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Brycical Apr 2016
and it scares me because
the glow in her eyes and
melodious rhythm
in her words give me the impression
that she enjoys talking
about these things.

And it's not
one of those mindful zen
practicing acceptance
attitude of gratitude  type of
scenes where she loves it out
of herself and heals all
the heavy scars she wears.

It's like she revels in her misery--
I just don't get it man!
Maybe I'm doing some
wacko projection thing
or that I'm reading too much
into it all. I mean,
I am a bookworm. But,

There's just something about
the way, the feeling or
the tone that vibrates through
my soul like a friggin' red light Spider Sense
that gives me the creepers.

She'd say that she's simply
stating facts and, while that
may be true,
I just can't help but hear
some callous time ******* black-hole train crash rejoicing;
like a perverted hymn
to misfortune and gloom.

I don't know man, maybe
those are just the tunes my mom enjoys playing.
Could be that's just not my
style, or how I approach
something like that.
I try not to judge, but
some **** is just doesn't sit
well with me, you know?
I can't help that.
Happy Mother's Day?
Brycical Mar 2016
My words yearn
to wrap around
those warm bodies
breathing poetry
wandering in their beatnik gypsy mountain time
dancing in the citrine champagne universe
pouring daybreak stardust into hands
getting a buzz from the indigo vibrations
tickling the wild child turquoise flowers
blossoming from their hearts
opening arms
allowing my words
to slide over them
fitting comfortably
like a t-shirt or hoodie.
A starving artist gotta eat somehow.
Brycical Dec 2015
Take a moment,

Inhale that infinity carrying all the words that we speak,
both the heavy rock steady deadly second darts
aiming for the bullseye painted on our hearts and
the artistic gypsy dancing ones
like honey whisky giving us a little buzz.

Take a moment,

Exhale this surreal reality of fallacy
don't matter what's happening on Downing Street
or Pennsylvania Ave cause you have more important things to do,
like laugh as you let your mind crash
watching this game everybody's playing like Minecraft.

Take a moment,

Exhale the clenching pain
your brain might claim you shoulda kept hold,
like the Buddha once said it's like grasping hot coal
so blow your dragon breath and stoke our campfire souls.

Take a moment,

Inhale the light,
feel the warmth sojourn and wander
through your veins asunder tappin' 5/4 patterns
hi hat snappin rim clappin' rhythm
filling all schism within as if a liquid bridge joins sides of a grand canyon.

Take a moment,

Exhale and feel the silence...
listen to the surrounding serenity
whispering aplenty serendipitous magnificence
within your heartbeats and breath bereft of distraction.
This sacred and holy action is a sacrament
as you attune into what's happenin both within, and beyond.

Take a moment,

Inhale the heartgasm phantasmagorical adorable
world force of all things , the high vibe entirety
inspiring the fire within everyone,
that sacred holy light igniting the path to your heart
basking in ancient ******* laughter where nothing matters
and the mind chatter is silenced by the awe inducing lucid compassion
of all atoms in union of togetherness.

Take a moment,

Exhale and follow your breath into the infinite.
Dec 2015 · 2.2k
Password Instructions
Brycical Dec 2015
Thank you for registering for our website. You're almost ready to enter a portal of super awesome fun time vibes that will alter your whole being down to it's genetic core. But before you can see the goods, you need to come up with a password that meets our criteria as follows,*

- Must contain at least one capital letteR

-Needs @ least two $ymbols.

-Should be a minimum length of an Ernest Hemingway novel.

-Add a dash of salt

-You will also need to cover your entire body in sacred mud found only in parts of Mesa, Arizona.

-Written approval from any pets.

-On your webcam record yourself singing the phrase "Lemon trigonometry adversely if but  ***** carrots digital ******* maps" then publish it. You must get at least 537 views within 12 hours.

-Burn all your socks and mail us the ashes.

-Write to your state representative and senator.

-Make an artesian spaghetti sandwich using whole grain golden moon grown quinoa bread and cage free angel hair pasta noodles cooked al dente in a curry sauce with a whisper of coconut oil on each piece of bread and leave said sandwich out by your front door over night.
Brycical Nov 2015
Could you take out the trash?

I will in like, five or ten minutes, I'm finishing an email to a friend.

I'd rather you do it now. I'm in desperate need to feel like there's control and order in my life since these sudden feelings or powerlessness within my own life have surfaced again.

This seems to be a regular occurrence with you Mom.
Why not consider therapy?

I'd rather make up another excuse instead of  admitting you might be on to something because of two reasons. The first being that I resent the fact someone younger than me, which is code for someone who I perceive doesn't have much life experience, is suggesting something about my life. The second and much more important is that I'm a coward that would rather hide from my fears than face them.

It's frustrating to me because I perceive there are easy solutions to these obstacles but you'd rather wallow in your suffering. Sometimes I think you'd be happier with a gun in your mouth
if you weren't so petrified of death. Hi Dad.

I'm ignoring everything. Making a b-line toward my office where I can drown my sorrows in cheap whisky and work
because of my cancerous self-loathing in perception
for not living up to an outdated model of achievement
as set for by my parents and their parents.

It fills my heart with a melancholic rage because you're not letting me lean on you to feel better about my own self esteem issues
since I rely on everyone else to build up my confidence.

This touches my raw nerve heartstrings because I used to have self-confidence issues that I never felt comfortable sharing with anyone until after therapy and years of meditation.
Now I feel partially responsible in a slightly self-righteous way
that I should try and help both of you even though you two don't seem to want to help yourselves.

I'm much too busy dwelling on the past.

I resent that and don't understand why you're not anxiously brooding on the future like me.

I'm going to take the trash out because I feel obligated to do so even though I'd rather finish my email. I will resent this for a few hours until I calm down into a pool of serenity thanks to my meditation practice. I'm also taking the trash out because extended conflict makes me uneasy and I'd rather compromise my own individuality and boundaries to make all of this end even though I realize this is perpetuating these cycles of conflict.
Oct 2015 · 1.1k
Full Moon Conversation
Brycical Oct 2015
When people ask what I do for a living,
I respond

Listening to my heart ******
as my mind garden blossoms
incandescent indigo constellations
humming the songs of nature’s entirety.

I sensually embrace the entirety’s
divine lips kissing my spirit
with sacred words
merging into me—
a blissful osmosis of neurotransmitters
waltzing with my consciousness
flowing liquid electricity
and molten rhythms of oxygen
in kinetic unison through moments
of subjective apocalypses
slowly returning to yugen.

When asked where I see myself in ten years,
I respond

Copacetic contentment—
having surrendered my life
to more than just the digital currency
of likes and retweets
and the constantly dissolving paper coins
because I chose to see people
as breathing pieces of naked art,
in progress,
stripped down to their thoughts
jettisoned through this spherical time
of infinite space and possibility
slowly accepting there is more out there
beyond traditional political religical flimflam,
beyond abnormal logicality,
beyond nirvana.

Oct 2015 · 2.7k
Life's Facebook Profile
Brycical Oct 2015

-Birthday: ∞

-Studied everything at The School of...

-Lives in ∞

-Gender: Seriously?

-Religious Views: Tolerant Chaos

-Political Views: Ambivalently Apathetic Anarchy

Family And Relationships:
-Relationship: It's complicated

-Family Members: Everyone Ever

Details About You:

I am. We are. It is. Impossible to forget but hard to remember. Remember that time you found some money on the ground? That was me. Remember that time you got so sick you thought you puked your actual brains out? Sorry about that.

I love you go to hell.

To be honest I'm still surprised I'm alive after all the crazy **** I've done to myself over the years from nuclear ****** bombs to snorting the ground up bones of warring people and all that jazz. Oh yeah, not to mention those times I've caught asteroids with my face.

Favorite Quotes:**

Wind, Farts, *******, Laughter.

Life Events:

****...where do I start?
Aug 2015 · 3.2k
More of a Rand than a Poem
Brycical Aug 2015
Dear Cecil the Lion,

What happened to you was a terrible thing.
What you represent most assuredly will live onward.
The  ****** and dishonest way you were lured out
of the animal sanctuary to have a bullet put through you
was a tragedy.  

you can go unfuck yourself.
To be honest,
your death ranks just above a smooshed fly or mosquito.
After I heard the news of your death,
I finished taking a **** and went about my day.

I'm glad people are upset about something. Its time people started getting mad as hell & stopped taking it. BUT, maybe we should reconsider our priorities for a second the next time we decide to erupt in a collective outrage.

Whatever happened to #blacklivesmatter?
Oh right, they're still trying to put an end to racism in many areas
where some police are still under the impression it's the 1950's.'s the whole world hunger thing going?
Well, it's probably not helping what with the whole food wasting bit
the majority of us practice.
And yes, I know there will always be someone starving somewhere for some reason due to a variety of circumstances, but that doesn't mean we gotta sit around in apathy over it.

What ever happened with all those troops
we were so excited to support when it came time
to defending our country? Oh right...

How's the whole woman's rights thing going?

One more question; do we still care about education or is that something we've just given up thinking about?

Look, I realize the aforementioned list of
world hunger,
support the troops,
woman's rights
& education
are weighty topics in & of themselves with lots of intricacies.
And I understand they're not going to be solved in a day.
But, these big five all have one thing in common;

George Carlin once spoke about people who "always gotta be saving something" from animals to the planet,
"We don't even know how to take care of each other & we want to save the ******* planet?!"

And I get it, there are those out there that probably care more about animal lives than human lives, which is cool.
Hey, if that's your prerogative, I'll buy everyone who feels this way
a ticket to the jungle & you can start doing your part sooner,
and much more quietly, especially when some of us are trying to eat.

Because I swear to whatever you hold most sacred & holy,
if one more person tries to tell me
to stop eating meat because it's ******,
I'm going to wrap my hand around their neck & squeeze,
shaking them as I shout "Plants are living beings too you ******* *******!"

I get it.
Some can feel that deeply when they eat meat & it makes them uncomfortable to chow down on the flesh of something else.
But why are we having THAT discussion
when someone else somewhere is starving?!

After we get the world hunger thing under control,
then we can talk about the morality of what we put in our mouths.
After we prove that we can take care of ourselves and each other,
then we can move on to whatever animals are left.
And it case it wasn't obvious,
and to those of you who've read this far, once again I say,

Unfuck you Cecil.
Aug 2015 · 696
Fly, Moonbird
Brycical Aug 2015
When you spread your
like wings,
your midnight words
whisper on my

Late night hair
like smoke,
in a dark gust
spiraling towards my

Watercolor eyes
like ice,
glistening in the moon,
reflecting rainbows on my
response to another piece of artwork....
Jul 2015 · 2.1k
She, the Outer Space
Brycical Jul 2015
Wild child space travel gypsy
       drunk    on     the cosmos
     churning a sensual pattern--
             melting         suns
with a carefree wink
as stars pour into her eyes
like a garnet shiraz
              in    tidal   waves
splashing in a crystal wine glass
              her white light lips.

Planets dip and dangle around her hips
as the weight of the nebulous nectar whispers
                                       lullabies to her eyes
         as her incandescent            hair contours
    to copious glistening constellations  
rippling across her tired body
                 like ice dripping on a warm chest
vibrating    indigo       moonlight         jazz
enrapturing millions with her simple act of symphonic yawning
as the dusk light dawning over faces
embraces souls stirring--
her purring hip cat dreams
leave people like us with mouths agape
as her voluptuousness nape hushes
us with a supernova explosion of peace
oscillating between
each of our spirits.
Poem inspired and is a respone and reaction to this painting,
Jul 2015 · 794
a scene where i drink
Brycical Jul 2015
Thudding walls calamity crash
bozo bongo beatitude drinkatude
splashing chi whisky against amaretto amethyst ice mountains  
wallowing winds whisper storm clouds
and tidal waves
in and out of bodies like a titanium knife
glistening like the moon.
and i sit on top of a mountain
waiting for the mercurial air & water elements
to swallow me like a dab of LSD.

"Let's go drown in each other's emotions!"
I shout, the words echoing
as the storm grows and the foaming water
churns and splashes in the wee hours of the morning...
Jul 2015 · 2.1k
A Decision
Brycical Jul 2015
Right now, it's unclear
how to feel about this latest development
between us
at any moment you're libel
to switch gears in your speedster train of thought
on to new electric spark tracks
of ecstatic playtime poetry frivolity
or serene raindrop contemplation
and, while the exciting allure of spontaneity isn't lost on me,
it can be a bit confusing
in terms of how one should express themselves around you
and how much of your baggage they're willing to cary
in addition to their own on any given day.  

I'm not mad at you,
just confused and worn out.
But I suppose it's hard to find solid ground
on digital windows and words.
Jun 2015 · 1.3k
Releasing Myself From Myself
Brycical Jun 2015
waning, wandering away from myself....
              electric pine and turquoise eyes unfold,
       greeting me,
    a jade leopard winks with those eyes,
an inside joke
in the new moon darkness lighting the room.....

I watch myself levitate into conscious caverns
  in my gray matter canyon
wind tinkles and chimes
( ( ( ( v i b r a t i n g ) ) ) )
the moist,              fleshy rocks...
          memories of sativa green Canada echo--
a family of strangers
      humming, buzzzing & drumming rhythms
tattooing heartbeat sigils onto each other
            amidst a sonic amethyst campfire
          moonbeam embers glow
        indigo guitar strings sing hymns
     swaying and swimming in cuddle puddles--
   a new age baptism.

                             My wings shimmer,
                         visions simmer and chill
             the darkness returns
            left with myself again
        I flight right into another lightbub storm
     as trebble trouble words rain bows of colors
  atop white lilies reaching for stained-glass clouds.

              Distantly, native flutes flourish
       like rippling water rises slowly
                         into incandescent tides...
                      sweet, filagreed foam tickling-
                bubbles popping over pores.
           and I rejoice!
         a homecoming for an ocean's drop rejoined--
                           berserk bongos bump 'n thump
                              a raucous rumpus of blissful voices
                              vicariously lift my visage into everyone
                                   at once!
                                  astral silhouette forms cajole and conjoin and
                                         we     laugh        ourselves      into ******!

And for a fleeting moment...
I reminded of the celestial infinity
that surrounds us,
where time isn't measured in promises
and trees aren't groomed to be currency.
Here, I remember the why of my existence,
only to momentarily forget,
upon opening my eyes,
until delicate deja vu echoes intermittently remind me
once in a while.
I was in a trance when I wrote this
Jun 2015 · 1.3k
Fugue Blues and Other Colors
Brycical Jun 2015
I write to remember myself
as the gray groggy foggy world hisses static noises
the loud clouds with jagged glass edges look to shred.
Sometimes I don't even feel pieces stuck in my bleeding spirit--
leaking ancient memories of magical imagination lands
where genies, centaurs and shadowy demons threw parties
with me as as the effigy on a pyre.

I write to remind myself
of my gypsy campfire spirit of honest expression--
each written word strips away another layer of clothing
dancing, a **** psychedelic sufi with Rorschach wings
watercolor tattoos of musical grooves pour out from my throat
as the roaring noises of cult-ure's hymns billow
around with clash jangling crankling sounds.

I write to remember
echoed words from eons past
beating and breathing through me,
an infinity of laughing gasps gassing anxious neurons
screaming from the shattered  shards of surrounding glass clouds--
reminding myself I can choose the reality.

I write so I'm not in a fugue of confused pain.
Brycical Jun 2015
I appreciate your wary eye
for unsavory American types such as myself,
after all, that's the basis of which you set roots
and founded your name.
To be honest, I probably wouldn't let myself in
with such glowing hazel eyes that see depths
beyond crackling electric spirits
and a mouth with an honest tongue.

Oh Canada,
many friends have left my side over the years
because of this wagging tongue
communicating emotions with spring water clarity
splashing cold facts burning truth,
like when you asked how much cash I was carrying.
It was probably more than five-hundred bucks
but I'm not one to count that sort of thing.

Oh Canada,
does that make you nervous?
I realize I'm an odd bird with long hair and a beard.
I consider speaking truth a full-time job
without dental or health insurance but it's steady work--
although a little more dangerous than the norm,
just ask Edward Snowden or Chen Guangcheng.
But you shouldn't worry Oh Canada
because whatever saucy secrets I know of you
will probably be smoked out
once I smoke up one of the joints in my wallet.
Would you like a ****, Oh Canada?

Oh Canada, I can see my friends
on the other side of the glass door.
They're waiting patiently for me to join
so we can hum vowels in parks together
This is the kind of work we do,
paid with our own currency of attention and presence.
You should join us, just for a day and I promise
you'll feel rejuvenated, better than you have in months!
Oh Canada, are you upset we don't put price tags on everything?

Oh Canada, it's sweet you're thinking of my well being,
seriously. In a weird way it shows you care,
though your drooling focus on my wallet is a tad disconcerting.
You didn't even mention the ******.
And yes, I realize my business cards are out of date,
but I can't decide how to categorize my job
as a shitkicker and wordsmith.
Maybe you could help me out with that?

do you need a hug?  Is that it?
You seem tired, which I can understand
having to constantly worry about the drunken empire below
descending into militarized police tribes
while everyone watches Kardashian drama.
Truth be told I've always felt out of place there,
hence why I'd appreciate a reprieve.  
Don't worry dear Canada, I'm not hiding any drones,
I can't even hide the truth.
Inspired by Ginsberg's poem "America" and also being refused entry into Canada.
Brycical May 2015
The entire cast is dead
in 90% of the movies I watch.

Sometimes my *** smells like popcorn
and it's probably because of all the coconut oil I consume.

I wonder what day of the week
ends with nobody talking to me.

It's hard to remember which color I forgot to remember.

Whisky doesn't do much for me anymore,
maybe I should start paying for it again.

It's possible because it's impossible
possibly because of the possibility.

It's only a matter of time isn't true
because time isn't matter, nor does it.

Forever, infinity and etcetera gotta meet up at least once.

I'm in the best shape of my life,
it's kind of oval-y and rectangular, sorta looks like me.

Personally, I think opinions are subjective.
Brycical May 2015
a large, ancient native american tribe used to practice tending the light;
a fire pit in a temple village elders say contained the first flame,
here the fire was fed, and loved, usually the only source of brightness
the smokey orange glow would roar
all the time from dusk to dusk, from every moon to every sun,
always burning generations after generation,
considered one of the highest honors to be tasked with tending the sacred flame. But like all things, one day it went out.

Eons slipped by.
Darkness, thick brooding mists
with intermittent, iridescent flashes.
Most people slept.
Few unabashedly watched,
mesmerized by the brightness,
caught glimpses of sacred rhythms.  

Heartbeats synced--
the awakened ones linked arms,
wandered into the void,
( ( (source) ) )

               s      r     o       ed
             u            nd

wrapping around like a crystalline ivy.
vibrating bodies buzzzzzzed fuzzzzzzzzzy love.
glistening liquid amethyst crystals trickled from eyes.


They returned
with different faces,
every inch of skin vibrated
=ancient symphonies=
their chests glowed psychedelic explosions
of mellifluent wind chiming colors.
Dancing and humming awoke others.

Soon, more hearts & bodies swooned,
swooping cartwheel rainbows blooming like lilacs in June
from the darkest crevices
dissolving shadows and silhouettes
connecting all like mushrooms talk
the blindness gone
acquiesced to songs
of connection through breath, heartbeat, ground and life.

Bliss again,
the world burns like a roaring ******
of warm flame.
As it just so happens, the fire
never actually went out.
Instead it simply transported through time and space
into all of us, we just had to find it.
We looked to the past, digging into ancient wisdom
and tribal sounds,
returning to nature
ingesting nature
playing in nature
all the while sending out search parties
for lost tribemates
with that same fire
as a reminder from whence they came.

Also, the title "Back to the Future" was already taken.
May 2015 · 338
Mutual Mistakes
Brycical May 2015
I said something
I thought could be.

She listened.
May 2015 · 360
Heart Blossom
Brycical May 2015
Oh ‪rose‬,
gentle ‪flower‬ spirit-
in these moments
i imbibe our singularity,
for I feel your delicate petals
blossoming from my ‪third-eye‬,
roots wrapped betwixt my ‪‎heart‬-
your scent whispering ‪Rumi‬
as I ‪dance‬ with you
in this delirious ‎springtime‬ tango
I cry out
"oh magnificent beings,
For I have found ‪us‬!
We're all together
in this moment!"

But the rose simply giggles coyly,
her dance continues
as if this was a secret she knew
all along.
rose love life happy spring flowers nature dance
May 2015 · 1.6k
Poetry, Comedy and Prophecy
Brycical May 2015
Parents would prefer kids stay away
from these three jobs,
cause as they'd say
There's no way to make any money.
At least you can sell paintings with art
or hock a few bucks with albums from your music.

No parents encourage children into any of these gigs,
especially prophecy.
Today, a kid would be fed pills for breakfast
if they expressed any interest in becoming the next Jesus or Buddha.

Suppose Moses decided to go try an open mic comedy night
instead trading his commandments for a set list
but I bet his adopted parents would have lectured him just the same.
At least Moses would have gotten a few laughs.

The job descriptions are strikingly similar,
just like the outcome
a 50% chance the audience will applaud and chant
or watch you in heavy, maudlin silence... sweating nervously struggling
to maintain a sane face while raucous thoughts of loathing and doubt chew then spit out pieces of heart and soul forcing a confrontation of an emasculated existence for five to seven minute while....

whoa, hi, sorry.
Must've been having a flashback for a few seconds,
forgive me.

There is a difference though,
in the mindset of this trio.
A poet knows they're crazy,
a comic ponders if they're nuts
while a prophet thinks everyone else is just cuckoo.

I can see why parents don't want you to
go near these three jobs,
problem being, it's more of a calling than a culling,
and once it's answered,
all I can say is, well...

good luck.....

have fun.
May 2015 · 690
Brycical May 2015
She drowns me in her blood
now and then,
boiling, burning and choking sticky crimson
stripping me to sizzling pieces of flesh,
as if each drop a piranha.

Every time this happens I'm nauseated
at myself.
My life flashes before my eyes,
her words of frustration in my absence provide the narration
while my mind writes the score
composed using chewing chattering shattering bones
with flashbacks of every time no matter how big or small
I've wronged her,
like once when I grabbed her hair as she was kissing me.  
The only thing stopping me from hanging myself
with a barbed-wire noose
is the grit of my beating heart's rhythm
tapping out in morse code
that I will be reborn
into a minescule of a better person
for a certain amount of time
until this cycle happens all over again.

Truly, there is honor, to die
in this manner.  
But the agony leaves me almost permanently moonstruck.
As my skin skalds and bones dissolve,
there's no telling if, or when I will be reborn
or languish in this this precipice of death.
May 2015 · 927
Morning Date
Brycical May 2015
The morning opens her arms to me, perfumed with dew drops on grass blades. Hanging loosely over her body an iris cloud dress gleams incandescent watermelon pinks and tangerine. Her solar eyes twinkle, the alabaster one winks as if to say,

I know of your deja vu dream from earlier.

We dance sun salutations.

That's when it dawns on me that I'm on a date with the morning.
Brycical May 2015
I am a cloud breaker
because the sun is always with me,
tattooed on my back.
Even at night I can see silver linings.

I am an earth shaker--
cackling, quaking laughs crack surfaces
above, and so below
of flesh and rock like lava's burning, gurgling grace.

I am a light maker.
Warm words spark & ignite dried, dusty leaves
forgotten or ignored,
clearing paths for new gardens to feast upon the sunlight.

I'm a flow waker,
building bridges of effervescent electric irrigation
with hugs between our eyes and hearts,
nourishing, cleansing bodies.
Apr 2015 · 1.4k
My Family Owned a Slave
Brycical Apr 2015
nearly 200 years ago
which means my genetics have directly contributed
to the current system
that continues thrusting knees on the throats
of an entire race of brothers and sisters.  

Sick knots of frustration churn in my stomach
while fist and eyelids clench tight
burning razor tears slowly trickling down my face
at the very idea one of my ancestors--
part of my DNA
once treated a living, breathing woman of color
like a permanent maid meant only to labor inside and outside.  

I'm sharing this to admit and reveal my family's
complacency in a system
continuing to reap the so-called benefits
from a capitalist mindset
that has upgraded beyond physical cold metal shackles,
evolving into ball and chain conversation words
where people worry more about property damage from riots
instead of deaths at the hands of the fraternal order of timeout.  

I'm sharing this to continue conversations
for so long in America have been shuffled around, cast aside
as if it were an embarrassing high school phase
politely laughed away    
like on holidays when my family and I
would listen to grandparent's occasional choice phrases
that began "Well the blacks are just blah blah blah..."

Like a child caught ******* by parents,
our pale shame has made us bury the past below sea level
hoping nobody would notice.
But now, the skeletons are beginning to rise,
seeping through the ground  
along with fears of other dusty bones
buried under the red road.

Many of our ancestors
have been trying to dig deeper holes
with phrases like
"I don't understand, there was MLK and Honest Abe,
what more do
  they  want?"
ploughing ahead with fingers shoved in ears
singing "La la la let's just move on, it was a long time ago"
overlooking the equality and empathy  
that has been lacking up to the present.
Like two leaders could wave a magic wand overnight
erasing the dismissive dis-ease of white skinned superiority
we've been weaving into of our laws,
conditioning into our DNA,
evolving from slavery to segregation to target practice and tax brackets
despite singing "Land of the free"
even though there's a disparity
between rioters in inner cities  being called "thugs"
while rioters at sport events are "party goers."

The first step is acknowledgement,
unfortunately we can't force someone to understand,
but we can support and be there
for our brothers and sisters
with kind, encouraging words,
taking steps to pull out
of the land and people selling business,
instead investing in the new currency of presence and attention
unlike my ancestors.
almost 200 years ago.
Some say if you dig up the past, all you get is *****.

Tell that to archeologist constantly discovering new things or therapists guiding others through traumatic past events.
Apr 2015 · 741
@> Words To You <@
Brycical Apr 2015
I don't write because I can,
or even sometimes because I want to.

I write because words surround me
in the air; glistening, screaming and needling
into my being--
infecting my crimson and azure paths
with their ( { ( { electric cacophony} ) } ),                       (       )
vibrating sacred whispers of musical patterns        /<+>\
dripping directly into my spirit aglow with creation,
imbuing a certain serenity of past, now and future cuneiform tattoos
unto my mind--
high as a shooting star gliding in midnight moonbeams...

It's like when a fish stops moving it will die.

Every day it is a glorious struggle to keep up with myself,
these words,
so as not to drown in the insanity.

These words once inhaled by ancestors, whales and grass
hurl through space, time and the infinite creation
slamming into me;
a mercurial, rose watery doorway portal conduit transmitter
typing bebop lightning striking your match stick soul,
buzzing and manifesting rainbow jazz steps connecting us!
Dishonor would chew me from the inside out
should I not comply.
Apr 2015 · 738
Speaking from the heart
Brycical Apr 2015
On the street I see people walkin' round
eyes heads hanging low down thinking 'bout needing a couple extra pounds of bread, their spirits cry out workin' off debts 'till after death  
but when I ask "Whassup?"
they stuff it down with "Hey, nothin much" outa reflex,
but instead of this aforementioned fashioned back'n forth imagine what would happen if we shared the caption that our heart was tappin' outa the chest, a distress morse code SOS so,
let's be each other's best friend, and listen to the deluge of moods don't matter if it's green, red or blue cause I have faith we can all handle the truth
since it's a soothing serum not some brooding theorem don't gotta be near to connect, but show yourself some respect and just eject that dejected attitude cause we're all moving through somethin once 'n a while.  

Luckily we, are here, together now
spinnin' round this big 'ol galaxy.
and luckily we, are here, now, together, to make the world better, denizens of the medicine inside of us to jettison hearts and minds shining out like lighthouses guiding ships, to higher consciousness, gettin' closer to bliss but sometimes we gotta stop and sit
and just be just be...  
go slow go slow,
it's all ok to joke and play jump rope with pain instead of novacaine let's meditate to make the world a better place
raisin' your vibration to a higher plain
wadin' in the waters of a patient brain
chillin' in stillness erasing latent fixations
burning sarcophagus thoughts and impulses poppin' up like the walking dead growling echoes of old words heard when I was three, four, five, six gurgling out of parents, school kids and televisions sellin' backwards wisdom on how to be a cool kid, but it smells like *******
from old tools that, aren't the sharpest ones from the shed
like you and me can be 18 join the marines, get a tattoo, drive and put a bullet in some fool  but if you get caught with *** or droppin' some sugar cubes then you're locked up and your life gets ruined.

It don't take some precognition to see all this conditionin' bein' dished is an illusion, a mirage of food only fillin' us with chemical confusion,
it's almost amusing the way they try to make my mind intrude
on just bein' in the moment, bringing the symphony of symmetry inside of me inspiring perspiring  to cry and sing with fire wings triumphantly trumpeting the rhythm of love, as below so above do unto others etcetera etcetera ad infinitum because

we, are here, together now
spinnin' round this big 'ol galaxy.
and luckily we, are here, now, together, to make the world better, denizens of the medicine inside of us to jettison hearts and minds shining out like lighthouses guiding ships, to higher consciousness, gettin' closer to bliss with this flow from the heart
Apr 2015 · 1.8k
Food! Baby.
Brycical Apr 2015
In mouth, put-
choo-choo kazoo chomp chomp YUM!
Mmmm MMMMMMmmm.

The infant hears,
wondering if all adults talk this way,
chuckling to himself, the ridiculousness tickling his vibrating mind
looking on at the goofy giant babbling  gibberish
who seems oddly ecstatic
to feed colorful mush.
The child contemplates the intricacies of communicating
the smelly in his shorts.
Apr 2015 · 2.3k
Food, Baby
Brycical Apr 2015
Your eyes could sear steak
as hunger for my flesh growls.
Feast. You will be full.

Gnashing teeth chewing--
knife fingers slicing my back.
devour me with bliss.
Apr 2015 · 889
Food Baby
Brycical Apr 2015
Many friends gorge
during holidays,
stuffing stuffing in their mouth space
forcing fried flightless birds in their face
along with assortments of steamed greens
guzzling fermented bubbles of hops or grapes
until engulfed in the glazed-eye coma nap
as their bulbous bellies slowly bouey back and forth.

Before passing out, some might remark about convalescing a food baby,
to which I've often wondered
if said baby is born when they take a ****?
Is it still a food baby or has it grown to a **** baby?
Why don't they nurture said **** baby so it can grow
and get into a ****** school and then a **** job?
Apr 2015 · 596
10:25am Four Years Ago
Brycical Apr 2015
I only drink ferocious black coffee--
a silverback strong knuckle-sandwich  to the chest
because it screams at my throbbing heart like a drill sergeant.

I drink whisky because
because I enjoy the the burning taste
of sandpaper raking against the back of my throat.
And it gets me hammered the quickest.

Pizza for breakfast,
I'm eating champions of pineapple and bacon
with four different cheeses because *******.

The words I write are contrived reflections
trying to get by in a place I'm trying to convince myself I belong.

Cynicism glares with tired sunken eyes
at deja vu reiki songs,
but my hymnal is the bottom of a moscato,
and I sing louder when grey ghosts from the past
whisper lonely nightmares.
I made up the time.
Mar 2015 · 2.0k
Cold Shower
Brycical Mar 2015
Muscles clench like knots on rope
prior to any wintry water droplets
dripping on my scarecrow frame.

There's a moment of cautious pause,
my mind waivers the rest of me--
uncomfortable with the atypical developments
insisting through western culture's handbook
bathing is meant to be relaxing.

I agree.

So after a thoughtful inhale
we dive in.
The siberian shock of the frigid liquid landing
on warm, pale-rose flesh
slowly erodes with an exhale...
My mercurial movements
and conscious unravelling of the constricting sinews  
offer a peppermint bliss-like salvation!
The chill fades,
water wanders down,
allowing my body to interact with the clear solution,
allowing myself to be and breathe with each cold moment
of wide-eyed cool-headed serenity.
I take cold showers quite frequently but this is the process almost every time.
Brycical Mar 2015
Banana splits lickedy his spican-and-span throbbing
peninsula clock jar.
The scar from his far faux **** ignited his beating
hexagonal calendar.
Which is used to peruse the jujubees metallic books in the public
libation crazy train station.
His ecstatic adulation exemplifies why diamonds are
a girl gorilla's favorite soap.
His floating cubed boat is on a remote desert
impala growling at the turquoise toilet.  
But his spoiled toys are annoyed about the choice between life or
demonstrative sponsored concerts by budweiser.
Woeful razor beaked birds marvel at absurd his Salvador
Daoist Dharma surreal cereal caramel karma flakes.
I do and do not own the rights to this poem that didn't exist until just now.
Mar 2015 · 2.8k
Trickster's Mind Garden
Brycical Mar 2015
Ha-Ha, Joker's laugh, wildcard coyote
dances a maniac tango, joking
in the midst of elemental chaos--
giggling at the lava, way hot
watching the castle's mortar dissolve, doting
the cacophonous crumbling symphony akin to Amadeus.
Ha-ha, joker's laugh, wildcard coyote
ignites a spliff with incandescent embers, smoking--
up under falling stars getting higher than the Himalayas
and more enlightened as the midnight parades off
into a translucent, steaming ashy bayou, hoping
there's a bite to eat before the heat waves doff
the darkness completely into blinding, hokey
sunbeams reflecting in snow, that cuckoo tune never lost,
Ha-ha, joker's laugh from that wildcard coyote.
a rondeau
Brycical Mar 2015
A Sufi Cowboy
rides an incandescent star
gliding to the ground
pouring light like a shiraz
into his heart, he drinks bliss.

A Heavy Metal
Buddhist slamdances beyond
the shadow tree glades
nourishing the grass with tears--
her crying mediation.

Their eyes connecting
to echoed crystal heartbeats
of their higher selves.
He strikes a match across air,
flame kisses the dangling zoot.

Their eyes hold the gaze.
A mellifluous voice glows
from her, singing odes
of buzzing deja vu jazz
and gamboling dragon flies.

Cowboy & Buddhist
decide to share a few drinks
in the Cosmic Bar.
A series of tankas
Feb 2015 · 2.1k
And The Nominees Are...
Brycical Feb 2015
For Achievement in Editing:
-Julie Williams of the Jefferson County School Board for her attempting to change the AP US History curriculum so that it "should not encourage or condone civil disorder, social strife or disregard of the law [while] instructional materials should present positive aspects of the United States and its heritage."

-Dan Fisher and the "Black Robe Regiment" for their work in banning AP US History in Oklahoma because it "fails to teach American Exceptionalism," whatever the **** that means.

-Creation Museum of Kentucky for their work in "[Bringing] the pages of the Bible to life, casting its characters and animals in dynamic form and placing them in familiar settings. Adam and Eve live in the Garden of Eden. Children play and dinosaurs roam near Eden’s Rivers," because everyone remembers where dinosaurs are mentioned in the bible.

For Achievements in Adapted Screenplay:

-People complaining against #blacklivesmatter and #icantbrethe protests with old tropes like, "How are people supposed to go shopping during the holidays?" or "This is just too inconvenient."

-All the liberals who champion free speech and all the conservatives who want to "stick it to terrorists" yet most if not all of them for not showing any of the Charlie Hedbo cartoons.

-All the political parties, including conservatives and liberals who haven't updated their perception of the world or their talking points beyond 1980's yet sill trot out their gibbligarsh like it's not a polished slice of *******.

For Achievement in Acting, Actress:

-Camille Cosby, wife of now infamous Bill Cosby for at first saying nothing then later defending her husband about the 'alleged' ****** assault allegations by 37 different women (or whatever the number is up to now).

-My mom for pretending to listen whenever I propose solutions to her various anxieties.

-Hillary Clinton for not tearing out the beating heart of her husband or anyone who asks about her husband, even though she probably really wants to but at the same time makes you wonder why she just doesn't divorce the horn dog anyway.

For Achievement in Acting, Actor:**

-McDonald's (because corporations are people) for their work in getting excited that they supposedly serve real food and making patronizing adverts about loving their consumers while they are currently battling seven lawsuits alleging "wage theft, failure to pay overtime and alteration of time records."  

-For White Guys who continue to go along with the idea that there is nothing wrong with the current Justice System.

- Robin Williams because I'm pretty sure he would have been voted least likely to commit suicide by the general public at large.

-An Uncle of mine who continues to joke around and play nice with everyone despite the fact there's a mountain of evidence suggesting he's verbally and/or physically abused his wife and kids routinely.

Feb 2015 · 1.8k
New Moon Dance
Brycical Feb 2015
Let's boogie
in the electric synaptic light show club
called "Us."

Jackhammer legs quake the place
as everyone hums to the rhythms of their synchronized eyelids
and lungs pumping out golden dolphin breath.
Together copacetic drinks are raised and clinked
echoing like a hummingbird's wings shimmering in the afternoon sun,
Great Spirit, the bartender serves up a round on the house
of midnight snow owl whisky
for those ruminating Rumi and Hafiz's poetry,
the ones already beaming crystal quartz incandescence
from their heart and minds being present in the swaying
space that is the sacred spiral grouse dance.

Some peeps puff tree in the maui wowie mahogany lounge,
the prairie dog smoke carves the air
as these folks reflect and stare at their streams of consciousness
like a blue heron waiting for that third eye fish
for dinner.

The mirrors reveal our inner higher self children
of the moonrise kingdom building the iridescent
bridge to the rainbow road.    

When when it's last call
we shall tiptoe home like drunken mice
stumbling up the melting sphere clock
to rest upside down opossum comfortably
giggling giggling thunderous heyoka whispers
into each other's shoulders
until the aquarian dawn.
Brycical Feb 2015
I’m picturing these two deities
sharing a loft just off of Madison Avenue,
maybe near an F-train subway station.
Naturally, the neighbors are complaining
of glass shattering bleeding screams
and thick, throbbing scents of charred hair
penetrating the floors above and below
while Trent Reznor’s trademark chain in the breeze voice
blares “I WANNA ******* LIKE AN ANIMAL”
from some speaker system seemingly embedded
in the trembling walls turned all the way up to “*******.”

Opening the door to reprimand the two,
the landlord is shocked
to find thick, juicy molten stains
of red wine and blood pulsating a putrid perfume
akin to petrol mixed with cinnamon sweat
as shards of plates and glasses glisten
across the kitchen and living room
while the duo erupts
into a carnal carnival of frenzied roller-coaster screams
as Kali plucks out a rib of Dionysus to lick and gnaw
and while her runaway train hips derail against his—
he stuffs out a cigar against her shoulder
despite blindfolded eyes and ankles handcuffed
to the hissing oven
while she shoves shrooms dipped in acid
down his throat
simultaneously sniffing the remaining white powder rocks
from under his nose.

The burning wild eyes of both beings slam
against their skulls--
exploding pupils cartwheel with each ******.  
The landlord cries, tears teetering the steak knife's edge
of maniacal hyena glass shattering laughter
and wrist-slitting sadness
until both beings ******
a mushroom cloud volcano blast piercing souls & hearts
bleaching away reality in a reverse black hole super nova
just past Park Ave.
I'm not sure about the ending. If anyone has other ideas I'd be more than happy to hear.
Brycical Feb 2015
My breath dances a foxtrot
across her island flavored skin--
coconut and passionfruit
scents grapevine together, as our
joyful heartbeats intertwine
like a hummingbird's wings in air.

Her peppermint lips embrace
my nordic, hipster bear fuzz skin--
her feline eyes sing into
my soul, our flesh folds together
like a hungry flame devours
wood, we burn into crystal ash.
Feb 2015 · 438
Yellow Truth
Brycical Feb 2015
Over the phone like smiles I'd just
plan, had it all mapped, all these people
run. You made me at this party
no one about looked happy.
Wanted to ruin and on the surface
I know I've seen you India.
They asked about disguised
at the paper cause a chineses
story due, also
everyone was a spench detective.
But I was the
only truth, the yellow
you were good you
before the sun eye
nobody knew where
your mom and dad manager
didn't want to.

So I let Texan
the real world
kept up hope to
hear from you that
no one
more experimenting.

In case you're curious, feel free to ask...
Feb 2015 · 516
Cement people
Brycical Feb 2015
sometimes some people
are so set in their ways
it seems like they're made of cement.

more than likely, these stone folks
will keep on rollin' the only way
they know how, seemingly embracing
their roles as the boulder to your Sisyphus.
this doesn't feel finished, but **** it.
Feb 2015 · 639
A Lamp Fell
Brycical Feb 2015
on my mother's head
and she cried
but it wasn't about the lamp.
Though the ironic illumination
it provided isn't lost on me.

She's a 57 year old little girl terrified  
of talking to her sister
about their mother's looming death.  
She cowers at the power of her thoughts;
years of being bullied in school and belittled by parents
echo around in her darkening gray matter canyons
convince her to fold like tin foil.

If her tears were about the lamp
they wouldn't sound so heavy
when they fell.
Jan 2015 · 743
A Scene for You to Relax.
Brycical Jan 2015
Liquid walls ripple
the ceiling drips iridescent colors.

Outside, the emerald forest leaves
twinkle, shimmering reflected light
to and fro in the breeze.

Natives American drums hum
syncing to my heartbeat.

Water, ephemeral buzzing, azure-indigo
flows up the citrine beach,
the half-creamsicle moon dances
dusk fractal patterns
in the foamy tide.

Sacred hieroglyphic birds
sound like wind chimes.

Each sweet breath
kisses and caresses the souls of everyone.
Jan 2015 · 524
Words Between Us
Brycical Jan 2015
Sync psych bike out peace in all around like a sound of light hitting your heart as if a kiss planted in the valves was watered in echoed raindrop drips skippin' beats boxing pulse super nova eardrum explosions in a nirvana chorus.
Jan 2015 · 999
8 Sacred Words
Brycical Jan 2015
In the beginning there was the word
and the word eventually volved into millions
and now we talk with flagrant disregard
meanings are lost in definitions
and we no longer honor the words
that have brought us this far.
Well today that stops as I invite all
to honoring the 8 sacred words.

These are the words groked after birth
inherently transparently giving us our worth,
these words are why we are here on this earth;
Feel, Dream, Creation, Faith, Learning, Light, Being and Love.

The real deal, the one that dictates what you perceive as real, a double entendre for the body and mind, covers the basic five and the infinite emotional responses. Such nuances to each like how the olfactory assists with memory like that time I was makin' golden fluff pancakes and hominy with my Aunt and Uncle getting ready for  Sunday School at a grueling five in the morning.
I still remember mourning Grandma Ruth at my first funeral.
Certain feelings are hard, if not impossible to explain, like when a painting or movie moves you to tears, I still get choked up watching Jimmy Stewart in Harvey.
But still I remember the feeling when this girl ran some ice down my spine for the first time. Now imagine being blind-folded as the cold slowly melts and the drips trickle down and the only sound you hear is her breathing and your heartbeat as she monotonously drags the chill down Yeah, I know you feel me on that one now.
That's the power Feeling can bring about
touching our most primal basic instincts to the intricate emotions someone brings upon your being when they sing that song that gets you every time.  

A powerful word. They can change people and things, just ask one Dr. Martin Luther King.  

Regardless if it's the idea for the Iphone or baby makin, all life originates at creation.
It's why all are god,
why we all got this reason to be
like a painter paints his wrinkled heart on the canvas,
why a poet like me let's words flow out like a dam that's broken.
Creation births ideas and people with vision, we’re all born with this fingertip power
and a joyous vibe in our voice
the brain overrides by the sacred eyes locked grinding oneness
paper to pen, fingers to guitar, man to woman
all ringing out in a deafening bliss entering this world!
Creation breeds change , ideas that shaped the way we do things
like the first aeroplane and those folks who birthed those to think of said thing.
The brain keeps spinning like the invention of the wheel,
keep thinking and dreaming cause creation is a sacred duty to continue evolving.  

Such a muddied word these days, but faith is where all beliefs originate.
I bet you believe you’ll wake up tomorrow after a goodnight’s sleep.
Even that is faith.
The fires of faith forge burning trust when hands shake
Faith is smithed to wave, but never break
And it’s hilt of hope marries the mind to the heart
Faith is NOT a shield to keep other beliefs at bay or people apart
it is inherently a bond of understanding
and accepting from all parts of one self and others through heaven or hell.

There's nothing more sacred than learning, be it about the world or yourself.
A momentary divine buzz as synapses join in realization.
Not everyone can be educated but everyone can certainly learn.

My Uncle used to say he learned something new every day, and I think that's the way it should be,
cause you don't stop learning once they hand that paper to you for graduating school, life is a classroom and we are all the teachers and students but the answers aren't simply in external digital books and slides
a lot of the answers of life can be found inside the classroom of your mind.
If I didn’t look inside I would have never realized my inability to take compliments was technically flat out rejecting kindness someone as tryin to bestow upon me.

Forgive my diatribe but I have a hard time around closed minds cause the brain's a gold mind and info is a much more powerful currency than those political carnies shuffling greenbacks under the coconut.

A special, sacred word illuminating the world's mind and yours,
forget it's ability to help you find what you seek, like that time I lost my
keys under my bed after an art party or the way it startles your senses
when it first appears out of nowhere
the reason light is on this list is because you can add light to light AND darkness,
Can't ever make something more dark, it's just the absence of light, but you can always make something more bright that it blinds you even at night you can ignite a dark world
with a single flame watch it spread like wildfire then nothin's ever the same like a lightning shock to your brain illuminating your whole world cause now your paradigm has changed!

Can you imagine just being? That's freedom. To be is free, free from ego judging thoughts from others and your self, free from worrying about social conventions like waiting for permission to eat because the prayer hasn't been said or taking a job because it pays well but it makes all the days melt into a blurry line. Being is now, it's living in each moment and riding that wave to the grave with no regrets. Just being present is one of the hardest things to master cause the barking past and enigmatic future keep jockeying for attention.

Like that time way back when I stiffed some friends for my part of the rent or anxiously awaiting my move to New York pondering if I should tell my parents. Being is freeing that's why I rhyme and write that's why I let my mad scientist hair sway in the wind that's why I run towards an accident that's why I always know what's happening cause I'm tappin into what's tattooed on my soul. And I know you know deep deep down who/what your being is, but it's easy to let others complicate it with expectations like continuing education after high school and labels like teacher or homeless lunatic but you gotta dig and hold on to what you know is true because being you to the fullest is all you can do.


Love is.
These are my 8 sacred words. What are yours?

Audio version can be found here...
Brycical Jan 2015
Quiet slip the crazy ones that are
safely disappearing
down to the
place that I love that they're expressing
yet no-body's reality doesn't seem to be
some part
in boxes,
the one whose hair color
changed the weather and had duct tape all over
no one looks
of the one girl in elementary school
that existed the crap out of me, then smashed
quietly creefree. I think she had a crush on me.
House was the ultimate rebel sexpot. She
to carry on sooty, cynical. But then
in the quiet ploring me one day and we haven't spoken since.
Found a slice or normality in this.
but of frivolous nothing became of it & I was
the talk that encountered this girl who
earthly posses fanatic liked telling everyone she had
her past life as a wallaby.
How rude, the girl from the newspaper. She never
hid secrets, always a woman yet she was a year
I should show while we've seen each other rarely
that was.
But I don't other by phone and email.
She ran away.
Her last story was to be published.
I pass by the
to carry on
I know this poem sounds slightly schizophrenic, but it's actually an experiment in a new way to write. If you're curious about the experiment, just ask.
Brycical Jan 2015
The ideal woman is one who's willing
         to strip naked with me
in her parents house
and roast potatoes in their fireplace.

I haven't found Her yet.
Then again, what do I have to give once
I meet her? I've lost track of my heart
because I've given so much of it away
               to music, gaiety and seals.
My eyes have been worn many times by my brothers
and my hands were given to High Hat; a horse
who wanted to learn the secrets of poker.

Words are for amateurs!
Maybe I'll just skip over to her and shove my tongue down
       Her throat.
I'd let her caress my shoes, run her fingers through
          my wig, lick
my tie... and then perhaps She can squeeze
               my honking cane.

That should distract her enough so she doesn't
suspect I have nothing of value left to give.

What would She say to me?
Would She want to hear beautiful music from my harp?
I'd have to borrow some of her hair for the strings!
What would She eat besides kippered herring?
I know a divine place we could go for dinner.
You can roast potatoes by a fireplace there. Then we could go
to a museum and look at paintings such as The Burning Giraffe
and paint mustaches on everything. I'll bring the bucket of black paint
I keep in my coat jacket along with the candle burning at both ends!
Wrote this in college, maybe around 2008?
Jan 2015 · 384
Forgotten Cause
Brycical Jan 2015
Must run-don't stop, keep on going, fast
through towns & woods, o'er mountaintops of snow,
let the gracious wind push me forward, past
friends and animals, keep going wind, go!
Don't look behind, pace me like water flows
about the creek, where people drink, just let
people forget me poco a poco*
I'll fade away, like a gray silhouette
shadow dancing a calm, graceful minuet.
I wish I could stay & explain my ways,
but I can't, must press on. So please don't fret,
just forget me like a bad matinee.
I've forgotten why I keep going on,
But that's the way life is, I am the pawn.
*poco a poco is a musical term meaning "little by little"

Found this Spenserian sonnet I wrote in either junior or senior year of high school, which was 10 or 11 years ago.
Jan 2015 · 702
At The Cosmic Bar
Brycical Jan 2015
there sits Father Time
drinking a 50 year old scotch,
His compatriots
Sister Life and her Brother Death
sit close by,
the Sister sipping *** on the Beach
while Brother blows bubbles in his Shiraz.
All served at the cosmic bar by The Great Spirit
nursing a big 'ol Long Island Iced Tea.

I'm thinking of creating my next masterpiece,
Brother Death said.

"Maybe this time, don't use a bucket of paint for just one blade of grass,"
Father Time chuckled.

Sister Life spun around
and round on her spinny stool for several decades
until she hopped up atop the bar, proclaiming in French,
I don't make the best hexadecimal frittatas in the seventh dimension for nothing!  

Suddenly all brought their glasses together in a supernova clink
as they cheered
"May we continue to move forwards in the trajectory to wherever the hell we're going!"
Jan 2015 · 629
InsaniTea Party
Brycical Jan 2015
     Down Diagonal
We go--
passing depths of rabbit holes
& looking glasses
into the     c  r  a  c  k  s    of our own          
where we've built
that stopped and stuffed
the F           o
            L              W.

     Down Diagonal
We go--
to watch
               ))))undulating((((( rings ))))
of wood form yonis
while liquid tapestries                reach    out      to us
blinking their (o)eye(o) puzzle picture patterns
as we dance in a cosmic trinity  
sticking cosmic key post-its with doodles and words
on     doorknobs     and    shimmering    ///iridescent walls.\\

     Down Diagonal
We go--
in-out-side our minds     g r a y     r/o/a/d/s
skipping down fractaling water crystal      s\t\r\ee\t\s
under cover of night
in a dream as the trees vibrate in frigid winds
tickling the  stained glass fuchsia vermillion navy skies.
Jan 2015 · 630
I Knew We Danced Before
Brycical Jan 2015
the moment when
our eyes met
between my hands
drumming serpent rhythms
and your hips
flowing like rivers.

I knew we danced before

our trip began
through the cracks
of time space
watching doors undulate
hearing colors sing
giggling in unison.

I knew we danced before

our hands wrapped
while I smoked
cosmic spirit molecules  
your gentle being
a luminous anchor
allowed the flow.
For Zoi.
Thank you.
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