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.

When I was younger,
I was a shaman
chanting melodies
that I hoped
would change the world.

Perhaps, they did
for my people;
the schizophrenic
gypsy stoners earth mother
worshiping airy words
burning the creative
liquid juices squirting
over our brains
like a drop of LSD on a sugar cube.

But now,
I can feel the age
in my emotions.
Time drags me
through, smoldering campfire
ashes smoking to the heavens...
where the stars
look like they're rotting away
inside the mouth of space.
Even shadows are afraid
to hide in these dark corners.

These places in space
are so cool
chilly
hip.
Some kind of
sarcastic
one-liner
witticism  
of ironic truth
temperature.

And I wish
to go back there.
But I must
return back
to earth to learn
what I cannot escape.

I am called a scrooge
as I dislike this greedy
grimy "holiday" of gorging
gratuitously on cookies dipped in mashed potatoes.
People grabbing & gouging
for electronic pop culture distractions
to celebrate the "birth" of a baby
from a lady who claimed to be a ******.
Everyone expects something
to be given, pressure permeates
those souls who wait 'till last minutes eve
as laborers looking for reprieves of this
audacious onslaught of wild eyed drooling
consumers
while I shutter at home watching TV's screaming
Why wait 'till the "holidays"
when you could have gotten that anytime?
Kids with detailed lists of wants make parents
feel like **** if the money's not there--
traveling to visit relatives the family cares little about
while everyone sends fake happy cards espousing
happy scenes of fireside matching sweaters next to a
tree cut from outside brought in--
a metaphor for the biannual church families
dressed up to sing hymns and drink wine.
So you can call me a scrooge,
or even a grinch,
I don't really give a ****,
cause I've been giving gifts
consistently loving thy fellow man.

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.

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!

Connecting,
tribes on the cusp--
the lost family...
merging thought patterns
of old & new paradigms
into a geometric shipibo song
singing in moonlit sky,
smoke gray mauve clouds
are painted into the frozen lake background.

We paint
a new paradise--
together
at the table
on a sacred indigo candlelit map map
for people to set sail
on their journey through the seas of skies of their minds
guiding familiar souls
to speak their treasure light again.

We are the Indigo Pilgrims,
soul brothers reunited
after the frozen season thaws,
pushing on toward the place
where mind-flowers commence their bloom
as herb and sage slowly burns throughout the day
as the smoke dotes across the landscape
like dancing hieroglyphic clouds.

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

Oh ‪rose‬,
gentle ‪flower‬ spirit-
in these moments
i imbibe our singularity,
for I feel your delicate petals
blossoming from my ‪third-eye‬,
roots wrapped betwixt my ‪‎heart‬-
your scent whispering ‪Rumi‬
as I ‪dance‬ with you
in this delirious ‎springtime‬ tango
I cry out
"oh magnificent beings,
rejoice!
For I have found ‪us‬!
We're all together
in this moment!"
But the rose simply giggles coyly,
her dance continues
as if this was a secret she knew
all along.

I bleed letters, breathe words--
lived in utero with a pen.
Creative gypsies & outcasts
are brethren.
I will die
for their plaid sky brushstrokes
&/or verbal slip-bang poetry.
That's my religion.

Self-doubt is my sin.
I have a habit of overstaying my welcome,
another is coming on a little strong.

Communication is my mantra,
my philosophy is intelectual stimulation.  

Putting up with "****"
    is second nature.
Spit in my face.
         Call me names.
   Don't give me that promotion.
I'll survive--
       probably even laugh about it later...

But...
take advantage of me--
or those I hold close--
     if I even see a glint
     of the knife
            you're going to put in my back
I promise--
    I promise
the pain you will feel
        leaves a scar much worse
than whatever could happen to me.

in this blue sphere
dancing twisty crimson foxtrots
in pumpkin cream lightflower gardens
where incandescent rose quartz chrysanthemums bloom too.

We speak indigo vibrations
as our hearts glow emerald green
like a single flame illuminates a cave.

Upon an embrace,
bathed in foamy white light
floating away in theta waves
in an azurite lightning whisky bottle.

We go with our FLOW.

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.

A Brittish psychedelic
Benjamin Button.

Maverick explorer
54 years young.

A groovy dude connected to Dahab since the 70's.
Sure doesn't hurt he knows the folks who own the land.

A kindly herb surgeon, the man knows how
to live, give and roll a spliff.

Enjoyed your company
swapping stories and smokes.

Keep on,
hang loose
and be cool.

I often forget
                     my friends are human.

I hold them in high regard,
like a jar of gems in the sun.

As the years circulate,
they have talked me down
from tearing my brain out

unlike my family

they're honest,
not afraid to tell me anything
even if it hurts.
Like that time I was dating that girl
and everyone called her a ****** hell-*****.
I only carry the secrets
they've asked me to in my pockets.

My family encourages me to make money.
My friends tell me to do whatever makes me content.

                       So sometimes my gratitude
                       transforms
                       these humans into deities
                       that do no wrong.

             I'm shocked
             at their careless decisions
                 disgusted
               by their occasional irrationality.
                      How dare they soil the image I've created in my brain
                      to which I then project unto them!

                                      The world disappoints me
                                      as a whole--
                                      but that's expected.

My brain & heart fissure
when my friends
don't act like these people I worship.
Until I remember the keyword
is "people."
They're human, just like me.

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.

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!

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.

People want to tell me secrets—
      in grocery store check outs,
             bus stations…
                  funerals—
               ad infinitum.


In a delusional state—
         my own grandmother
   tells me she’s contemplating
                 suicide.


A friend told me I give off
something that makes
people feel safe.

I told them
      Ted Bundy
had the same
           thing.

but that could be said of anywhere.
However, some places
seem to have hypnotic hips and easy eyes
with a mischevious, seductive scarab grin.
Like magic, it pulls me in.
Here, labels like good or bad are trite,  
there is only this magnetic whirling
energy culling myself and others inside
simply because we picked up the phone and showed up.

But now it's our responsibility to find balance
amidst serene listless apathy on the beach
and party hardy into the midnight arty energy scene jack & coke down the rabbit hole we go.

Some Bedouins say Dahab means "time  goes,"
which has me convinced Moses and his folks weren't lost
in terms of location but lost when it relates to time,
trying to find a middle path
between excess and sloth
in this south Sinai town.


Yes, not two but three schools of thought,
forming a triangle in this hypnotizing spiral;
two points of excess and one of balance!
All three balance each other,
and it's hell trying to stay in the center of this eye
of this metaphorical storm of enlightenment.
Naturally, gravitational forces pull some to the
gray matter island headspace of echoed sins
and carnivorous lascivious pandemonium.  
Not everyone will find what they seek on the warm beaches here,
or the raving, bubble foam dance parties in strobe light nights.
That's just the way it is;
there's not enough room for everyone in the center.

And this is where we learn to accept ones place,
because only then can we move on to another plane,
on another beach with more to learn and some to teach.

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.

I think it's my eyes.
The glowing hazle stare
blankly piercing through
whatever bubbles you've shielded
yourself with.
Arms crossed means you're defensive,
raised tone towards the end of a sentence
means you're lying
but when your lips scrunch together
you're holding back something.

Maybe it's
my thought process.
One second
I'm talking about polar bears
celebrating birthdays with ******* and hexagrams
when I shift
to a rant about my self empowerment
through meditation and how astral travel
might be real.  

Perhaps I'm too comfortable
with myself for you to handle.
I don't give a **** how tangled my hair is
or what weird religious doctrines you follow.
Let's have a conversation,
not an unruly **** measuring contest.

I truly love you,
and all my mild frustration
and slight agitation is radiating
from a place in my heart
that tells me I want you to succeed the most.

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

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

to be peaceful and not wage war
instead of fighting everyone
for limited blood oil
use unlimited resources like the sun

It just makes sense
when we work together
there's a lot more we can get done
to be present and listen
is the start of real conversation

It just makes sense
to talk & toss things out
cause all we know for sure
is that we walk here now

It just makes sense
to dissolve fear & love
into one cause that's what we are
from start to end

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?

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.

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 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.

Overview:

-Birthday: ∞

-Studied everything at The School of...

-Lives in ∞

-Gender: Seriously?

-Religious Views: Tolerant Chaos

-Political Views: Ambivalently Apathetic Anarchy

Family And Relationships:
-Relationship: It's complicated

-Family Members: Everyone Ever

Details About You:

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

I love you go to hell.

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

Favorite Quotes:**

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

Life Events:

****...where do I start?

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.

Thanks for the gift you left at the front door--
I wept cause I figured you left for good
'till I opened the box in horror
to find a zombie black mamba instead of my heart.

Thanks for the living dead snake
constricting around my brain
making me think of nothing but you
eschewing daily life.
The venom takes away my appetite--
the sun is too bright and sunny
so I stay inside my room filled with flies
writing about the time you left this
living dead snake instead of my heart.

It keeps squeezing and gnawing--
it's venom fills me with haunting memories
of the times I didn't see you slowly pulling away--
hugs stiffened
your kisses listless
and eyes drowning
while the sound of your voice sings disinterest.

Luckily you gave to me
a zombie black mamba instead of my heart
so I can always remember our time together.

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.

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.

While I myself do live myself simply,
I am not simply living for myself.




Living is my most ambitious art-piece to date;
to be the author of my life's story
takes a tedious amount of charging
buffalo stamina & alligator patience.
I'm making sure you've not heard a story like mine
because
countless friends, family, misfits and strangers
have lost the passion for their stories,  
instead turning over
their heartbeat
blood spilled pens
& mind jazz
slamdance typewriters
to some schmuck to write their story
in a vacuumed & pristine chronologically ordered
paint-by-numbers cookie-cutter drivel.  


I live
because
my mother ended
the chapter of her burgeoning artistic career prematurely
thanks to her parents telling her
what can you do with art therapy?

I live
because
there's something about that jazz,
& a candlelight bath.

I live
because
far as I know, my father is learning
lasting relationships of which his charming self
struggled to maintain with an in-absentia momma
that moved around to a new school each year
and father who vamoosed shortly after birth.

I live
because
when the mouth of my love
splits into a smile, her eyes
flash pink lemonade and rosemary bebop
in a way which synchronizes to my heartbeat.

I live
because
clouds, especially at dawn,
soothe and dissolve any anxieties
of the day or weeks or months or whatever.

I live
because
I didn't know the smell of cypress,
let alone cassia or frankincense
until I arrived in Toronto which has me curious
as to what other scents I have yet to experience.

I live
because
I'm not yet finished
laughing.

I live
because
words won't stop wafting and wading
around my being until I swallow then sing
their messages aloud,
on paper,  
on a park bench,
in someone's eyes.

I live
because
I live.

I live because,
I live.

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.

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.

Rolling
           down
             the rabbit
                hole--
under the stars
      s w a y i n g
like shisha smoke
gypsy dancing hips sway lips smile wide
         sound
       sight light taste all one
echoes swirl around we twirl
         like whirling dervish
leaving our bodies--
leaving the tube
joining each other's saltwater skin
bathing in
       our conscious one
       our conscious AUM
as the midnight sapphire ocean's white foam splashes over
every ONE of us.
The shooting stars dance with us--
the air dances             with us
the water dances        with us
Jack & coke's dance inside us
between our toes
the sand dances        with us
the hash dances        with us
as we are
just being
JUST BEING!
LIVING!

Don't cry in the whisky baby
I am an alcoholic highlight reel
mostly made from concentrated
      words--
I'll quit when I'm ready
for all kinds of art
vibrating love venom,
and words like love--
         I can't seem to agree with authority.
My ankle indicates some sprain or tweak.

There's plenty of beer in the fridge,
I am not going to *** my pants ever again
like a **** and bottle of bourbon.
            Thanks, I'm full
but parents never cared.
The road is litered--
the marrow ****** from their veins everyday
and the gypsy whisper of "why are we?"
is in my heartbeat.
There it went, frolicking through the midnight sky
like a car wreck,
haunting, like the song "Scarborough Fair."

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.

If laughter is the best medicine
then this explains why there are so many unhealthy people.
Too many people got the SAD's Condition;
                 It arrives usually within 2-4 weeks of compromising one's inner child after crushing up      
                 some sparkly dreams and flushing them in the *******.
                                        Symptoms include:
                1) A black-hole bitter disposition
                 2) Snapping at little things like having to wait 5 in a checkout line
                    or making dramatic sighs after repeating a question a few times.
               3) Reminiscing about terrible things and never forgiving and  
                   letting  go, like having your mom sign your life away to a cult or  
                   being told that your dear sweet Aunt who helped raise you kept
                   looking for you in the hospital every time your name was called
                   even though you never saw her because your family thought it  
                   best you kept your distance or hearing the morose silence of a
                   stillborn newborn.
                4) Finding your serenity at the bottom of a bar room floor inside a
                   gin bottle.
                5) Finding your solace in a married woman who eats all kinds
                    of colorful shaped pills for breakfast.  
                                      


And if a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,
how much can you add before the medicine loses its flavor?

They say truth is bitter,
yet I find that hard to believe
considering it feels so good to say.
It's like a cinnamon peppermint flavor on the tongue
with an aftertaste of jalapeno tears.

Maybe I'm so used to the processed hydrogenated extra sugar kind
that's why I go right for the pure hard stuff,
and maybe that's why a laugh so much.  
Maybe that's why people consider me a cuckoo fool....