sacred drum thumping
ancient rhythms
living eternally
throughout earth
the sound births
a percussion
of subconsciousness.

waiting in a white room with no furniture
the humming air conditioner
can’t even drown out my thoughts
waiting to go back to maryland
for a hyperbolic death sentence—
to meet with the wonderful hypocrites
who shaped my cynicism
and anxiety
to feast on the last meal
of failure.
waiting to hear back from potential employers
who hold my future in their hands
but prefer to let me stew
waiting for the tears to start falling
I can feel my eyes welling
my lungs lugging every last bit of air
to my heart as it pounds
like an urgent knock at the door
waiting alone
with just my thoughts.
waiting to see the friends
who never got out to see the world
to look at me with delight, hoping
soon I will re-join their ranks
as a mindless tractor mechanic or slurpee filler
waiting for the cheap bottle whisky
in my stomach to regurgitate  
waiting for numbing conversations
about menial tasks and news
like the weather, or something else I can see in front of me.
waiting to be coma.
waiting to see my reflection—
or shadow.
waiting for paper and pen,
waiting for suicide by rhyme at the end.

many nights,
it takes every molecule in my body
to not scream myself to sleep.

You see,
i have nightmares about the future.
i'm afraid upon awakening one morning,
i’ll discover i'm some grotesque & fat
pizza fried chicken bread bowl American
as massive layers of fat
fold around my body making it almost impossible to breathe
and lost all interest in everything
except cheap fast food & money to spend on the various brethren of the dollar menu.

I'm afraid that on the one night i sleep
with my back to the bedroom door
is the night a group of burglers,
possibly in union with supernatural shadows
from the darkest corner of my room
team up to beat me to death
like Jack Nicholson's character from Easy Rider.

I’m afraid the nightmares about my teeth falling out
will actually happen,
causing me to never find a job
to pay off all the debts i owe.  

Some nightmares are more fantastical;
like the one where i'm leading human civilization
in an Alamo last stand against a hostile alien race
only to find myself fighting alone
as the rest of the surviving nations argue
over who gets most of the credit.

My nightmares make me afraid
to step on the floor until morning—
for my anxiety tells me during this darkness
the floor is spewing with cockroaches and spiders.

As I type this,
i realize this is only delaying the inevitable
until my eyes can no longer function,
until my body forces my brain into a state of drowsiness—
then i can begin my nightmare lullabies
that always begin with an internal scream.

I have seen night and day
simultaneously

The tears of a woman in the window
are merely dreams

The sound of scientists discussing human emotion
ripple in my plastic cup of water

In an instant,
friends shift positions--
in the blink of an eye.

My brain is humming
my words are slow...
a yawn emits--
like an electric car
traveling into my subconscious.

A pedestal is no place for a friend
tough to reach them should you need a sympathetic embrace.

Nor should monuments be built
for then the pressure's on them to fulfill the grandeur.

Bronzing is a no,
smelting makes it hard to impart advice.

Just keep your friends close,
that is the ultimate honor.

I wish to work at a bank,
merely to work the opening shift.

I wouldn’t steal money,
just work until my first paycheck,
then quit.

As I’d walk out,
I’d yell to all,
**** yourselves!
I’ve completed a life goal!

They’re merely working
because violin lessons
or that marketing diploma
didn’t quite pan out.

And as I triumphantly walk
through the doors to freedom,
I’d be shot by thieves
beginning to rob the bank.

It’s an honor
to be made an example of.

There is a silence...
followed by dark walls
blocking the sun. Suddenly
there is a sound like a lion learning
to roar. The sound grows louder as the walls grow
taller. Nobody sees the wave until it's too late. People, ships
never found for years if at all. A painless death slowly engulfs the lungs...

Coalescing, cuddling life
swimming inside.
Cleansing, like a mother
would a child,
scrubs away
collected  stains.  
An attention to detail
rinses, washes food,
blessing it into our bellies with an aqua kiss.  
A coolness douses the summer heat,
A relief quenches thirst
Of human and animal alike.
A babbling sound, bubbling
into a relaxing,
lazy Sunday…

Swiftly jumping
from leaf to leaf--
       scorching--
      everything is ash!

Searing, heavy breath hot
sweat pours from hair down the back
to escape the heat
smoke chokes the lungs...


Dark cloud for the world
to see the charred destruction

Excruciating
burns. Torturously slow...
Flesh boiling, melting
pain scabbing stabbing every nerve
survivors see scars as a reminder.

Wards the shadow of a freezing night
warming bodies
massaging with relaxing dreams.

Its smoke shields from bugs and animals.
A means of communication,
signaling help when lost.

A warm doctor--
kills bacteria.
A master chef--
warming food for a delicious bite.

Thank you, brother fire
for your charming nature.

She is lonely,
known for wanderin’ through
the park next to her house at 3AM—
barefoot.
The gallows of sadness gallop alongside
her face.
Her lifeless,
ambivalent  
emotionless
face crawls through the dark park.

She’s cold,
longing to be reaching
for a lover.

Her veins are frigid.
There is a thickness,
like oil
pulsating through her body—
slowing her movements to a malaise.
Her faceless friends are unaware
of her plan to escape.

Cascading screams plead—
          squealing simulation intensifies!

The cries of acceptance are met with  the panther hunter,
                   a manipulator island killer—
                   his lonely filler jabber hides
                  the
                            forlorn
                                        silence.

The crash is fast—is fast—
is fast paced with ****** faces upset over the opposition.


Suddenly I see my own subconscious,
like a glass bowl fish trapped
I feel a vibration.
The vibration is less taciturn
but the stones in the gravel are smooth
the smooth sound resembles an ocean.
          An ocean
                    of my own concoction
          evaporates .. ..    ..  .    . … . . ..

In reality,
the sound is cashing in crashing ashes bought
debris from my glass bowl and money out the window—

                a wall of darkness…
                       the sounds cease….

When I meditate there’s a cosmic snake trying to eat my happiness.
When I meditate there’s a cosmic snake trying to eat my happiness.

It tries to distill and filter my happiness
It wants to fill it’s venom in my happiness
It’s gotta try and dry up all my happiness

The snake is everything I’m afraid of
It’s fangs are the anxiety of today
his body is the timeline of the times my family and friends done lied to me
the hissing is the pessimism that my ego wishes it could just ignore.

Fight the snake
Fight the snake
Fight the snake
Fight the snake
Fight the snake
Fight the snake

He’s green like the pride I never have
It’s eyes are red cause it’s always mad at the cheaters getting ahead
He wraps around my heart every now and then
but I repeat this mantra again and again.  

Fight the snake
Fight the snake
Fight the snake
When I meditate I fight the snake

He's cold...
and made of steel.
Trying to keep my head out of the clouds
so I'll never feel the serotonin omen of a good day again.  

That's why I fight the snake
fight the snake,
fight the snake.
When I meditate I fight the snake
and it all just turns out fine.

We get it—
nobody paid attention to you
growing up.
Now the reward is attention,
lots of it—
From police, therapists, and a family
that doesn’t understand.
They want to help
but you make it hard—
The anger isn’t directed at you,
merely the troubling revelation
truth is whatever garner’s the most eyeballs.
What are we supposed to believe?
Even the cutting you implore
isn’t linked to depression.
Everyone wants to help,
but you have to want  it as much
as the attention you desire.

The turkey-oh-gee, on
Isn’t the same
As turg-ee-ohg-heeee.

I chickened a buffalo.

Do moke smock in
The biff part this marks
The spot I’m not skipsing

This was longer ago.

I watch dead birds dance
around the campfire.
Their chirps sound like thousands of years ago.

I can feel it working.

The coyote's rhythmic panting
conforms to my heartbeat.
Bedridden is given to the gods as a sacrifice.

But I need to find my body...

The warmth from the ashes and timber
combined with the midnight air
massages and entangles my hair.

The body I have is is fading...

My eyes are pulling me back
the wind hushes my cries.
The mountains weigh me down.

Breathing is no longer an issue...

Let's stay outside for the rest of our lives
the date number are broken like the glass on a watch
Let’s be mindless
Side/shift and find this journey of plentiful creative play
Let’s write a book
Design it’s type
Fill the pages with gibberish tripe
We can write about the extra electric brain
fueling the natural brightness of the billowing fire
Let’s not awaken from this illicit society of nature...

Tick              tock            tick
        tock              ­             tick        
                           tock

Moments         inside
the     room,       time        slows
down.


Muscles                 atrophy
       adenosine*                      floods
               my                     brain.


Tick                          tock                      ­  tick
        tock                          

                               tick        
                                               tock…


The                  air                      conditionin­g                 hums
   a                      lullaby                       and              I
          feel                            numb­.


The                   room          is                      darkening—
       I                    try                 to                      grab                something…


Tick    ­                    
                                      tock                      ­  
                                                              ­       tick

                                                           ­                                            tock.

I want to thank Ms. Kann, Pat Robbins and Ms. Farley;
the realtors that convinced me to buy the poetry house.

I want to thank Marie and Lynn,
for warming the hearth. Next time, close the door. Smoke damage is a pain.

I want to thank my parents
for lying; the concrete foundation to this house of cynicism.

I want to thank the neighbors,
without the windows I wouldn’t learn anything.

I want to thank Mr. Lynch, Ginsberg, Carlin & Blake
for the fridge. An excellent place to keep my brain food

I want to thank. Mr. Gabriel and Miss Phoenix,
the only two lights in this house.

He told me it was a protest
against the evils
in Somalia--
      Darfur--
           the bailouts--
                the tea party intolerance--


I questioned the intelligence behind this plan.

How does silence bring about change?
What if a King or a Lennon stayed silent?
Silent marches tend to draw little attention

I think he merely wants the temporary attention
and faux-righteous sympathy
from others.

Silence makes for great introspection,
but a lousy outcry.

On a whim—
     I said yes.
I went to their place
ready for the awkward tension.
But she’s a good friend.
I’d simply ignore
          the prodding questions
of her boyfriend
and their    uncomfortable   verbal altercations
always ending       in      “babe.”

It was especially
       uneasy
    that night.
He had it in his head
“his girl” and myself shtupped.

She was annoyed,
I attempted cordiality.
He’d be a good lawyer—
          he asked again,
               a different way.
I take it back,
he’d be an awful lawyer.  
He’s           a             ****.
She offers to drive me home.

As we prepare to enter her car,
she noticed one of the tires.
a little deflated—
three nails.

She told me had I declined
the invitation to visit
she’d probably be stranded
on a highway somewhere.

I stood amazed,
knowing my split-second yes
reverberated throughout space,
and time,
revealing an alternate future
now avoided.

Quaint
pink curtains and tablecloths.
White walls.
The sugary smell of almonds, pistachio
and butterscotch skip around the room,
playing hopscotch and Mary Mack.

The display is impressive,
I can smell each grain of sugar
in these petit cupcakes and dollops of icing.

And then a little girl wails!
Mommy won't buy
      her     anymore
                    sweet        treats.
Bawling--
         the girl does an angry-stomp-dance-
    and then a woman, livid--
storms          up to the counter.
I said half dozen almond biscotti.
I can't take these to my book club.
Isn't anyone here competent?
Her booming voice has no effect
on the lone,
tired African-American woman behind the counter.
She seems disassociated from the present chaos.
The dark circles under her eyes
and the surrounding pursed lip wrinkles say everything.

Excuse me, but I've been waiting
on a refill of the complimentary coffee
for over ten minutes now  
             an uptight gent in a business suit complains.
When the woman behind the counter
pulls out out a shotgun--
        
            there is silence.

This ain't what I wanted
she whimpers just before
the weapon gracefully slides
under her chin--
     --!BAM!--

As I walk out the door,
I wonder how long it will
take for someone to realize
that's not red icing or sprinkles
on the cupcakes.

Control never achieved
as a child haunts you. Now
you’re attempting control
over everything. Just
because order helps you
cope, doesn’t mean the world
is organized. Nothing
is ever perfectly
clean, or strait unless you
perform the act. It seems
your ego has molded
you to be savior and
hero. Get over yourself.

A small, blonde haired child peers into a mirror
his reflection shows a short beard--
dark brown hair with streaks of gray.

He just finished eating ice cream
in a room where his Aunt suffered
until death.
The toppings were sprinkles
and the lies his parents told him about the day she died.


In the reflection,
the little child noticed a picture of a woman
he’s never met.
But throbbing, sleepless headaches
And $5 red wine breath from the reflection
say otherwise.

He draws cuts on his wrists to remember her in the future.


His superhero and wrestling action figures
are strewn about in ****** positions
he doesn’t know about. Yet.    

When the power goes out--
TV stays on.
The little boy watches silver orbs drill into someone’s head
while hugging his power rangers blanket.
In his head
he recites  David Lynch’s Alphabet.

The scent of hotcakes lingers in the air.
Before dissipating,
Uncle mumbles
about the deaths of the child's siblings
that haven't happened.

Little child was given money
by grandparents,
For church,
but it smells like ****.
In the background,
the reflection has portraits of Ginsberg and William Godwin.

only I'm drunker.

Wannabe Kerouac's still there.
If he really wanted to be Jack
he'd be die from all the drinking.  


Neon.
The beer flows.


I charm.
People drink up my 1920's wit.
They're happy seeing me again
they think I'm one of them.

Their hugs last longer,
the smokes die quickly.
Friends reunite
but the party continues.


Neon.
The beer flows.


The speaking was business
but now business is drinking.
I'm for that.
The more I drink the less
I hear their redundant and empty conversations.
Everyone wants to do business with each other-
         no outsiders despite claiming to be as such.


Neon.
The beer flows


The bottles are empty,
I feel the **** wearing off.
Time to leave again.

I wanna build a road in the sky
into the sky
I wanna build a road
in the sky for you.

Never mind the speed limit
in the future
you have traveled.
Intersection’s are non-existent
but there’s a tunnel in the distance
In the distance,
in the distance,
in the distance.

Your nighttime hair and your daytime smile
justify the time it takes to catch up.
Floor it to the sun
the road wonders on
past the sky and the atmosphere.
The road is the future
as told to our individual selves.

You take a left
I’m blinking right
you blast off
into the vast nighttime.

I wanna build a road in the sky
into the sky sky
I wanna build a road
in the sky for you.

I think I’m gonna
catch up. But the sun melts
the road and I’m all f’d up.

My love gas is empty
when you’re back in the country.
I can’t find you
because the road I built won’t show me.

And the time’s gonna test me,
The time’s gonna test me

I'm still going to try
building a road into the sky
for you.

\
you need to pay the electric rent
on your electric window
with your electric calculating device
so the electric lights
and electric information
aren’t lost to you forever.
now I smoke electric cigarettes
when I'm stressed.

what is lost
when it’s all electric?
what is real when it’s all electric?


The physical 3D world is only apparent because it’s not something that blinks or glows.
There is only depth.
Peering into the depths of these objects reveals nothing….


when I look into friends,
past their physical soft shells
I see an electric being, coded in a way unique just to them…
I can see their aging process before my eyes.
the electric bursts cause their static mirage to dissipate
only for a split second.
I recognize my brain traveling fast,
synapses communicating quickly.

My electric center is supercharged
by something not electrical in nature….
but natural
from the world
for world..-=.
/

The red roses melt,
as does her smile.
But that’s not surprising
when she pulls out her deck of tarot cards to play poker.


She never respected living.
The TV screen illuminates her face
in the darkness of the small room.
The clouds outside feel like they came from her eyes.


Everyone in the world gathers
outside her home
to watch, trying to understand
Only to be met with a wall of indignation.


There is a coldness in her body
but a warmth in her glass eyes.
Her home is just a shell now,
filled with things that wore out their usefulness.


Only the white door to her bedroom
isn’t covered in red splatters.
It’s locked. Everyone’s afraid of what’s behind it.
They’re going to tear down her home.


But it’s too late.
She’s already succeeded
in proving this is no
Utopia.

I am programmed,
but my wiring is faulty.
The cheese grits
aren’t designed to my specific function.

Synapses fire after a bite
I watch my brain
create crafted words
built for a sentence.

Today, time is mechanized slowly.
Ideas are moving
fast on the assembly line.
It feels like the gears are greased.

The wheels are burning
friction bends and erodes
the structure keeping it together.

The owner stains the machine
with ink.
A reminder to turn it on.

I see the ladder in the      distance
But according to the timeline
of the conversation
we only spoke       briefly
on the ladder

We spent the majority of time
climbing up and
down
It’s hard to  speak
when              climbing
Do you notice that?
Can I safely ask that in context of the conversational timeline
as we travel farther away from it?

It looks            lonely
but reminds me of a dream
The undefined lighting is a large factor
The ladder is         outside,
on a beach, dead center
It’s really          inside           a room
That’s why the lighting is off
I can see the corners of the       walls meeting

But you don’t care about the ladder
You’d rather move forward
in the timeline
to a more recent conversation

Just let me have another moment with the ladder
then I can move on

He looks like a kabuki dragon
acid trip, only on his left half.
After ordering some coffee,
this man, of intimidating height
continues his conversation with the blonde.

The green ink covers his face,
and slowly meanders to the left of his body.
Hairless, the glasses and earring
make his exterior look like a pearl.
As he talks with his hands,
the green moves like leaves in a jungle
that swallowed the gem.

In a single swipe,
his paws could crush mountains.
Both hands envelope the coffee cup
as if it were a tiny kitten he is leaning in to kiss.
Despite his brutish appearance,
I can tell he is a gentle creature.

His deep voice is soothing,
as each sentence hums  
though it causes the coffee shop to shake.
I wonder if gods sound like that
or if all the smoke this dragon man exhales
has deepened his chords.

I’m nervous this living mythical figure
will catch me staring,
though I’m sure it wouldn’t be the second time
he’s had to ignore it.
I’m envious, knowing his journeys
and personality are etched into his skin
for the world to see.
But only he knows the translations.

So bold,
so confidant to wear not just love
but pain and life-lessons on his skin.
Perhaps I’m drawn or inked to him
because I could never be that open,
and honest without saying a single word to anyone.

There is a drowning—
Vehicular                   siren…………..




The                       distance,         is in the             air...

            Pressure echoes
Through the crack of                  the window.


Mark it in the tree surfaces.
Legitimate ides
Jolted out of place
           For future……………………..
Thinking           is    finished          tonight

It’s unclear when time stopped functioning like a linear candle,
but at one point during the night my words echoed
for hours
in a loop.
The conversations became gerbils running on exercise *****
while black holes transported me to vast distances
forward and back within the conversations.
Now I know what power the “if-there-is-a-god” “God”
enjoys.
Having enough time and space to examine a conversation from any point
in any space, volume or time.

As we continue talking,
I notice the conversation coming to the ******—
But abruptly it jumps to the end.
My friend looks to me for approval,
and all I can say is that I must retrace my steps
in this moment,
             For I arrived sooner mentally, but not spiritually.
What they don’t tell you in the Bible
is how hard it is for the omnipotent asexual being to
processes a conversation from end to beginning.

        Imagine starting out with all the facts, and then quickly giving them away,
yet you still had a vague idea that you held all the facts at one point
In the timeline of this conversation.


The awkwardness is so palpable,
I could cut it like a cake…
but only I’m aware the cake is poisoned.
When a slice is handed to me,
I think to myself, “Don’t eat that, it’s poison.”

It’s tough being for the audience to tolerate this.
You know I must eat for the process
and entertainment to continue.


My friend wants answers, and guidance. I’m supposed to be helping him in this time of need, or consoling him in some way.
But I can’t without all the facts
I have a vague idea I once possessed.

Some are almost shattered.

They’re pieces,       scratching         tearing  grinding 

     wearing 
down.
You can tell something       isn't
       right.


Like a ceramic         vase         dragged      across                 gravel. 


Their moods are brief flashes 
of—           mommy's hugs

and strangers—kicking the **** 
      out  of     their bowels. 


They aren't even w  h  o  l   e,

merely p i e c e s         of ceramic and clay.

Some are smooth, held in a gentle hand.


But others are jagged reminders of being hurled into a wall.


I often wonder if it's my responsibility to mend these pieces,
or just let them be
as I've grown to admire the individuality
of these shattered personalities.

She sits on the stairwell outside,
in one of the grayest evenings
I’ve seen in a while.
The humidity is atrocious,
she’s breathing liquid air

Waiting,
but there she sits.

Ready for the guy she met In the dairy isle
to whisk her away to expensive pasta and wine.
She’s been outside a good half-hour

Waiting,
but there she sits.

Her slumped head in her knees
says she’s loosing patience
as she wipes away some tears of self-doubt.
I wonder why she doesn’t call the guy.

Waiting,
there she sits.

With each passing car
turning in the parking lot
we share the same thought,
hoping it’s him.
As each car picks up friends or parks
our hearts slump lower into our stomachs.

I treat my brain like this paper.
I write and draw over every inch
until not even a single letter can fit.
Scattershot pieces of ideas lay freshly inked
on the surface…

Then I rip everything apart.

It’s convenient looking upon the confetti rips
strewn over the ground.
It’s so much easier to find the doodles and words
I forgot about long ago.
  
But I always fasten it together again,
though perhaps not the same way each time.
Sometimes, I make animal shapes like butterflies
or a pouncing tigers held together with safety pins.
Other times I just  slather glue on the pieces
then drop them on construction paper.

Should I so choose,
I have complete control as to where each doodle is placed.
Ripping allows me to see every angle of my brain
thus allowing me to see every angle of the world I inhabit.

I do this often,
for fear if stopped
friends and strangers won’t find me
objective or comforting.
The ripping saves my brain from staying sedentary
and saves me from living complacently.

Tonight, the midnight wind
offers a nostalgic rush
of something I’m unsure ever existed.

I’m transported back the late 1800’s,
deep in the New Orleans south.
Sweaty, I can smell the rain approaching.
The rustling oak tress with Spanish moss sway
in the gray skies.
I’m assisting a powerful Mambo,
chopping her fire wood
Finding certain plants.
Cooking her meals
when she feels too drained.

Cause of my help, she’s made sure
I’m protected
from all the seen and unseen
mysteries of the world.

As thunder strikes in the past
I can’t help but think of the ceremonies—
Dancing,
The drums echo
Our feet shake the wooden planks.
The drums echo
And we are dancing—
dancing ‘till our legs throb
dancing ‘till our lungs explode.
We scream ‘till our ears bleed—
‘till our head hurts.
Anxiously we await possession.

That seems like my life once.

At least, that’s what the wind tells me.

Whenever I close my eyes,
I become a sketch of myself, on paper.
My body, and the world, is two-dimensional.
Shadows only slant, and I am without substance;
there is only one visible side of me at a time.

In these moments, I only fear
someone ripping me up
or burning me to ashes.
I feel lighter too,
like I could just
summersault  
      cartwheel    
                     swan dive.


Once my eyes open again
I am weighted.
I am tired.
I am full.
I’m whole.

Goddess of virility suckles me
to ******—

Her legs stiffen…
to acute angles.
Toes, ballerina firm
make her
body—
                         levitate from the bed.


A smile reveals…fangs
the tips of which
          are barely…touching
                   my ear.
The lizard tongue hisses in ecstasy
revealing ancient—spiritual…bliss
mystics could only
           speculate of.


Her anaconda legs
wrap—
        around my back
as her fingernails
           embed into
         my            spine.
   When I yank
Her hair
                    Her             eyes
Scream                   inside                out.

Our bodies—
Swimming             in
An ocean      of         ravenous
                  Liquids pulsating from       our pores.
Sopping hair clings
          to our        foreheads        
we suddenly realize—
                 A new shape is            invented.      
We make a sound         so         primal
inside each other’s mouth
as her jaws snap down
to my neck—
both bodies rigor-mortis stiffen
       as the mountains collapse around us
and        the   sky is ripped open      as a tsunami
billows down into a wave of exhaustion.
The wind cradles us,
Back to the earth
    We split,
Admiring a new continent
We created.
      Our limp bodies—
numb from the velocity and suggestions
resign to the crater
we call a bed.
We smile, simultaneously,
looking past
our brains,
realizing…
in         this        moment
we, are one.

In one brief moment, everything changes.
For a split second, thought becomes something distant.
Sensation is full, yet innocence gone.

A feeling of nothing, but everything.
Paternal elders understand, yet shy away.
They know how everything works in their head.

Brief, pure bliss attained through primitive acts.
Maternal elders understand, but blush
like it is something to be ashamed of.

Higher powers tend to condemn this void,
but all show what this signifies, even though
they don’t like to speak of it. One pure word.

Unity.

Focus on the stress—

                dissect and study it.

It's catching the fish.

                       The bigger the fish the more overwhelming it is to catch.
                        The heavier it weighs when you try to lift it.

It's best to catch one fish at a time,
after all,
               You can't hook more than one.
                Imagine the weight of a large pile of fish.
It's not enough to simply catch and examine--
                 you have to carve and slice off the head.

Eating is understanding,
coming to terms and enjoying the meal.

An image flashes—
Enjoy       the      madness…


Eat a rope
& fall
through the galley.

Eyes          wide           smiling
never stop smiling
pale skin                 smiling
white  teeth   paper    c u t s

Lost…..e y e s
Time is but an itch
                The smiling                   stops

                                            once         he’s---gone

Graveyard lexicon
baffles today’s texters
--Orange peel breath
                  Despite            lethargic                   lips…


Your memory is merely paper;
he’s good with origami.



Hairlessssss
Heirlesssssssss
                       smiling.  

Harmless, but—
beware        o’ the      winter     m o n t h s
          For he is—
                         Cold…

Rigor mortis is afraid of smiling.
    He’s….
            An acid trip for the paranoid schizophrenic conspiracy moon landing grassy knoll 9/11 was an inside job the right/left control the media Dan Brown’s works have merit skull & bones society they put cancer in our foods men in black crypto zoologist buffs…

His smile; smiles.
His grin—grins.
Dresses             like a pine-tree **** … … S m i l i n g, smiling….

The grayish blues scratch and scrape
across the evening sky.

I can’t help but be distracted,
collectively, the cicadas sound like an alarm;
warning me of the approaching storm.

The orange and pink light
defines the edges,
and some idealistic amateur snaps a couple picts
before the nighttime rain.

While I’m shaping the imaginations
of children watching lambs and lions,
two eccentric lovers see the mermaid
I sculpted after some birds fly through it.
But the sky is becoming darker.

I don’t feel like coming back down.
Too many people are inspired.

I’m content, floating up here,
occasionally waving, to friends
who had high hopes of careers until
they became chained by pregnancy
while family’s are cemented to the ground
by debt and foreclosure.

I’m better suited up here,
despite the warnings. I like the wind
blowing through my hair.
It feels like Mother Nature is caressing me.

But the cicadas and a few friends
are calling, telling me
lightning will strike me down.

But the truth is
I’ve been wanting, waiting for that to happen
since I first began flying.