Now I lay me down to sleep
ready for my soul to dream,
but it's hard to rest when I hear
everyone singing the Tomorrow Blues Lullaby.
My parents sing "We're just waiting for retirement,"
My 9 to 5 friends sing "I'm living for the weekend"
a few of them sing "I'm looking forward to football"
my brother sings "I'm looking forward to Breaking Bad"
and the banks sing "Save for today so you can live for tomorrow."

I'm not too fond of this song,
it makes my heart race, my face twitch and my breath shallow cold.
I can't fathom living to be old with mountains of folded quid and clothes
dinning on modified tomato corn sandwiches inhaling CO2
and watching housewives on the tube.

I dream of living near a babbling stream in the woods, or atop a quiet mountain,
something peaceful and away from it all.
But the elder Generation X and baby boomers
like my parents tell me I've got to pay my dues,
they tell my Generation Y peers and I are spoiled and entitled
with more gadgets and toys disturbing the system
cause we all think we deserve the world cause we've been taught "you're all special."

These bitter, harsh notes in the lullaby
keep me awake; like a chord-clashing siren song
causing heartache and migraines.
I prefer passive words but this burning breath
ruptures my throat and scalds my veins
smoke rising and flames dance along my tongue
as these choking words burst forth;

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry we're not blindly walking down the same roads
like the days of old sending loved ones overseas as soldiers in Afghanistan or Iraq
killing each other instead of building our own path.
I'm sorry we're staying awake instead of "living the dream"
in a conveyor belt system of school-job-live-die that you built for us.  
I'm sorry we're leery of trusting banks and the invisible electric money
you helped "print."

But most importantly, I'm sorry
you're upset. You have every right to be.
You're starting to see what you build holds no interest for them or me.
We're building another ride, one where we can be free and one with everything.
So go on, call us names,
tell us we're not special despite teaching us we are.
While you're trying to push forward in housing, pharmaceuticals and gas
we're starting to wake up  from this dream to see
starving children and diseases yet to be cured
all the while seeing what we've learned from you
is just absurd and untrue.
THIS HURTS US TOO.
We know so much sweaty, sleepless and stressful hours
were put into this path, but at some point
will you realize it's going in the wrong direction?

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.

Sitting inside a cloud of shisha--
with subtle hints of strawberry shimmying
through the midnight moonlight,
the incandescent embers
radiate from their core
forming ancient runic shapes
reminding me of a time beyond the concept of before....

when elders spoke with ashes in their words
traveling to worlds within looking through
the windows to each other's souls
where the rhythm of a heartbeat
and the melody of breathing cacophonously echos
through our gray matter canyons.
A time when millennia passed by in milliseconds
as everyone danced like a flame grinding on a candle wick
wailing with ecstasy--
every bead of sweat slithering from head to feet
arousing like a maddening kundalini explosion--
a honey-like nectar glowing throughout our body
pouring out of us brilliantly brighter than any white-hot sun!

I think
this might be a reason for my fascination
when it comes to inhaling fire--
despite my earth-natured tendencies
I'm still hypnotized by the first gift to mankind;
light.

Drifting....
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-
                 washing
                bubbles popping over pores.
           and I rejoice!
         a homecoming for an ocean's drop rejoined--
                         rejuvenated!
                           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 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.

Red owl Raoul
is black cat jesus, that's me.
She is a buddha *****
cosmic Kali.
WE BOTH
        LIKE
              PANCAKES!

We be time-benders;
the Moonrise
Kingdom children.

She's the d-flow,
     I'm the P-funk.

We both be seein the future
in-synchronistic
copacetically hieroglyphic kaleidoscope jazz time.

Speakin' cayenne magic,
we make love with eye blinks
and smoke kisses.

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.

Today I don't believe
in love at first sight.
It's been replaced by lust;
a look of stalking prey
without any real understanding of "who"
but rather "want."

I must have believed in it
when I met you
millions of years ago--
our eyes synced together,
and for only a passing moment
we must have grokked each other--
forging an early link in the chain
called our timeline
through the fire within our molten third eyes,
binding our spirits together in the metal with lightning
from our hearts
and a hammer of certainty
as we saw each new life
we were to live had us meeting
all over the world, from Denmark to ancient Mexico
to Egypt to The Light past the darkest parts of outer space.

That's the only explanation
that makes sense,
why I don't believe in it today,
because it's already happened ages ago.

I don't recall where in the bible it says
Love thy neighbor, unless they are...
or
Do unto others as you would have them
do unto you, unless...

Of course, if you're quoting bible verse
or any form of religious doctrine
you're in a lot of trouble anyway!
These words tend to contradict themselves.

That, and you're quoting a book,
not your soul.
Maybe some of your soul
is in those sacred pages,
but definitely not all.
And why are you scouring books
trying to learn how to live your life?

The answers aren't in there anyway,
at least not whole ones.

The answers are in you!
God is you! You are god!
You are created from particles that inhabit the universe!
You are the universe!
YOU ARE NATURE!
YOU ARE ALL!

All the answers are in you,
just have to know where to look.
Just have to remember,
just have to remember
just have to remember...

just have to remember
we are god, the universal ONE
creators of our own habitats
& sustaining celestial universes of friends and family.
Like the universal ONE
we make and create life
from ****** cosmic big bang howls hurling white rock into feminine space only for a star child to be born over time.
Billions of lives reside & crawl within skin walls, cavernous intestines & ride on vein roads controlled by the omnipotent electrical awareness called the ONE brain & son mind.

Each new friendship & connection is its own universe and some expand too quickly fizzling out with a deflated echo of "It's not you, it's me," and returned DVD's
while others cultivate and grow gradually sustaining a millenia lifetime of cafune, pumpkin pancakes in bed, Facebook photos and winks.

We are the ONE where all the answers reside,
just need to have the heart to look inside
to find your higher calling is to honor thyself
as you would the univer-SOUL ONE.

They found us
walking on shadows
and spitting out dada pictures
of electric dinosaurs in plaid top-hats
licking the third eye of an incandescent sacred bird.
        We were burning up
   so much creative juice
              into laughing gas
           couldn't help but **** on a water bottle
                   as if it were the ***
           of a whale swimming in the arctic
                           simply
          for a few moments of relief.

i thought you looked like a razor--
ready to slit the wrists of the king suit
until i rembered this was deja-vu,
suggesting you could grow wings if you let life guide us.
                   We flew into purple dawn,  
                           a little drunk.

Crack-- creek--snap!

WINGS explode from my back
learning to fly is a *****
but my third-eye antennae
                is reading a world atlas
                            ready to traverse....

Crack-- creek--snap!

Waking up to a trashed apartment
my mind insists everything must go!
That includes the world's most comfortable sofa
in that ugly pea soup olive green where I've probably spent too much time *******.

Crack-- creek--snap!

When I meditate in the shower
                    everything is dark.
          The closest thing to sensory depravation.
I travel to realms of talking green lions
            and electric purple snakes that sway
                      and I crave to stay in the emerald caves
       with the copulating mind flowers.
But I'm learning to fly now.  

Crack-- creek--snap!

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.

For some, certain places
hold a rather mythic oeuvre
in our veins; they are seen as places of magic.

Maybe a cyclist couple
have spent most of their money
on traveling  the world for their blog,
their last stop is New York City
so that they may get pictures of themselves
at places like The Brooklyn Bridge, Lady Liberty
& that megalithic skyline reaching the clouds.
Or maybe a foodie from Wisconsin
just wants to try Famous Ben's Pizza on the West Side
because its New York ******' New York pizza.

Maybe a doe-eyed screenwriter skips
his flat square suburban town
to sell his words and soul to the sprawling sunny L.A
where dreams are made in pixels.

Maybe some New Age beaded wrist to ankle lady
spent her life savings to jump over the ocean
to visit the ancient pyramids built for a purpose
yet fully known.

Maybe a bearded dude
visits Easter Island to try and understand
the complexities of his ancestors while
soaking in the rich vastness of nature around.


Maybe I used to see places this way. Probably...


But in these places people live!
It's not mythology to them.

Maybe every night a homeless man prays
& begs for food on the late night A-train in NYC.

Maybe a middle-aged fading blonde couple
spend their time in L.A at a health food store
to recoup the savings they lost joining a cult way back when.

Maybe a Swedish teen  traverses the trash
and littered-burned streets of Giza everyday
on her way to work
hoping funny looks aren't shot her way
for the way she dresses
or shouted at by bearded Salafi men.

Maybe a rare species of bug is unknowingly stepped on
in Easter Island.

Today, i see magic in getting lost on the NYC subway.
I found magic mythology on the beaches of Dahab,
80 miles away from Cairo.
I see magic in the mythologies,
while others live it,
        the daily grind.

*It's all around if you know where to look.

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.

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….

I broke the beer bottle
as a metaphor for my emotions--
                     the realization she was leaving setting in.
There was nothing romantic between us.
Just a friendship--
two people, sharing
dead seal dark humor
& common hatred of being idle.
She stayed in the hospital with me
after someone added something "special" to my drink.
We'd only met five hours prior.

You can't find that type of karmic green kindness
laying idly on a sidewalk or in the mall.
If only she weren't such an uppity *****--
I'd miss her even more.

I'd be at her goodbye party
right now, sharing bourbons
and yucking it up.
But she makes me feel
so ******* uneasy--
hence, I'm staying here,
drinking craft beer and honoring
her friendship by a pouring one out.

You want to be near me
but also have your space.
Fiercely independent spending days in bed
gives way to the shisha hangout.

                              In one moment, an ecstatic smile
                              is murdered by your melancholy eyes.  

You're confidence surges when you're straddling me;
a tiger ready for the passionate bite
yet you cry like a sick kitten at your own reflection.

                              You don't mind holding hands, kissing my forehead  
                              but then tell me you've just been pretending.

You tell me "I love you,"
but then "I don't know what love means."

                               You feel something is missing
                               yet are most comfortable laying next to me.

And yet I don't mind all of these contradictions...
for some reason I still want to be in your presence
because I have faith and hope that one day
you will see how much mental anguish
emotional confusion yet pure white-hot
right from the sun warmth you've given to me.
And I hope and have faith that one day
you will see what I mean when I speak
I LOVE YOU
into your heart and soul.

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.

You Egyptian hipstress
philosophically diggin’ through this
world to find a life to live with.
     Your  summer breeze
     metaphorically testing & caressing me
     --keep questioning
        don’t ever stop, please,
        trust me
it’s endearing
and steadfast.
Hearing your voice
my mind rejoices
synapses electrocute  my brain
& the fire in your voice
rises, burning, pulsing
hypnotic sonar warming my
                   soul…
yet you’re impulsively young, still trying
to find the right air to breathe;
via singing artistic gypsy
dominating submissives
yet pondering above your
      third eye
burning,
warming,
       heating—vividly  alive
within your eyes
      is intriguing
         yet deep down
      your rising
          embers pop!
               Your body dances
            sway—shaking—swaying
           burning ancient questions
in the earth          
but forgetting
  what the fuse
  is connected to….


                              *find the fuse

wash* away
            wash away
       wash away wash away


Ripple vibrations
stimulating hydration—
        dripping finger droplets
flushing worry
washed away
            wash away
       wash away wash away


Cleanse my senses
& grow my Earth.
The stream is healing
for my warm rebirth.
wash away
            wash away
       wash away wash away

Frantically, a snowflake falls--
terrified of the massive dark cloud
a former home.

Falling--falling
zig-zag loop-de-loop
twist reverse--falling--

Once a vibrant turquoise
filled with melodious birds
whose songs were carried by a brisk breeze--
The dark cloud now envelops
the sky
with a quiet, frigid, painful air
looking for that one frightened snowflake
in a sky of millions leaping for the ground,
forgetting it created that scared snowflake,
just like all the others running away...

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.

There's a dark wolf
behind my heart--
licking chops
ready to feast on the future
and guzzle the night nectar of what will be.
His smokey wings agape,
drawn to fly in to the moon's uvula.
The ash black fur smells of burnt strawberries.

A pale bobcat spectre leans
behind my mind...
smells like a gin bath...
       looks over its shoulder
longingly gazing into the murk-muck,
     that is.... the past.
Lavender eyes, and patterns of dirt
     on its sopping cold fur.

And here I am,
between the two...
a silent meditative fox
under the cherry blossom,
the breezy moment twirls the desert red fur,
nature's hum drums and strums the heart
as it grows into a lotus reaching for the  burning sun.

Thoughts evolve--
some harden
it's not a restart--
--it's a re-tuneup
like a mitochondrion blast to the brain
unchained and unburdened
burping out old patterns
with unhinged words orbiting
Saturn's Rings
the Summer Breeze
keeps teaching me
and I to her
with burning clarity.

It's feeling silly slinging
cyclical prisons off mental cliffs
singing Hallelujah 'till New Year
in our own time
flying through space in her eyes
electrifying each other when I
sometimes understand arabic.  

There's a shift in the desert sands--
feeling rain as I dance on my mind's eye
like waking up from a hallucination
as the water reignites my earthy veins
burning brightly off my tongue
breathing fresh air upon
entering another vertical 27th dimension in space
cause our smiles done gone crazy  
like an azurite lightning strike to the brain!

The name whispered in my mind
by the Summer Breeze
cause I cool things down with ease
with my spiraling cyclical George Carlin cynical
thoughts marchin' causing revolution
within ourselves beating hearts bleeding art
singing blues getting lost in the dawn light sun
sparkling in our smiles smoking like a peace pipe
being passed around a campfire.

We're following the full moon
Morrison crooning "LA Woman"
dancing around the burning fire pit
remembering a prehistoric time when
we helped share light with the tribe
through heavy exhales
the lung-piercing smoke signals
sashay toward the midnight stage in the sky.

As we dance around the fire
orange embers laugh crackling
illuminating the dark midnight
all are thankful for brief moments
of smoke blanket warmth on our backs
waiting to be tucked in by the glowing moon.

Too soon do we trapse back to reality
smashing glass bottles
to satisfy some primal urge
for ancient chaos screaming energy echoed
in caves and canyons years before the pyramids were even an idea.

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.”

I see you over there,
hey!
No, don't run away
there's no reason to hide
just because you're crying.
There's no need to wipe those tears
away and out of your eyes
because whatever fears you've subscribed to
only make this experience blithe too.
You're just lying to yourself
if you try to not cry
or run away and hide
because someone like me will spy when you do.
Be you, be real in this moment of feeling
no matter if you're kneeling or reeling
no matter if your mother has died
or your other slipped into the night without a goodbye
or even if you're clutching that rye-whisky really tight
please know that this scene of you crying
out in the open tells other's it's o-k.
There's no shame in having a good cry
it doesn't mean you're lame if it's after a futbal game
or in the middle of a stadium because your girl, or guy proposed.
It's fine to get misty-eyed in an art gallerye
or the pain felt when I tried to rhyme that last line!
Crying doesn't equal weak, if anything it adds to your mystique
as someone who has comfortability expressing their feelings.  

So the next time you feel your eyes start to well,
and your first impulse is try to quell such a sight,
say "What the hell" and let your tears fly as you cry
wisdom distilled.

I look past your face—
traveling deeper inside
through your consciousness
passing the galaxies in your eyes
farther beyond—
abstract psychedelic dimensions
of understanding in your brain
surpassing—
our comprehension
of time,
words
& the divine
as I continue traveling
to the vast, farthest
parts
of you
where there is
just a weightless
Nirvana of nothing…

Here, there’s just a void,
devoid of any life,
or, remnants of
sound.


There is
complete, nothing.

There is more copacetic bliss here
than any imaginary world,
or ***** fantasy
we’ve created.

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

to define love.
You'll be baffled
bewildered & broken by the end.

The cynical ones
will laugh,
say it's dead,
overused and cliche.
Why try write what Whitman, Dickinson, Frost & Shakespeare
have already covered?

The romantic ones
will wax on for hours
describing inner & outer beauty
compared to anything that strikes their eye.
Why can't you see it's everywhere?

The hip ones
will scare you,
take a ****
& describe some detailed carnal fantasy
involving tapioca & a talking *****
named Pony.

Ask a lawyer,
they could tell you the legal definition.

Ask your parents,
they will tell you something trite about seeing it through.

Ask little kids
for an adorably wise response.

Ask a dog
as it's ******* your leg.

Ask a scientist,
they will describe the chemical reactions in the brain.

Ask a prisoner,
they will tell you it's something they miss.

But never ask a poet
to define love.
Your brain will hurt,
half your day gone
& you'll be left heart broken
by the end.

Four people walk into a bar--
and let it all hang out.
      Everyone is spitting out some demons.
We knew we were at the right place
when the band started playing "Last Dance with Mary Jane."
My best friend made my neighbor cry,
but she needed it,
she's bottled up so much.
He wasn't mean,
just hit her with truth.

I let it known I have poor taste
in the woman I date.

                 No ***** were given,
we're all emotionally volatile
when sober.
We shared each other
along with drinks.

I jumped off my balcony.

The next morning
I cried--
what a release  last night was
for us.
Then I threw up.

Dreams bleed out
of my eyes--
my self pulled out
from flesh.

Crickets howl,
silent ***** purple wind sits
atop the hill.
Waves meander to dark horizons.

I'm anchored by my emerald heart.

The world turns
I am still
bodies move
I am still
small grain sands blow
I am stil
The moon calls me
and I am still.

So many questions await
in the gray foamy splashes,
future's scattered ashes
and pieces of land swallowed
I shall never know!
So many lives out there
and twinkling echoes reflect in the dark water.
Dharma travelers and gypsy mavericks
stain the waves of future and past.
All the answers swim out there--
stories and realms unheard
lurk in the briny bubbling deep.

I'd like to simply feel the water between my toes,
sleep in the sand with a fiery dream fox
and a bottle of red time wine from Dionysus Lair
as we slowly fizzle and puddle into the late-night grains
slowly being washed away  into the picturesque dark ocean liquid.

But all the answers lay in waiting,
in ruin,
sinking, drowning
and rusting  in the refreshing chill waters.......

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.

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.

Exploded like
a roar bursting forth from
a lion's enormous mouth--
he's trippin' on shrooms and
blasting off to a Saturnalia party on the moon Titan
with bits of dangling zebra meat
on his teeth; full
from luxurious **** a few days ago.
And since I'm just making things up,
let's say this big hip cat is wearing a rastacap
and has tye-dyed nails.

But as the month
wore on; closing out--
this same lion became frightened
of his own shadow--
listening for the winning lottery numbers in a conch shell
because he forgot about the oatmeal in his kitchen.
But since he's staying on Titan, that's
someone else's problem now.
He'd rather just sleep in an uncomfortable
wooden bed that's too low the ground
and lick his ***** between naps.

Water; the pure blood
of the earth tickles the rocky shores,
liquid congregation on the beach.
Race, religion and creed are forgotten
on the beaches of Dahab.

People are living,
an empty police station devoid
of lawmen--
they're swimming with people in the blood of the earth
on the beaches of Dahab.

Raggae and Spanish music waft
in the **** and hashish scented air,
as the people cool in the blood of the earth,
on the beaches of Dahab.

Living free and open,
far from the religious obligations and hungry lust stares in Cairo
people are tanning, laughing, drinking, being
in the blood of the earth,
on the beaches of Dahab.

pouring out my heart
into your glass cup--
emotions ferment over time
soon you runneth over
drowning in a taste once sweet
to the ears,
a heart-healthy concoction of poetry
and lame jokes about "what"
once able to warm your body
now tastes bitter like a rotten cheese
of moldy frowns
stinging like shards of passive aggressive glass
in the back of your throat.

after everything is gone
I feel empty--
alone
like one of those cheap bottle's of tuesday night sauvignon blanc
discarded next to my bed--
swilled in under a half-hour
because taste is irrelevant--
just using it for dizzy forgetfulness
waiting in bed next to me
for the opportunity
to kiss me with puke breath
and wrap my head in tender aching nausea .
  
Feeling used as I drift off
into a series of hazy dreams
only to be forgotten in the morning.

I look at your eyes
& can't help but gaze through
directly into your brain...

the silence speaks,                
                          our        thoughts
release            {{{{undulating}}}}        colors
      glowing through        our eyes
to          effervescently               coalesce
all over
               your subconscious
               ( (v i b r a t i n g) )
throughout           your          body
until we breathe
                azurite         dreams  
           from the incandescent heartbeat
                          of the      [plaid]       bliss
                  we have enveloped ourselves with....