray linings
Of their offering
Of context.

Sorry,
I'm just badgering
Context
To fight form
Which I
Have no rightful say in.

I'm just shouting
To shout
Because I learned today
Sound
Makes sense
Of chaos.

I'll send you the link.

Chladni Figures.

Look it up.

We are but vibrations
Melded
With consciousness
Held together
By feigned morality.

Anyways,

If sound
Rounds
My ears
To the ground

Then peace
Is peace
And peace

Is peace

We will act accordingly.

It's always a cruel reminder
That we stir
By

Our own ***

And not

The other way around.

Very little
Not enough

Each speck
Of thought

Is
Forgotten

To conjure
Is to reveal
One's mind
In steal

I take
From myself
But
Myself
Is someone else

Here I am
Shaking hands
There I was
At the door
If I am
And I was
Am I obligated
To be

Furthermore

Tell me, why?

For what or for whom?

Creation is by
One ring a shackle
By another

An heirloom.

So much
Yet
Not enough

I press
The same
Dirt
From the same
Foot

The ocean does not know my name but,
I still love it
I still respect and fear it
I still feel as if

I know it

Like they did
Like they all did

I wish
I could just
Say hello,

How's the weather today?

Not bad.

How about you?

I read one night about the ancient Greeks
And their ways
Of getting in touch
With the touch of Gods;

A God's touch.

Ethylene scientists believed,
Or
Deduced or
Gathered or
Came to the conclusion of.

Whatever it was,
It was official.

And I believed them.
It was in the text.
If it's not in a book, what is it in?
A book is a sole tome
Of resistance. It holds
Scattered souls wrapped in
Undefinable, unbreakable truth.

Granted, it may sound like
Scaled fish on a bridge in the
Middle-Madness of Summer
(Underpants stuck to the Legs
And Your Breath Smelling like
The ***** of ***** Feet)
But the book, as it always will,
Will survive.

The book burns
At the same degree
Of the human spirit -

No degree.

Survival, for better or worse,
Is in our
Biology.

If there is no tomorrow,
There is no today.

I saw the Greeks in my fine book that day.
They showed me an ancient woman
Huffing great huffs from Mother Earth
To see a vision of Her birth, not His.

He stole Her offering
And I will never forgive him.

And come at me with didactic
Beginnings and etymology of creation.
It's just like a man
To want to possess
Rather than claim the rightful heir

To no one or nothing.

I read one night about the stones
Those women
Slept on to become
The guides of scared men
Lustful for power

But too lazy
To suffer for it

How far we've come, I said
To the stars
Who I had no hand

In ever teaching

How to shine.

you take a seat
to a beat

that you think
means
more than

you or me

you take a sip
of recoiled water
imagining
yourself saved
from today's

squalor and misery

I love mankind
I love time
I love mankind

they see pain
as something
on a linear line
just like they see TV

Observe ye' clouds
Touch your sand
It has gone nowhere
Elsewhere
Nowhere
Here now

Inevitable is a state of time
No man
In the wake of nature
Has no say

Or plea of innocent crime.

Remember,

We are guests,

Guests,

In a land that laughs at our tumbling

Our rumbling,

At our care free ways.

Note
Cain:

How many hours did they laugh together,
Than naught?

Forget this thought.

A round
Square.

A beauticians supply.

A single Crayola
Of no color
But friendship as it fades.

Sleep means Sleep
Where forfeiting
The Plague o' Plague

Let us not think
Of our

Mortality.

I listen to the fire
And the see
The blindness of man.

An eagle in free fall fornicating
Has more sense
Than we.

The most intelligent beings on earth
Without instinct.

Here we are,
Rings
Of a chain

Of a machine
Of a machine
Of a machine

We are too distracted

To see.

*

Light is the greatest provider of hope
And

Hopeless dread.

To fail is to live another day

If one chooses.

Remember the dolphin.

They've always had a choice and,
They're still here.

the path today was
as its always been:

stone-spattered; dew-laden; voluptuous with
vultures and vermin and red foxes.

there were rocks in the shapes of hands
reaching out to the Pacific
in yearning or mourning or both
or neither.

maybe they were reaching
for nothing;
desiring nothing but to desire - no end game.

the path today was
as its always been:

a path to take and to admire.
the Pacific and its entrails, its beating blood and
its ***** hair lining walls of granite
that seemingly stretch north and south forever,
remind me of a universal reminder:

we are but guests here,
guests, in every end,

that should admire.

forgetting the nod of seals
the wave of kelp
the caress of fog and wind
the cajoling reeds in spin,
is to forfeit's one's present body's satisfaction.

the path today
was as its always been:

made of strangers and lovers,
brothers and kin.

I miss their noncommittal glances and their suspicion of me.
to be feared, in some way,
is to be recognized

of one's awful humanity.

then I think of their ankles
pressed against leather and grain
in pain; their breath bereft
of comfort - only starlight.

we are our ancestor's daydreams
wonderous fabrications of projections
too wild to materialize presently.

the path today was as it's always been.
the path today

was for them and

for nobody.

Pulled we
Were,

This way
And
Maybe that.

Here was
My hand,
A totem
Of your perceived
Perfection.

I always hated my nails
But,
You loved them,
Painted them,
Said they were shaped
Like your favorite cycle of the moon.

At noon
We made lemonade
With grenades
Of *****

To celebrate...

What?

To celebrate.

Look me in the eye.

We can
As you and I and we,
Celebrate,

Exempt from past, present, and future.

The moment allows it.
Will we?

We will.

Words alleviate
Pursue
Haunt and guide.

They are tangible and
Intangible.

I speak
But you do not see.

You feel.

Words are our souls symphony.
Words are our minds malfeasance.
Words are our bodies mortality
Bending at no other will but
Our own resistance to resistance.

Feel the wall
To see the wall

Our words
Are our

Jackhammers.

Make believe with me
Neath’ the broken glass sky
Tangerine sanguine wish lists
Conjured from cracked concretes
Day dream and miss managed love notes

Make believe with me
Atop two buck Chuck rivers
Surrounded by
Amorphous mountain ranges
Sniff snail trails believed to exist
Only in the blink
Of small, affable children
Whose minds never bend,
Even after their death

Make believe with me
Tangled in torment
Amidst the telling dunes of no time
Oasis’s of rolling oatmeal and
Blind falcons that desire no forearm
Flying only to fly to survive for
Survival, as belief, as love,
Is one of few true desires.

Make believe with me
In the spaces of no space
Where the absence of self
Is nirvana
Where every sense is no sense
And I is you and you we
And nobody

Meet me there
And
Make believe

Let’s dance with eternity

The narcissism of the man
Matches
With capitalism's inherent flex
To ununified progression
Towards policy.

Will, will have us
Roaming around universes
Battling toward star weary angels
Indifferent
To our $40 dollar lives
That is worth more on the line
Then on the dime.

Ideals were a human thing.

Imagine,
We go out
Full of vigor and pride,

Only to be

Immediately forgotten

Once the stardust -

The stuff we are made of! -

Is sold to the higher bidder

(this was a human (English) translation)

She said
She couldn't
Live without
Love

And I asked her about
Chick Web
And she said
Chickens and spiders never mingled
And I asked,

Coffee?

The waitress spoke French so
We got the wrong order
So instead of pancakes and bananas
We watched wasps stab each other
Stab each other until I felt
Something - something I felt I thought they felt -
That was cathartic, yet I was not purged for I - naive -
Knew not the extinct of my ancient illness of existence.

She said she heard Nina Simone.
I suggested to her Montreux.
She told me, stop mansplaining.
I said it was only a suggestion.

She said, I know. Exactly. Do you see the light up there?

No, I said.

Exactly, she said.

Be it this
Horror
I hold around my
Waist

Or that
Pleasure
That I hold around my
Heart

Proves pain
And pleasure
Are nothing but
Reminders

Of life
Of life
And its measures
Of propensity

If pain
Or pleasure sways
Rather
Than guide
To one's own discovery

We will be but mechanisms
Of mechanisms
Of mechanisms

Who hath no name.

Morning brought no diagnosis to the diagonal precision of the perspective in a multitude
In turn, I took the turn, and another, until I was with myself
Hello. Yes. Myself, my, I am here.
Let me be for a moment, without thought for the future.
There was a sound down the road.
My mother called my name.
That was not it.
Pressing my palm to languid concrete I foresaw the absence of my love for a country that would never - could never - love me.
Why.
Money loves money for money, not for the money getters heart.
I thought of Prague and when life was that much rawer.
Imagine life relived and simply seeking it without the jaded veal.
Gaze into the river.
Gaze into the sea.
It roars and laps without ego - solely action.
History is nothing but man's time, man's order, man's anxiety

To prove life - thus worth it.

Nature needs no validation.

Is is Is.

The romance of rotations night
Is in
It's indifference

I feast on the stars sovereignty

Wanting only to idolize

And to one day

Mimic.

It's a prism
A lost chasm
Of where words ever mattered
And matter
Was nothing but words.

Far before booked -

An escalation.

it turns into a state of

let me see

Let me see

let me see

and there we are.

There, we are.

Goodnight.

I make my way to the river
It's nightish noon
I've stopped crying over the way
You told me
I told me to be so

I make believe stars
And far between
Make-believe dreams

Nighttime
I take the notes
Of our loss
And make a song of gain

I love you
And I love you
But I don't mind you much

When the sand
Turns the

Storm

When the fade of creation holds you,
Make sure
To keep on typing.

Good morning.
Hello.
Take the cup of coffee or
Don't.
You're still holding your pillow.
That's ok.

Type through the past;
The wet bean and special.

Alphabetize the best to worst and
Of the Yes.

See yourself.

See yourself
Before yourself, making sure
The mysticism can be pocketed
And saved for later.

Pump some vibration into yourself.
The weird kind in the wrong hole.
The right kind in the weird.
In contradiction, we find friction and thus
Progress.

Eat a ham sandwich with double mayonnaise.
Talk to your most feared 5th best friend in town.
Hold your hands, look left, make sure the shoelaces
Are tied right.

I'm here. You're here. Don't fret.

It's a mug's game.

How are you so more unique than me?

We take a tool and you make it mine.
I take a tool and you use it.
We agree to disagree then,
We fall in love.

Oh'

I make mine
You make mine

To

Live this life

Live this life


Our lives.

I make love laugh
And
Sickness
Sad

Push e
And I'm here
Outside yourself with you though

That the last fear
Was a hidden

Sea
of
See's

That are
With me
With me
With

Me

Through the tolling rake

As long as you don't care as much about me
As I do about

You.

And still,

We Search, with or without you.

Always with you.

I've been coming here
For so long

Something like
10 years

There is a lot of
Life here.

My life at least.

I see it
I praise it
I see time
Pass through
The white spaces
Of every word

In love.

What was
Was

And what happened
Was meant to be

For no one

But you and me.

I hate eyes
I hate

You

And
I hate I need to show you
What I do

To reciprocate

Financials.

Imagine

All the dead
All the dead
In the love
That could never
Show you
They meant a **** and then

They died alone.

Imagine that,
Imagine what you did
To them to prove

The worth

Of a Dollar.

They'll never dance again
They'll never dance
As they
Hoped
Again.

We are in a state of
No more of this.

Of nothing left and then we said -

OK.

Goodnight.
Let it be.

Imagine resisting your brother
Your sister
When they want to **** you

For legacy
For notoriety
For continuation

For

For

For just one more note
In an orchestra

Of the misremembered.

No one ever cared for me
But I
Never cared much
For them

We are all the second guesses
Of a God

That They

Never wanted
Much for me but they came
And I was there
And I said,

You were there
I was there
So you were there

And I'm tired
Of all these validations.

Everyone's a stand up comedian
When the
                  Joke is life.

Life
Is for you

And naught

For them.

One day
We will all die

Of spray tan
Asphyxiation and
Too much lost love.

Until then,
Let's chat.

However, you would like it.

We could
Send digital blood or
Mis-diagnosed retina or
Maybe an error or
Intention followed up by
Treason of a reason

Of the basis of the

American psychic/moral reality.

Melville knew
Ahab needed to ****
Mocha yet,
Who is/What is
Ahab to die void
Of action,
Absent of momentum of
Projected

Self-realization?

My iron is hot
For a shirt

But all I have
Is an egg

That is already cooked.

What is
The origin
Of art?

Is it
Resistance?

Is it
Betrayal?

Is it
The last nickel
At the bottom
Of the pond
Stolen
By your best friend
For a

Last piece of bread?

I love you.
I always have.
Not but
Or and,
Or hard stop.

A star is a star
But we

Oh' holy we'

Are not made of stardust,

Not made of this and that;

We sell each other down the river

Then lay down sheet by sheet

In righteous shiver.

Contradiction;

Abstraction;

A lost of attraction
With no attrition,
Never chasing

What I think of

Perfection.

A sunset dog bark daylight
I'm happy We're Sad They're
The last place We feel safe
Can you believe

The shirt is not the sleeve.

I hit my hands
I hate my hands
They're there
They're
They are there
For me for you
For our for our cement for
Our Press for our Mothers
For our Brothers

For our our our our long lost words

Who forgot the power of

Words side by side Brawn

This

Has all happened

Before.

I love you.

I've loved you.

See me
Before

The after and

Before,

Where the sun and moon and stars
Already
Don't know your name
But ask you

Cream or rain.

I'm afraid of you,

Thus,

I'm afraid

Of me.

An old drunk
Walks up to
A new drunk

You know what?
The old drunk asks.

What?
The new drunk replies
From the side
Of his mouth
Not paying much attention.

Rimbaud,
The old drunk says.

The new drunk
Stands, cracks his knuckles,
And shoves
The old drunk
Back a few steps.

The new drunk kicks his shins and
Calls him names
He's always been called.
They still sting.
There's a spit
In every eye followed up
By a curse
That will last far past
Either of their lifetimes.

The old drunk,
Bloodied by words
And stupid starlight,
Manages to say,

Thank you, son.
I needed that
To remember.

Every forgotten
Tune
Was once
A mighty song.

Tragic how the human melody
Can so easily
Turn into
An orchestra of pain.

It is what happens
When
Truth to power
Power to truth skews.

Respect for all people
Is the only way path
To equality.

Maybe,
With hope,
With vigilant drive and
Unrelenting empathy,

Every
Lost Song

In America

Can be rediscovered and born anew.

So why
In this ongoing search
For this song is there

Treason?
Gas?
Blood on blood?

Why the broken eyes?
The cracked ribs?
The lost lives?

The spirits of the people
You fight so hard
To dispossess and scare
Still hear the song.

They will not stop fighting
To hear it.

There is no amount of force
Or violence
On Earth to mute
Such a cacophony of care.

What are they so afraid of hearing?

The song of the fighting free

Or

Their lack of one?