Sitting alone in a whirlwind
Black center and hail pellets
Scattered platters of food
Drowned out conversations,
mumbled spit up

Can't calm the angered nature
of broken class in a sheepish world
Twelve days until the broken
symphony sings in front of a
          tidal wave

Twenty four hours until yesterday
Spin cycle repeats deceit
What more is there than then?
When everything stops spinning
and the wind eats karma
for breakfast with Mother Nature
on Sunday morning.

Night #1
Around the dinner table crickets directed a noiseless choir
It's all full of emotion
But I don't know how to
Define a face full of
earthquake expressions
When the stars play guitar
with three broken strings
it sounds like musical genius,
and the grass is waving to it.

"Dude, the moon's coming out now,"
I hear from the crowd.
The autumn brown leaf outside the window
turns green in amazement
And then it swallows the sky whole.

Night #2
I don't even feel my drunkness, I just feel the
highness and euphoria.
I wonder who sees Orion with me tonight.
The triple XXXs behind the drummer and
ringing tambourines scream with
guitar picks and microphones
and I think I know this euphoria is more
powerful than the whisky in my right hand.
I'm the king of upside down guitars that read
"DEATHBOT," and the "B" is backwards
and I don't give a ****.

Night #3
Arnold Palmer and coconut juice
A pair of glasses and a sight that's obtuse
I don't need to see straight
like a wave in the ocean that capsizes at night
And I roll up a joint that is beyond precise.

I am sure, it might be midnight somewhere
Sun long gone to where I'll never know
Moons sing songs while rivers flow
Gashing and sifting between rocks
Crashing with utter silence
Everything breaks apart
Leaving scars in the heart
That can only be healed by being apart
We are together only at the start
But in the end the storm is going to tear us apart
Soon the storm will pass and I will love again
Looking toward the horizon
I took a deep, long breath
And dove into the water
Sinking slowly, deep into the blue
Elephant, which means the dream was about to come true
And then something amazing happened
Something I could have never imagined.
Pains me to think of the money I will never see.
Awash in the blue, I am losing my mind
Mind of a squirrel going nuts
Scampered down the street, needing more food
But he couldn't find any so he went home and got high
Lost his thoughts and began to cry.

Walking on pebbles
turning them to
grains of sand
An angelic finger
points to me
from the sky
pinching my skin
with dull nails
I point back
and close my eyes
feel the shoreline
and get goosebumps.

I remember cuddling
in your arms
the whole night
my ninth birthday
my ear infected
with painful fluid
I watched the clock
with your eyes
wincing in pain
But your words,
colored with comfort,
turned my focus
"I want to stay
up past midnight
with you mommy."
"It's your birthday,
stay by me
and don't worry."

Today, I remember
that night with
flowers of vivid silence
and a diamond bouquet,
filled with nine geraniums
to be exact,
for all the birthdays
that I've spent
without an ear infection
or an angelic voice
to comfort me
But I still
feel your arms
and their warmth
around my chest
like a kangaroo
pouch in the desert.

This is your day
Pour a margarita
Let's have a toast
for your wings
of holy wisdom
that help keep
my feet afloat.

There lies a single dugout hole
In the middle of a vast field
Encompassed by a three-sided rock fence.
The hole is not big by any means,
No more than three feet in diameter.
However, it is notably deep
Deeper than any hole ever dug.

Once a week a strange man would walk
A dirt trail that leads straight to the hole.
He carried nothing but a shovel
And a head on his shoulders.
For as long as I could remember
This man climbed into the hole with his shovel
And the ensuing hours would lull on by
With every ***** full of dirt that turned to dust.

On occasion I would find myself watching.
Just staring out my window on my couch
Excogitating as to why he has been doing this.
Nobody owned the land he excavated
So he was never stopped or questioned.
Sometimes I tried to conjure the courage
To go out and question him
But I’d grown up believing the field was wraithlike.
There are a myriad of stories and myths.
Some said he was searching for something
Some said he was burying corpses
And scattering their limbs as he dug.
Some people even said he isn’t human
And he was just seeking a way home.

Biting my tongue, I couldn’t take it anymore
Without even a first thought
I decided to get up and trot to his hole.
I trotted to his hole and found his soul striking.
His weary appearance sent my eyes
Spinning senselessly like a slot machine.
Any man who spends his life digging
Doesn’t have the most particularly pleasing look,
But this man looked a bit older, lean, and forlorn.
His hands colorlessly cracked like paint on a wood pillar.
Skin so white, it was like he was cloaked in calluses.
Like I could pinch his epidermis
And it would feel like the iron of a furnace.
I took a quick glance at the entirety of his face,
His face looked ridden with defeat.
Then my eyes made way to his
I gazed into them and sensed confusion.
I saw a maze and a meandering man.
Trying not to make my look of shock evident
I finally asked him if he’d come out.
He kindly obliged and climbed on out.

“Just a single, simple question is what I have.”
“Go ahead and ask, I won’t be mad.”
“What are you doing digging this hole?”
“It’s simple, I’m enshrouding my emotions.”

Several weeks pass; I have not seen this man.
I’ve been contorting my brain in knots
Trying to comprehend his answer.
I just wanted to see him again to ask why.
Finally I decided to make one more trip out there
And followed the single dirt path to the hole
Only to find the hole had been filled, and a sign.
It simply read: “Don’t bury your emotions
They’ll eventually cave in on you.”

Shine, like the sunrise
greeting the mountainside.
A diamond ring, long lost
beneath beds of snowflakes,
suffocates.
Cold feet abandoned it.

I'm plagued by nimble,
yet fragile, greed;
insatiable.

I traverse and stumble
and stumble and stumble
through a dense mist.
Frozen portraits, precise, turned corpses
litter my focals.
Blurred vision excites
the hibernating nerves
in my numb fingertips.

I blow
into them.
Coarse skin grasps
my cracked pale lips.

I clear my lenses,
steal my senses
and ask for the moon
to cradle me in
its dusty gray craters
while I look for
a fool's broken vows.

Winding roads and one-way traffic
Heading to a poetry reading,
rounding every turn
like a metaphor
emerges from a idea.
Passing  headlights
squinted eyelids,
Ditchweed on the roadsides
lay flat and brown
on icelandic mudbeds.
Driving through a bare, tree-lit tunnel,
a library smiles off in the distance.
                            ---
Standing behind a podium
ready to send my words off
to sneak into a listener's mind
like a Trojan Horse,
let them deploy an army of sword-less warriors
ready for action.
A perpendicular sequence of events
reveal new paths on an old map.
On the road again,
back home,
the sunrise in my rearview mirror
reaches my imagination.

Your beauty is contagious
and I’m allergic to it.
Your presence makes my eyes water
and heart race faster.
Almost as fast as
the wind racing
in the eye of a hurricane.
My throat swells up
to a point where
I can barely speak.
My head starts spinning
clockwise and counterclockwise.
Simultaneously.
I’m barely aware
of my surroundings.
The sound of your voice
splits the tiny hairs
of my earlobe.
Accented with a sexiness
I could listen to
all day long,
intently and uninterrupted.
Even after I wipe the water
from the bottom lids
of my eyes
I still find your beauty
difficult to look at for too long.
Like it can only be taken
in small dosages,
otherwise the effect is too strong.
Allergies are unpleasant
to deal with,
but the reaction I draw
from your contagion
is worth the side effects.

It's not illegal to sprinkle lemon juice
in a healing wound, but it's not recommended.

The clatter of silverware rattles the piercings
of a tattooed barista battling a vexatious morning.

Iced caramel lattes, incarcerated by
serrated coffee beans, sleep alone at night.

A half-empty cup of 2% screams at a
of glass skim milk for acting obnoxiously drunk.

One squirrel scorns another for
stealing its spiked acorns last fall.

A lonely poem twists and turns
through disappointing images of life.

At the end of the road there's a mirror
reflecting an absent feeling of satisfaction.

I want to fly
I want to fly like a kite in the sky
where the sun shines bright
and the moon comes out at night.
I want feel the brisk air breeze
past the tips of my wings as I glide
over a forest full of autumn leaf.
Or an ice cap with the slightest layer
of snow that swirls like a hurricane
with the wind that blows.
Even a barren desert where the dunes
resemble a ripple the emanates
from stepping into a puddle.

I want to fly
Like a lone dandelion seed that
drifts like that of the oceans and seas,
any direction it may so please.
Or an angel above the clouds
where everything shines, simply
because the view is beautiful.
Because beauty is in the eye
of the beholder, who can create
a scene of anything to be seen.

I want to fly
Because flying is what freedom
feels like, and there is no better feeling
than that of feeling free.
Where the rarity of life can never be
overlooked, and you can understand
just what it means to live
And the only obstacle you could face
is the one most people allow
to break their wings, yourself.

I want to fly
Because I want to see everything
that this world has to offer, and
there is nothing to obstruct my vision.
Like peeking into a kaleidoscope,
except everything that you see
is a colorful, new opportunity
To make this world a better place
as it revolves around the sun annually
and ages ever so slightly.

I want to fly
Because these days everyone walks and
I would say that over time it has
become rather mundane.

Guns today run the way we walk the street
Creating a quandary amongst The Den
Tragedy strikes and laws ought be condemned
Twenty-six innocent dead off their feet
A pool of tears puddle from the weep.
The hands of a ****** is where it stemmed
Creating anguish amidst our friends
Hearts of the victims appear to be beat.

A dispute out of view for umpteen years
Is now at our doorsteps like entry mats
Guns wearing make-up are costing a price
Beautifying what is really a rat
Quite frankly the picture is not quite clear
Guns without make-up can justly suffice.

My wasted memory
is messing with me.
A memory where
I was left
hanging threaded
through a needle
I found in a haystack.

My past showed up and
she sent my thoughts into
a vortex of uneasiness.

I tried to reconcile
with that memory,
but it wasn’t as
rectifying as I had hoped.

Chaos surrounds the calm realm
I store the memory—waiting for
its chance to erupt and
resurrect what I wished would stay
dead.

It’s a wasted memory
for a reason—
I want it to stay that way.

She comes off as rude
and makes it obvious—
the only time she ever
makes her intentions known.

She took advantage of
my vulnerability
and left me sunk
as lost treasure.

I need to learn
to see some things
for what they are sometimes,
and that sometimes
a memory is just a memory.

I’m wasted, it’s wasted;
give me a double shot
of Jack Daniels
and let’s keep things that way.

Standing on a rusted
sidewalk plate, contemplating.
Let me bleed
like a slaughtered sunflower.

Let me walk away
from this wilted bar stool.
Death waits for the weary,
Knock kneed.
I trample through rotten hops.

Scotch on the rocks,
aged like the
half-lit bar sign
with three Xs
and a poisoned skull.

Chasing fear, exhausted.
Legless horsepower, monstrous.
Grinding my fingers on Grainbelts
before the crack of fall.
Stained oak pillars,
star mangled manors

Let me bleed.

I went outside for a cigarette
Sat on the step and
I see myself down the street
forty years from now;

Burnt like an ember in an ash pile
Ground into a particle by
the street sweeper to be eaten
by the atmosphere's tangled black tongue.

Walking up and down the
battered stairs tires my weary legs
with every trip I make
Lungs crying for air like a newborn.

A tool for procrastination
A tobacco fascination can lead to
a disastrous situation. Kurt
Vonnegut once said, "Cigarettes

are a classy way to commit suicide"
He must have been stupefied making that statement.

Like taking a blade serrated 1000 times
and nudging one more notch through
his flesh with every caramel covered kiss.
But he was too scared to take it out.

Exhale and apologize to Earth
for his suffocated statement. Breathing in
snakes and rusted copper.

The man down the street probably wishes
to be my age back in his day again.
My eyes frozen in space like Walt Disney's
severed head.

He catches a  a cloud of smoke
and his lungs scream through stalagmites
that drip with unwashed tears
that never fell from Vonnegut's stone face.

When you make a garlic chicken
special guests are also essential
Cross sections and interior views
forged all manner of ancient

The name may evoke evening
Experiment with cucumber, watermelon
Do not imply the expression of any opinion
increase in normal and immunosuppressed

Make an irony-free living
but never in such proliferation
Prepare to be bowled over by porridge
or other library materials

covered with a blanket of clouds
The dead began to speak.

On a frigid night I am
the lone resident in my house.
Not a whisper sounds from
the mouth of the biting air outside.

Alone in my house I am at ease
for there is nothing around
to interrupt this time left to me.
I can see things differently,
like the face of a Picasso painting.

With a lessened tension I
have a deeper sense of recollection.
My thoughts are a ceiling fan,
constantly spinning and circulating
the sentences of these lines
like the air throughout the house.

As I listen to the warm air
rattle from the vent in the wall
I am reminded of the days
spent with my dad working
in the basement workshop.

My purple, gold and white
Pinewood Derby car for Boy Scouts
was a piece of work to be proud of.
It may not have placed, but
it had a special place on my dresser
for several years to come.

It’s memories like these I
know I’ll never forget because
even after thirteen years
I can recall it like it was yesterday.

The smell of freshly sanded wood
and sore fingers after long hours
of hard work perfecting the shape
was worth more than all the
money a rich couple could
spoil their children with.

Incarceration of the Imagination
Innocence is instantly lost
Angels and Demons are difficult to shrug off, so
when the rain falls, dance in it
because even too much sunshine can get you burned.
When roaming lands unexplored
Shout at the top of your lungs from the bottom of the valley,
and an eerie echo will emanate .

Don't be too guarded
You never know what you might protect yourself from.
Innocence is the key to Freedom. Set yourself free.

Inside the mind of a man mad with enthusiasm
resides the eagerness to express it.
Lend a helping hand
Don't follow footsteps, make your own path
During the day blue skies disguise what lies beyond the atmosphere,
but at night the stars reveal what's hidden to the human eye.
Endless opportunity. The desire to discover. Dumbfounded by the unknown.

Love like there's never enough to go around
Sing while others are watching
Show the world your lack of shame.
Understand that
                              you can't always be a hero, sometimes you have to be human first.

A perfect imperfection is the best complexion.
Reflections are molded by self-perception.
Don't ever be fooled by self-deception.
Three lefts don't make a right
But one truth can uncover 1000 lies so,
Be careful what you decide to hide.
You won't have it easy if you try too hard.
Focus on forward because
going back was never meant to be.
Frame your memories.
Envision keeping your dreams in vision
Drawing from mistakes when you need revision
Making the most of every opportunity your mission.

Soar to new heights,
but don't over-step boundaries
You don't want to end up the victim of a guilty conviction so,
ignite your innocence.
Let it burn and spread like wildfire.
Bring new life to forlorn forests',
Sing a song yet to be sung
Walk to the beat of your own drum.

The good don't die young, they die happy.
Happiness is absent without innocence.
Hold on to it.
Breathe in and let it go.
There's no time to be timid,
Resist the urge to second guess
because there's a first time for everything.
Your destiny is not a destination, it's a journey.
Travel with innocence, and you will never lose your way.

I told my mother I found out
love is not what people say it is
in the leather-bound books
or the virtual screens today.

They say we should fall in love
with the idea of love and
"happily ever after"
will be until the end of our days.

My mother replied to me,
“Tell me son, what is love
in your eyes then?
What is love to your heart?”

My muttered answer to my mother
was, “What makes my heart race,
and what makes my heart sink,”
as if it should make sense to her.

Surprisingly, her reply to me
was this, “Don’t define love, son,
It is too powerful to define.
Let love define you—

That is where the true power lies.”

Voices from the past spoken by ghosts are
booked with stories, stories till gone untold.
Tombstone whisperers with breathless lisps
Caress your mind with misty mystery
Beginning stories "once upon a time"
and ending them with the two words "The End."

We find ourselves wishing to hear stories
told by the living before they die but,
Only after they die do we listen
because everything they wanted to say
can now only be said with one word, dead.

The cold sun beats
on gold pinstripe pants.
Between the same fingers
that grip a pen
a physical form of smoke;
cancerous, like divisive rhetoric
dictating dialogue between
red and blue threads; white
in the middle turned
a depressed gray.

Stand, stare at
a  stale banner;
salute 50 blank stars,
the right choice
follows like a thief
with forlorn hands for feet.
Dead in the water,
Freedom drowning, shouting
in a salty blue tune.

The sun watches from
its godly golden throne.
Out, uttering among  
waves of stars,
speaking with nothing to say.
Freedom sinks to the
depths of Hell
as if but smoke
trying to make waves.

As I lay on my bed
My favorite pen in my hand
Trying to convince myself
To write something creative
But my brain can't function
And just think on command

I blink, and blink, and blink
Staring at the paper blankly
Feeling like I've been hoodwinked
By a silhouette in a hood
All you see is two blaring eyes
As one half of them winks

Mind racing in slow motion
Thinking you can think something
But the ink isn't working
Brainwaves are failing to flow
To the tips of your fingers
Sparking the touch of talent

Trying to tap the wires
That trigger inner feelings
And fuel the fire to write
Stick a knife in a socket
You still wouldn't get the shock
To ignite your light to write

All you want to do is write
Begging and pleading your pen
To scribble with all it's might
You want to feel productive
And conceive a worthy product
Yet you can't seem to produce

It's the worst feeling ever
Because you just want to write.

I thought it would be easy to defeat the grieving…
At least . . that’s what I was believing
But its not! My mind deceived my thought
And I caught myself in a lie
Its hard to keep your head up when there’s so much weighing it down
Its hard to speak out when you cant seem to make a sound
Its hard to feel loved when it seems no one’s around
I feel like a tree without leaves
And its hard to see a bright future when there’s nothing for the sun to give light to
How can I walk this path when it seems no one will guide me?
I just need a confession session to do some confiding
Cause emotions are eternal if you let them build inside you
They’re only there to remind you the hard times you’ve been tried through

Grieving is not a fun feeling because it’s a feeling that’s dealing with hurt
And its hard to convert hurt to happiness when you wear it on the sleeve of your shirt
It’s an Armageddon that takes an arm to get in, in order to compete
It’s cut me up and tapped me out, some stiches are in need
Its rattled my  heart, I shed some tears, my strength is seemingly week
On the brink of defeat, I’ve been knocked off my feet
My face is embedded in mud
But as the rain goes away it showers grace upon my face
To show a sign of hope
But, it doesn’t seem close: as a matter of fact it seems remote
I’ll need to emulate some energy to evoke
All though the one thing that IS close is my hearts will to devote
The time to reach the remote and get my life in control

If you think you’ve hit rock bottom then you’ve got a problem
See, the problem with that is things can always get worse
And that’s when you become vulnerable
You don’t prepare for the worst and you let up the fight, letting grief take over your might
The next thing you know, another misfortune strikes
And you’re left like a deer in the headlights… blinded by fright
Hopelessness waits at the gate for you to claim your stake
At what kind of life you’re assigned to
Grief can feel bleak, but don’t let it confine you
It’s your life to live, don’t look what’s behind you
If you get knocked down, don’t look up, get up and look around you
Looking up will blind you from what’s right beside you
Like you’ve been hit by an uppercut and left unprotected in the upper gut
Free for grief to strike twice, leaving you under the bus
But you gotta fight back, tell its lips to pucker up and strike back with a sucker punch

Cause a life without trials is like a being in court with no judge
There would be no words to write a sentence to
If tribulations were to never be faced
You’d be constantly stuck in a complacent place
Where there’s noting to live for except an eternal case to stare at space
Courage would cease to exist, and strength would be but muttered gibberish
So, whenever your head feels weighed down, exercise your persistence
When you can’t seem to speak out let your actions become precedent
And if you feel no one’s around you, look inside you to find what defines you
Because what defines you is needed for your survival
DON’T let grief and defeat be what define you.
Cause I can tell from experience, putting up a fight is vital
I take pride in my weakness, cause without them, I wouldn’t know my strengths

Four wood legs below me reinforce my rear
The suns rays sear off of this white haze called snow
A glum graveyard of brown surrounds my whole home
Two filthy cigarette butts are staring me in the eye
Like a cats eyes luminating in the middle of the night
And I’m wondering why I wonder these thoughts.
****, its hard to caress all the thoughts I possess.
Broken from bewilderment by a lone gray hare
I scared it and it scattered up the short, steep hill.

*Walks inside because the frost is nippin’ his nose

I just need something new to twist up my life,
But every time something comes even close
Imagination defeats reality and all hope is lost.
Trying to find even the slightest bit of hope
Is like picking hope out of a crowd of pick-it signs
Nearly impossible, but the sign is still out there.
Suddenly reminded of the graveyard of brown outside
I recall glancing at a row of three green pine trees
And realize, they keep life all year round
Even when times have grown cold
And fellow friends have lost life.
Knowing they will survive
They strive to keep hope.

I can't look at you
'Cause your beautiful beauty
Tantalizes me.

A mouth on his head
Another on his back
Twice as many things are said.

Some said to the face
The rest said to your back
Like your face is a disgrace.

What kind of friend is that?

More moisture helps
the ******* of dirt
become a purification element.
The hydro-logic behind that
is completely fluid
and misunderstood.

Water is much like a brain—
it makes these connections
between polarizing elements
that will take eons
to arrive at a universal understanding
of how or why they were made.

As poets we work with the earth
to try and make sense of things—
like why exactly the purest form
of water is shed from the soil
that springs with infinite life.

The single most important aspect
of connections that contribute
to the everlasting growth of meaning
is that it's right beneath our feet,
which is probably why we
continually walk right over it.

What springs from the soils surface
is a constant cycle
of unearthing meaning.
Which is why there will never be
a shortage in the supply
of what provides us with life.

The streetlight on the corner of
8th and Harriet talks in Morse code
every Sunday night at half past eight.

Maybe it’s asking to be saved
from the blistering cold. Maybe
it has feelings for the moon

and only wants to be noticed.
It must get lonely working
the same corner for years

and nobody bothers to return thanks.
My guess is it’s trying to communicate
with fellow streetlights

and plan an attack like the Ents
did before they went to
war on Isengard.

But then again, only in my mind
I make perfect sense. After all,
it is just a malfunctioning street light.

Terrified of the terrain ahead of me
Marveled by this mysterious map
I take a quick peak out the window
And see a cactus poking its eyes at me
Tumbleweeds occasionally cross the street
Reminding my conscience to not fall asleep
I'm driven until the end of my road
But where my road goes, I do not know
The turning of my wheels is starting to give
The engine under my hood is too old to live
Broken,
Lost
A twisted brain,
An empty trunk
No one around to ask for advice
No directional reference from the map itself
Frustrated,
Nearly hopeless
You kick the hub cab of your wheel in anger
It falls off and you find a hidden note,
"Become ridden with hope."

I wish I could spit out the things I bit my tongue about
but its hard to spit the stuff out that will get me in the penthouse.
When I first met you, I didn’t envision fights,
but now that I know you, it’s the only reason I fight.
Finding love is like finding a diamond in the rough.
Even if the diamond is found, doesn’t mean the diamond isn’t rough.
The edges will be tough, and they need to be smoothed,
but once they are buffed the diamonds beauty shines through.
I know its hard to fathom, because love is an intense feeling,
but once you’ve struck it, love gives life immense meaning.
Like the day you learned to ride a bike,
and all you want to do is ride it day and night.
The day you find love, your heart takes off and roams the world in flight.
Going into this I thought long relationships were only found in movie scripts.
A few months into it I began to think  “when do things get intimate?”
like it was the only thing I wanted from the relationship.
It took a while, but then I started to learn
I need to broaden my vision, there are more important things to yearn.
There is trust and honesty, communication and honor,
and for those who don’t know, being in love requires a bit of labor.
You don’t get paid and there’s no minimum wage,
because the things you do for love might be out of your range.
That just means you have to stretch and get through the pain
You see, what you receive should be treasured
because I believe love is as pure as a swans feather.

The rebirth of our nation
rests in motion.
In a country mounted
on revolutionary (Freedom of) Speech
fear of falling off the balance beam
permeates our culture's streets
Rock bottom is visible.

The next step in a row of stones
might require more than a skip
but the heavy heart of resiliency
                         must persist,
preserve the embers that
burn in the enduring hand
of our Statue (of Liberty).

Cope with the wilted white flowers
Look to the rising sun
every morning it emerges with
tired eyes, sleeping flames,
garden beds greeted with mist.

Listen to the music of mighty mitochondria
Let the DNA of "bend don't break"
and swords of endorphins thrive
'til their final breath.

Fight unmerited power
with a rigid, rebellious fist
and a voice armed to the teeth
from the mouth it speaks.
Fight 'til the white of bone
and then some.

This is the long anticipated
wake-up call from Mother Gaia;
it comes in the form of tears.
Don't let them drown us,
create new
streams, rivers, lakes, and oceans
so they wave with every
spun cycle
of Earth's journey
around the sun
of a

They are a reminder,
A reminder
that the future is full of surprises.
A raging mystery unmatched.
Every drop of water
that splashes upon the reflection
has the opportunity
to create a wave.

Not all the same.

Some will rage
                            and some will ripple,
but either way
                            the water’s face
will be forever changed.

Don’t think too hard;
                            the beauty of it all
will never be lost.
                            We are surrounded by it.
It looks up at us,
and we watch it capture eyes.
Unending, ceasing to amaze,
can’t be stopped.

A ripple or a wave
                            whatever it may be
will always--always
                            affect its surrounding.

And, drops of water are
always splashing somewhere.

Setting up a studio
vaulted ceilings with
scented linguistics
Glued to a group
Glass Stains on grained wood
tell me to ground my soul,
let go and propel waves
in the mountains
Glue the wind to trees
by any means necessary.

Anything is cool if it
interrupts the mind
of so called intellects
reacting with concrete questions
It's just as easy to
tug heart strings
with well crafted narrative
as it is to spread hate
with carefully constructed conspiracy
Word is bond
only broken by
water over blown bridges.

Keep strings tied to wounded rocks
Don't skip
Rippled vision
round squares and indecision
A sight to see
Don't quit
when there's always now
Find how
and walk the plank.

An Old Oaken Bucket full of *****
Swindling me from a spindle of rope,
Sloshing with every cup I fill
to the brim, topped with a savory foam.

I dip into the treasure on most
weekend nights with a blurry sight,
the least bit of fright, and a cup
that screams “Let’s have some fun, alright?”

I carry that cup with a sense of pride
every trip I make to fill it with *****.
Too many round trips have lead to
a massive amount of mistakes made.

Being out too late, because nothing
good ever happens after midnight,
Locking lips with random women
and not re-calling any of them.

Convoluted conversations about
the string theory or religion, trying
to sound smart while I slur my words,
I successfully fail to make sense.

I’ve learned the circle of life revolves
around learning, so, how can I learn if
I never make mistakes and play it safe?
Safe to say, I’ll never make that mistake.

Holy ba-jeebus, Beavis and Butthead
am I ever in the right place.
Astonishing.
I’m grounded with the roots of
stories ready to sprout
like leafs during springtime.

Green as the fields
and grassy hills
of the Midwest.
Blooming with beauty
that can’t be forgotten.

It’s an enriching feeling
that can’t be contained
by a company of one.
It has to be shared with everyone.

Just because you’re rooted
in one spot
doesn’t mean you can’t
spread seeds with
the whisper of the wind.

The grounds of the place we call home
live with us forever.
Stay, or leave, you’re left
with something to live with
as a result of
choice.

If you have the expectation
you can avoid the unexpected
in life, then you will never
end up making a left turn
unbeknownst that it is right.

For it is the simple sense of you,
and the vulnerability, and the
admirable quirkiness within it.
The unquestionable understanding
of self stands atop the world.

And with wandering eyes, which
are unlike any star or moon,
and a bold heart that beats
beneath your chilled skin, you
hope to find a deserving warmth.

So you take this world by storm
and create waves that rush
and break even the smallest pebble.
A world that was not ready
for such a breathtaking force.

And this world was stunned,
ill-prepared to embrace this gift.
You threw the world off course.
Now caught in a strange situation,
he wonders what's next in store.

This world has been overcome
by a force it can't avoid.
But this force is something special
the world can't seem to deny,
so it's attempting to tempt it.

This world has been overrun
by a light that gives the blind sight,
something beauty can hardly describe,
something that is overpowering,
something that this world can't shake.

Your sight has livened this world
and made it greener in all corners.
And now whenever your bright eyes
set sight upon it's bountiful land
it is overcome by a storm of feelings.

But what this world is yet to know
is if this force is receptive.
Because this world wants to show
how it feels towards something
that is so unearthly beautiful

Inside and out.

The best poetry
Can paint a vivid picture
Without a paintbrush.

Before earth leaves me
someday under the sun
the moon will explode
My humble abode no more

And no bullet will outrun
No gun won
One last cry for life
But I'm done
I'm done

Rebellious in nature, I made friends
with crumbled leaves
on the last day of fall
Before my nose froze
and I dipped my toes in
a dry lake to catch my tears

My nature is dead, gone
Beating a dead dog
Looking for a reason to
pick up the phone
and call for a break
But there isn't one

Spare me the grief
for your own handkerchief
I don't need your tears
I have my own
Saved in a moldy jar
when I need the change.

Concrete beneath seats
of listeners
Chalk artists
creating frames for the
next rainfall

Wash away
sun burnt big toes
beads of sweat
on sunglasses
Spoken word next to
handrails

The river below
huffs the wind
Spits it
to the current
of artistry
waving back from shore

Cancel the 12:50
replace the interruption
with impromptu colors
of the rainbow
Let children wander
under bridges
and pop balloons
filled with water
Color paint

Let the world
around us drink
water of guitar strings
and gaze at
ambient light
with star-struck eyes

Let the world
revolve around
lightning bolt revolt
Protect sacred
performing stages
Say yes to
Art-spired revolution

He was making old people.

Angry old people walking around in spite.

The train sits on the bridge, the bridge wonders.

It’s like a simple gust of wind.

It will rest on dead trains.

A stone retaining wall supporting a builder of empires.

The ghosts turn in their graves.

The air ever so slightly biting your cheeks.

A beautiful thing passes; it will never look the same.

A mirror shatters.

I've grown weary of looking
Trying to find the one
The right one
for me...
for now.

It has become such a burden
Cause all the right ones
Have left me,
left me...
forever.

I know I want to find someone
Who is worth the wait
No, not right
not left...
straight.

The one who'll make the wait
Seem as if I
Never had to
wait...
at all.

Staying afloat on a low note
a lost man crosses crippled bridges
carrying a turtle’s shell and flour
Singing off pitch, making leaves shrivel
Off abound, forbidden from sight,
glass air pierces his stale soul.

Wonder yonder he thinks to fire
of foreseen history pocketed in a square
while passing a brown polar bear
He hears nothing but bats communicating
when he saunters the woods at night
In the middle of his sleep      
his big toe squeaks and the bed shrieks
and the frigid air nips his shriveled lips.

He once made friends with
a single blade of grass in the desert
               but it died the day after they met
In the grand scheme of irony
he doesn’t see the reason for pancakes
They make his taste buds scream for quiet.

Whether or not he sees straight
is an entirely different question
If he comes to a fork in the road
he tends to keep walking forward
As if he thinks there’s not much difference
between right and wrong in present tense.

There’s too much for him to understand
in an overwhelming world; an abandoned creature
under starlight in a red sky reverie
he seeks rhythm from deflated composition
but fears that tapping his foot
will crumble his hypnagogic melody.