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.

Good/pure/light/
could not exist
without
Bad/evil/darkness

My self could not exist
without
My family.
But I am
not
enslaved by them.

Their misguided
stubborn
and droll attempts
to impart
their guilt & sadness--
stemming back from their childhood
insecurities of when they didn't fit in,
or when they saw their childhood robbed
by a church/cult
with an idea of The Truth.
And their despair over
the death of my older brother--
who didn't even live a day--
affected their judgements
on the decisions I've made.

I could hold on to this,
be bitter,
& upset...

but I'm not.

I'm happy/
& learning to be copacetic...
For I was born unto
negativity
but charged
with positivity.

on my mother's head
and she cried
but it wasn't about the lamp.
Though the ironic illumination
it provided isn't lost on me.

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

If her tears were about the lamp
they wouldn't sound so heavy
when they fell.

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.

Her metaphysical elephant
drips in blueberry-orange watercolors.

It watches us share a glorious
evening with star compadres
gabbing about healing thoughts & solutions,
as the rain gently whispers and drips outside.

This is our continued celebration of the summer solstice
dances and twirls like gyrating hips
humming Native American sounds
outside with the same Moonrise Star-children.
The previous morning began with a twisting journey
unto & into our golden selves,
vibrating hysterically in the foamy
fig beaches.

Days prior, on the solstice eve evening
we drank & spoke
in an intimate swamp faye bar
with a Neil Young cover band on hand
to embrace our cosmic gypsy heritage.

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.

Mind pierces time
like a javeline through
a one-hundred dollar bill!

I can calmly explain
all I want
how I see
what I see.

But until our time
catches up to you
the words you just read
have evaporated from the page.

It's the moment you realize
our lives are constantly flashing before our eyes
as we're always a second closer to dying.
It's why we can see so far into the night
for those willing to traverse the harsh--
frigid cave of ancient words frozen in ice.

Tiresome
barriers
separate.

Man labels
to escape
a moment.

Tangible
barriers
manifest

keeping us
from learning
the moment.

So, as you know, I'm the kind of person
who prefers to traverse the worst news first
before dispersing with friendly pleasantries.

But, if I may speak free and honestly
I'm tired carrying around the genes
that subject me to overcome obscene

obstacles from your insecurities
as well as the fears of our ancestors.
I know there are lessons learned in character  

karma before switching out from one car
to another but sweet jesus, sometimes
it's hard to take a break or find space to breathe!

And you wonder sometimes why I cannot
ride over the same roads you built, spilling
oil, drilling mountains, supporting wars and more

systems that are killing the poor and/or
brown men and children. Well then, for my health
and well-being I need to at least find some peace

in the things I can control and support,
things and people that build a rapport with
my mind, heart and soul, so my blood flow don't fly

so high from the things I cannot control
like all the old school phobias and the
nervousness lurking in your minds before I

was even born. There's no scorn from me, but
maybe an occasional forlorn sigh,
only because I love you, and know you're trying.

But please, please... I appreciate that you
want me to succeed, but to be honest
I really, really don't need your help, your genes

are enough of an obstacle course through
hell to get to heaven, because at some
point my being is gonna get sore cause there's

no way in hell you can convince me to
take more or just accept that that's the way
it has been when I can see other paths that

have been, perhaps less traveled, if at all,
leading to happiness and freedom to
be the change you have been seeking from the start.

But we cannot do it if our hearts hurt
or lungs burn or can't find ways to work and
learn together because we are, it is
& that's it.

(+) vibrations buzzzzzzzz
                    lifting
  mouths        &           spirits

         r              ning
d            ow                      

                    out  ­                the (-)



                                                          ­ i  n   g
matriculating curves t w i s t
              quickly churning
                         bending like   w
                                                      a
       ­                                            t
                                                     e
                                                  r
                                    in a whirlpool
                                        with/ou t    grrrravity
                                                 as we sail on the stream of consciousness
                              to another realm
                                     inside ourselves
                                                    on our rainbow brain boat visiting
                                           tye-dye twilight night skies
                                                giggling wind PLAYING with
                                      our hair beginning to laugh
                                   like cats after discovering chicken it the fridge.
                         We sing Hendrix
                                 Joplin
                          Morrison
                     Floyd
                Lennon
         and Shankar
all the way to the shore
of the island.

Quiet slip the crazy ones that are
safely disappearing
down to the
place that I love that they're expressing
yet no-body's reality doesn't seem to be
some part
in boxes,
the one whose hair color
changed the weather and had duct tape all over
no one looks
of the one girl in elementary school
that existed the crap out of me, then smashed
quietly creefree. I think she had a crush on me.
House was the ultimate rebel sexpot. She
to carry on sooty, cynical. But then
in the quiet ploring me one day and we haven't spoken since.
Found a slice or normality in this.
Conversations,
but of frivolous nothing became of it & I was
the talk that encountered this girl who
earthly posses fanatic liked telling everyone she had
her past life as a wallaby.
How rude, the girl from the newspaper. She never
hid secrets, always a woman yet she was a year
I should show while we've seen each other rarely
that was.
But I don't other by phone and email.
She ran away.
Her last story was to be published.
I pass by the
to carry on

We are here,
at this time,
together,
now.

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.

I don't understand
why more people aren't following,
fanning, stalking, whatever word
they use here on HP.

Your words are sharp,
titanium thorns
made out of the edge.

I admire your work,
and the courageousness
echoing behind.....  . ..   .   .  . .  .  .     .     .

You're a lot more optimistic than you think you are.
Don't be afraid to let that shine through..... ... .. . . .   .  .  .  .  .    .   .      .

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...

I only drink ferocious black coffee--
a silverback strong knuckle-sandwich  to the chest
because it screams at my throbbing heart like a drill sergeant.

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

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

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

Cynicism glares with tired sunken eyes
at deja vu reiki songs,
but my hymnal is the bottom of a moscato,
and I sing louder when grey ghosts from the past
whisper lonely nightmares.

Brisk--
a slight whisp of northern wind
rustles rainbow dewdrop grass,
around me, blooming trees
breathing deeply inward,
their fresh foliage is an assortment
of all green hues, a relief
from the freezing, chill drab grays of winter...

Dandelions splotch [arts of the grass--
nature's lazy Jackson Pollack homage.

The sun seems brighter,
the lighting a stereotypical 1950's Leave It to ******-esq TV show.

Here I sit,
wearing all black under a tree;
the only thing colorful about me is the gold writing
on this Pilot jet black pen dribbling these words
in gooey black ink.

I woke feeling uneasy & forlorn,
like rising from a haunted bed.
Not sure why...

Even the dogs in this park trot
with brighter velocity.
A small grey/brown Scottie yipps at me,
as if letting everyone know I'm an anomaly
on this otherwise perfect day.

Part of me wants to scream
at all the people in their colorful neon running garb
or shimmering salvation Sunday cloth,
but another part just wants to jam this pen
through my ******, straight into my heart
& let the ink & my crimson, iron-rich blood seep
into the ground,
because those are the closest feelings
I've found to express something there are no words for.

Sounds like it might be one of those angsty
cloudy type days.

I have created this fire flower,
blue, just for your visual pleasure.
It sprouts from the cloth ground,
electric stems reach out to touch
a vacant sky.

For you, my dear
this flower pollinates
the cloth soil with small
blue flames where more
fire flowers will sprout,
all of their electric stems
reaching for the sky.

Soon, my dear
their smoke will
combine, forming clouds
in the sky,
shaped like rabbits chasing tigers.

And for you, my dear,
these clouds run
into a cave, at the edge
of this wondrous burning garden
where a single pearl dwells.
But this is no ordinary pearl,
nay, this round, virtuous gem
knows everything;
secrets to all worlds from the smallest
of atoms inspired by your eyes
to the ancient languages
first known to this world’s civilizations
where I learned words
that mean more than just
“beauty,” “magnificent”
& “vibrant”
just for you,
my dear.

1) Deciding as a collective
who to ostracize the most.
2) Deciding as a collective
what is truth.

One in the morn'
be at work by eight.
Smoke dances in the moonlight
while the music vibrates
through us...

Groovin' on the rooftop
candles dancing like the stars.
Women sing their blues songs
while guys play guitars
and drums...

And the humming gets smooth
like a home-brewed beer.
Velvet voices ring between
the buildings as the neighbors dream
of their  bills...

1) A fleeting attempt to express a single thought
through unconventional means of communication.
2) See perception & *subjective

1) Difficult to attain, easy to wield.
2) Knowing when not to use it.

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.

Sync psych bike out peace in all around like a sound of light hitting your heart as if a kiss planted in the valves was watered in echoed raindrop drips skippin' beats boxing pulse super nova eardrum explosions in a nirvana chorus.

Sometimes you can do everything right
when it comes to being patient, listening and playing
with a woman and after so many years
that feel like a blissful eternity
she can still leave one 3am night out the fire escape and on a train
to look for something better.

Sometimes you can do everything right
when it comes to helping the homeless;
giving them good and listening to their stories
and maybe even helping them find a job
and still get hit by a bus
soon as both feet jump off the curb.

Sometimes you can do everything right
with a story, and it's a gorgeous masterpiece
of years of editing and chiseling each word
to paint a picture that would make Rimbaud and Van Gogh weep
with ******* exuberance
and still find yourself dying slowly,  broke, in a homeless shelter
listening to a guy who will be hit by a bus
soon as he walked out the shelter
whose girlfriend left him at 3am.

Oh great electric melancholia--
your hands clutch my heart,
muffled beats
of sacred al-
--SPITS--

There's some ******' art.

sometimes some people
are so set in their ways
it seems like they're made of cement.

more than likely, these stone folks
will keep on rollin' the only way
they know how, seemingly embracing
their roles as the boulder to your Sisyphus.

Your wisdom reminds me of Isis.

You are a very pure person,
in my humble opinion.

                                             Everything you write carries
                                                            so much
punch,
                                                            so much
kick,
                                                            so much
knee to the gut
                   emotion
                                  that touches my heart....

Though, I do not entirely see
eye to eye with you
on the whole suffering bit,

that is merely a difference
in belief structure
whereupon I simply say I believe in nature.

                                                        But, you are one wise, hip chic
                                           that I would dig to have a glass of wine with
                                       and discuss all sorts things from our mind's eyes.

A noticeable shift will occur.
But it's nothing to do with plate tectonics,
planetary alignments,
changing of seasons
or predicted natural disasters.
No political bombshell
nor revolutionary uprising either.

It's something bigger,
much more profound...

A shift will occur--
in me.

For I am seeking
to learn and live
to learn and rebirth
to live and give
rebirth with love
giving to life
to learn and live
to learn and rebirth
ad infinitum--

to discover *all peace.

Where do you go
when I look at you?
Feels like floatin through space
suffocating on life’s
little
hang-ups—

Like a starvin' artist
tryin to paint portraits on the metro.
Like a hero who’s
forgotten courage sticking their head in a lion’s mouth oh

When your mind is turnin'
your eyes seem to scream your heart is hurtin' for something more.
At least that’s what it seems to me
as I wonder  

Where do you go
when I look at you?
Feels like floatin’ through space
suffocating on life’s
little
hang-ups—

Like when you try explainin' to me
that are but we aren’t and we gotta wait and see.
Like when we’re sittin’ at the shihsa bar
and you look at me despite not knowing what we are…

But when your mind is turnin’
I’m intent on learnin’ how to understand
until one day you looked at me and said

Where do you go
when I look at you?
Feels like floatin’ through space
suffocating on life’s
little
hang-ups
Keep it in the moment bang-a-rang with your fist up
in the air let it be let be let it be in the air
like Rumi said love calls everywhere and
always
always
always!
Love calls everywhere and always!

late night street scholars
     smoke green on green trains
sing d-flow & p-funk hymns
with third-eye
         campfire heartspace
effervescent
  enlightenment
of the moon.


All united only
by the time in the most draconian sense
at "2:30am eastern standard time"
       our classroom
be on the 6th train heading uptown.

I saw this happening...

People keep calling me jesus--
     makes me nervous cause
             i'm starting to believe it.

We are all us.