Afternoon waves splash
across the rocks--

kshhhhhhhhhh,
kshhhhhhhhhh...

Several green Stella's glisten
in the shade,--

kshhhhhhhhhh,
kshhhhhhhhhh...

Soothing wind spins around in my hair,
the sound dances off the waves--

whhhhhhhhhhh kshhh,
whhhhhhhhhhh kshhhhhhh...

My open eyes gaze
into the sapphire-lapis sea--

whhhhhhhhhhh kshhh,
whhhhhhhhhhh kshhhhhhh...

Time is still,
only the water is moving.

*kshhhhhhhhhhhh.....

Tonight,
for the first time,
I feel like my age
when my friends describe me
as an "old soul."

My bones feel hollow--
like glass in an oven,
my breath shallow--
a shadow fading in an overcast.
Ancient lessons drool
out of my mouth,
a tired tongue parched
and dry from the sands of time.

My mind yearns for "good 'ol days"
so far in the future
it seems like the past.

But gasoline has been poured
over my campfire harmony heart.

I'm just getting started.

May you rest well & tango with the crimson leaves aglow with whimsical love living in their veins vivaciously while the effervescent vicarious vespers of air spirits lift and play oboe tones atop the glorious ruby mountain in the kiss of dusk.

Also i love you dear, sweet honey cinnamon habibi queen goddess being.

A primal prima nocta scream
bursts the clouds
as I spin around spin around
I fight the urge to pound my head
against the wall
as a voice calls my name
& I feel the shame from ages ago
it echoes it echoes it echoes again
friends laughing as I fall with an empty bottle in my hand

I stand down
fall up
take a bow
But how do I how do I
how
do I
fly
away from here?

How do I
how do I
how do
I fly
away
from here
without my time piece

Headlights suddenly blind me
as I’m dancin’ in the streets
Tryin’ to flee this rhythm
this rhythm
Carelessly
derelicts speak  
to the pain I scream
& the beating the beating the beating of my heart
I just wish I could fall up to the stars…

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?

Canada,
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.

Thudding walls calamity crash
bozo bongo beatitude drinkatude
splashing chi whisky against amaretto amethyst ice mountains  
wallowing winds whisper storm clouds
and tidal waves
weaving
in and out of bodies like a titanium knife
glistening like the moon.
and i sit on top of a mountain
watching,
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...

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

Some aspects of the world
remain static....

One cannot help but experience
pangs of deja-vu
as their conscious energies walk
through this spiral timeline
dressing the sphere we call home.

We are created from all the energies which we are born into.
Stands to reason
all the answer sought
lay within
as we are created from all the energies which we are born into.

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 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.

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!

some view storms
as clichéd expressions
related to the overwhelming
events of each individual droplet
shattering the serenity of our perception
& flooding our thoughts-
almost drowning our minds
in tumultuous anxiety.

i prefer to see storms
as a cleansing experience-
washing away those thoughts
& events no longer needed
within our subconscience
into a swirling, roaring
whirling and bubbling
muddy puddle...
down an infinite drain,
where the caked dirt dries--
crystalizes
into a lesson in humility,
& letting go....

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.

Despite being alive 26 years--
I didn't start dancing until last year.

Sure, I'd been to my fair share
of blackout tequila & whisky parties at university
or went on many an adventure
sneaking into movie theaters
with a fellow once considered a Friend,
but part of me knew the truth--
these were not my dances.

The endless whisky bottle songs
first sang to me by dear 'ol pops
would serenade my subconscious,
a kind of absurd fuel pushing me
through a place where something felt like a picture in frame
just slightly askew.

Even the *** felt white-toast bland.
Might as well of crammed McDonalds into my mouth
saving much emotional confusion, & a little cash.

I lived vicariously through this Friend;
a maudlin flame who kept drowning
in his own sticky tar lovesick abyss
anytime he met a woman.
He was a writer,
he stopped going to university.
I  was too terrified to do so,
but subconsciously that is what I craved,
hence the thirsty Thursdays and wine down Wednesdays.

I didn't start living until last year
because the thought of financial security
was installed into my self by the parents.
Figured I was doing this advertising thing
as a way to write so I could write what I want as a part-time hobby,
like stamps.  

But my artist's heart kept beating
a 5/4 jazz rhythm in my body.
With the help of a wondrous doe-eyed pixie gypsy,
I learned to dance with it.
Had to empty my pockets
of friends and flasks
& open my mind to the time
of the cosmos
& dance.

When you spread your
lips,
like wings,
your midnight words
whisper on my
skin.

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

Watercolor eyes
drip,
like ice,
glistening in the moon,
reflecting rainbows on my
shadow.

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...

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.

I don't know you that well.

Aside from small brushes of conversation
and the neo-classical poetry you gracefully
whisper through whatever cloud your laptop lays upon.

I only mention this as you probably
know about 2% less about my life
than my best friend, Joshua Wade.

You have also inspired
one of the greatest Lapis Lazuli truths
from within my being to burst through
the world twirling in subconsciousness
until speaking to you Rose Quartz crystalized it...

Makin' creatin' a lightspeed igniting conversation, one star nation takes patience to see the people slowly wakin' n' bakin' up like an S.O.S is morse code from herb tokes in the late midnight.

Indigo third eye aliens sailin' in wailin' blues like the sinnerman nina simone and tracy chapman entrapped and entwined like a serpentine mind warp in time like kaleidoscope bhavacakra.

We be inside a cocoon of warmth, while sunsets high atop begets a period of gratitude n' news of ancient wizards of the earth burning sacred stories in sky paintings of clouds in the Canadian north spring equinox.

Fox spirits and raccoon  split spliffs from peace pipes at night. Families are reuniting. Trojan horse tricks lift spirits hearin' our kicks and screams howlin' and wowlin' at the moonlight while kali dragons claw away time 'till its an infinite mush of mashed sweet potato pie,
but in order to make one from scratch we must first create the universe.

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

Down
     Down Diagonal
                 Down
We go--
passing depths of rabbit holes
& looking glasses
into the     c  r  a  c  k  s    of our own          
              ((((souls))))
where we've built
            {{{[[DAMS]]}}}
that stopped and stuffed
the F           o
            L              W.

Down
     Down Diagonal
                 Down
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
     Down Diagonal
                 Down
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.

there sits Father Time
drinking a 50 year old scotch,
neat.
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!"

Birthing them--
momentous, mind shattering push
they burst through our skull
like a sprouting flower.
Many nurture them,
with wisdom & understanding of how to present themselves...
feeding them bit of thoughts
mixed in a sweet bottle.

They're passed around--
gently, to friends and family.
We are proud--
beaming like Buddha.

I like to play with them,
hold them up to the sky--
showing the world,
I feel like that scene in Lion King!
Ever so gently I twirl, lightly toss...
so they feel like they're flying
as I wind up my arms
then hurl them with as much force as I can muster against the wall!

my body becomes a little numb
when i seek out your work,
to read,
like a nerve pinching inside my spine.

i don't want to read
your words,
but they still stick to my lungs.

you write such brilliant poetry!

i should just take my cues
from you & delete
all the ways we can communicate
with each other from my digital brains.

your silence shatters my eardrums,
i-get-it.

but your writing is too delicious
to not consume for breakfast
(along with my oatmeal and word salad
garnished with almonds).

your words still make my brain vibrate,

i think you can see the conundrum.

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.

I see an image—
breeze, they dance time.
River breeze,
the ideas worth sharing
GROW
like fish floating in a trail
of the lightning whipping
across the sun with
the dancing moon.
Ripples—
I see an image of a way
across the midnight surface,
the sky tip toes
at the edge of celestial festivals.
The thunder is envious
of a starry night.
But you seem so far away,
across the water there is no bridge to meet.
Shine like the reflection cast in pale deception,
only kinder.

The words I wrote before
were mean spirited
vile
and yet completely true.

Someone once told me,
"There are no wrong emotions,"
one fo the many lessons I've taken
to my spirit.

I never thanked you,
you're the one who
       turned my life on a more spiritual path
       taught me that there are others like me in the world
       & loved me for being me, something few folks do.

Being part of the gasoline
that fueled the burning of our bridges
is one of two things I shall regret
in this lifetime.
Though I am hopeful other lives
in the future smoke
will give us a chance to reconnect.

I'm proud of our times together,
saddened our hang ups hung us.

There's always going to be a place
you occupy in my brain
whether you want to be there or not.
Your poetry still moves me.

I can't forget you.
But, that doesn't mean
you don't have to.

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.

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.

An image flashes—
Enjoy       the      madness…


Eat a rope
& fall
through the galley.

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….

We dance
an exclusive 2 person naked in the mirror
space drum party dance.

Me w/ my whisky nectar.
She w/ her Rooibush.

OUTSIDE:
we bey to the stars
sending wild—child peace
blessings &
excited gratitude
into the air
along w/ velvet earth herb smoke
the embers of the zoot twirl and dance
un the blue tone morning midnight,
a wild-child firefly.

We take a bow for the deer
watching us in the chill of the night
under a tree.

UPON RETREATING INDOORS:
we vow an early rest—
which melted away
to a cosmic vibrating undulating
wave of cataclysmic ecstasy
into the sacred dimensions of dream realms
our light shines & combines
star bodies
closer to the whole
holiness
raining kisses
upon necks
& *******
with claps of thunder tongues
and lightning hands.

Sometimes, there ain't nothin' to say--
and on these days my tongue lays limp
and delicate and ashy
like one of those incense sticks
just before the ashes drop and disintegrate.

On these days my mind is an insomniac
attempting sleep just before sunrise--
jostling in a half-hazy-lazy rapid eye sedative lullaby
crooning potential plot points from French voices
about a story I've be writing for about a year.

On these days nothing seems finished
from a monster vegetable and eggs breakfast appetite
to a thought about that magic lightning stick.
It's as if there's this thick fatty mist
that smells of boiled ham and peas around my being.

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.

I float on by
I float on by
up up away in spaces
beyond the planes
of existence
& when I cry
I wish this time
would speed up
we just
don’t know
where I’ve been
or how far I’ll go
because
I float on by
I float on by
Confined by my thoughts
as I want to stop
this elongation
patiently racing
forcing destinations
into place when
people’s faces
are shadowed
shallow traces
of waters carving
the canyons within myself
drowning
I float on by
I float on by

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.

1) A common way to politely describe behavior that isn't "normal" or "defined."
2) Formerly a divine title