Shapes coalesce
        in the liquid
   effervescently
iridescent upon contact
        with air.

As a drink,
      so shall the mind flower
   lotus glow--
growing
       green/yellow
           spindle
feeding my subconscious
pleasant portraits
          painted atop
     Chrysocolla blocks.

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.

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.

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.

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.......

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.

Dear Cecil the Lion,

What happened to you was a terrible thing.
What you represent most assuredly will live onward.
The  ****** and dishonest way you were lured out
of the animal sanctuary to have a bullet put through you
was a tragedy.  

But,
you can go unfuck yourself.
To be honest,
your death ranks just above a smooshed fly or mosquito.
After I heard the news of your death,
I finished taking a **** and went about my day.

I'm glad people are upset about something. Its time people started getting mad as hell & stopped taking it. BUT, maybe we should reconsider our priorities for a second the next time we decide to erupt in a collective outrage.

Whatever happened to #blacklivesmatter?
Oh right, they're still trying to put an end to racism in many areas
where some police are still under the impression it's the 1950's.

Hey...how's the whole world hunger thing going?
Well, it's probably not helping what with the whole food wasting bit
the majority of us practice.
And yes, I know there will always be someone starving somewhere for some reason due to a variety of circumstances, but that doesn't mean we gotta sit around in apathy over it.

What ever happened with all those troops
we were so excited to support when it came time
to defending our country? Oh right...

How's the whole woman's rights thing going?

One more question; do we still care about education or is that something we've just given up thinking about?

Look, I realize the aforementioned list of
#blacklivesmatter,
world hunger,
support the troops,
woman's rights
& education
are weighty topics in & of themselves with lots of intricacies.
And I understand they're not going to be solved in a day.
But, these big five all have one thing in common;
people.

George Carlin once spoke about people who "always gotta be saving something" from animals to the planet,
"We don't even know how to take care of each other & we want to save the ******* planet?!"

And I get it, there are those out there that probably care more about animal lives than human lives, which is cool.
Hey, if that's your prerogative, I'll buy everyone who feels this way
a ticket to the jungle & you can start doing your part sooner,
and much more quietly, especially when some of us are trying to eat.

Because I swear to whatever you hold most sacred & holy,
if one more person tries to tell me
to stop eating meat because it's ******,
I'm going to wrap my hand around their neck & squeeze,
shaking them as I shout "Plants are living beings too you ******* *******!"

I get it.
Some can feel that deeply when they eat meat & it makes them uncomfortable to chow down on the flesh of something else.
But why are we having THAT discussion
when someone else somewhere is starving?!

After we get the world hunger thing under control,
then we can talk about the morality of what we put in our mouths.
After we prove that we can take care of ourselves and each other,
then we can move on to whatever animals are left.

The morning opens her arms to me, perfumed with dew drops on grass blades. Hanging loosely over her body an iris cloud dress gleams incandescent watermelon pinks and tangerine. Her solar eyes twinkle, the alabaster one winks as if to say,

I know of your deja vu dream from earlier.

We dance sun salutations.

That's when it dawns on me that I'm on a date with the morning.

inside me
there is a door
rotating colors.

it opens
once I'm quiet.
my tacit breath smiles.

dimensions
merge together;
like a submerged view

of the sun.
vagary spirit;
feeling umbuntu.

nearly 200 years ago
which means my genetics have directly contributed
to the current system
that continues thrusting knees on the throats
of an entire race of brothers and sisters.  

Sick knots of frustration churn in my stomach
while fist and eyelids clench tight
burning razor tears slowly trickling down my face
at the very idea one of my ancestors--
part of my DNA
once treated a living, breathing woman of color
like a permanent maid meant only to labor inside and outside.  

I'm sharing this to admit and reveal my family's
complacency in a system
continuing to reap the so-called benefits
from a capitalist mindset
that has upgraded beyond physical cold metal shackles,
evolving into ball and chain conversation words
where people worry more about property damage from riots
instead of deaths at the hands of the fraternal order of timeout.  

I'm sharing this to continue conversations
for so long in America have been shuffled around, cast aside
as if it were an embarrassing high school phase
politely laughed away    
like on holidays when my family and I
would listen to grandparent's occasional choice phrases
that began "Well the blacks are just blah blah blah..."

Like a child caught ******* by parents,
our pale shame has made us bury the past below sea level
hoping nobody would notice.
But now, the skeletons are beginning to rise,
seeping through the ground  
along with fears of other dusty bones
buried under the red road.

Many of our ancestors
have been trying to dig deeper holes
with phrases like
"I don't understand, there was MLK and Honest Abe,
what more do  they  want?"
ploughing ahead with fingers shoved in ears
singing "La la la let's just move on, it was a long time ago"
overlooking the equality and empathy  
that has been lacking up to the present.
Like two leaders could wave a magic wand overnight
erasing the dismissive dis-ease of white skinned superiority
we've been weaving into of our laws,
conditioning into our DNA,
evolving from slavery to segregation to target practice and tax brackets
despite singing "Land of the free"
even though there's a disparity
between rioters in inner cities  being called "thugs"
while rioters at sport events are "party goers."

The first step is acknowledgement,
unfortunately we can't force someone to understand,
but we can support and be there
for our brothers and sisters
with kind, encouraging words,
taking steps to pull out
of the land and people selling business,
instead investing in the new currency of presence and attention
unlike my ancestors.
almost 200 years ago.

after writing this poem
out of a trance
was hypnotized by your tongue--
the words dripping off
like a wolf eying its prey.

     You smile, confident.

Your mischievous eyes dance
with mine,
we wink like serpents.
The sound of our heartbeats
pierce each other's third eye
as we approach,
our brains separated
by seconds
our noses a quick inch apart--
our thoughts are spiritually carnal.
We move like Zui Quan**
and we touch like the wind
tickling every crevice of our skin.
Our lips shotgun smoke--
I want to breathe poetry
inside of you.

My first thought was you

after writing this poem
out of a trance
was hypnotized by your tongue--
the words dripping off
like a wolf eying its prey....

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.

and it scares me because
the glow in her eyes and
melodious rhythm
in her words give me the impression
that she enjoys talking
about these things.

And it's not
one of those mindful zen
practicing acceptance
attitude of gratitude  type of
scenes where she loves it out
of herself and heals all
the heavy scars she wears.

It's like she revels in her misery--
I just don't get it man!
Maybe I'm doing some
wacko projection thing
or that I'm reading too much
into it all. I mean,
I am a bookworm. But,

There's just something about
the way, the feeling or
the tone that vibrates through
my soul like a friggin' red light Spider Sense
that gives me the creepers.

She'd say that she's simply
stating facts and, while that
may be true,
I just can't help but hear
some callous time ******* black-hole train crash rejoicing;
like a perverted hymn
to misfortune and gloom.

I don't know man, maybe
those are just the tunes my mom enjoys playing.
Could be that's just not my
style, or how I approach
something like that.
I try not to judge, but
some **** is just doesn't sit
well with me, you know?
I can't help that.

We're very much alike.

Poetry is our inspiration,
we were born writers.
People call us BBQ sauce snobs
wine connoisseurs
and brothers.

But he likes to dance
at night--
in the headlights
when the air pierces the skin.
His deep dark pockets
are an oblivion of cigarettes
and full minis of Jack.
Remind's me of Harpo.

He walks like a snake slithers--
body swaying
and a gleaming mischievous twinkle
in his eye.

We both enjoy crisp, autumn days,
but he prefers them cloudy--
dark.
He says it brings out the color
in the reds and orange leaves jumping off the trees to twist in the breeze.
Listening to stand-up is our solace,
though he says Hicks is god.
I say Carlin

His shadow reminds me of a demon--
the long lost son of Medusa.  

He's not afraid to say what he thinks,
cause he knows he's right.
Sometimes I believe him--
he speaks with such nonchalant confidence.
There's always a needle on his words
swiftly flitting and flickering
like a flame he's flicking off his tongue.
And if his words hurt breaking the skin?
"Don't be such a *****" he'll snarl
before turning the charm back on
with a giggle and ironic wink.

He likes to collect
the faults in others
cause his thinks his **** don't stink.
He keeps reminding me of mine.
He enjoys needling
people.

We've known each other
for a long while.
Seems like longer....
but that's cause my roommate is me.

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

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


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

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.

Let's boogie
in the electric synaptic light show club
called "Us."

Jackhammer legs quake the place
as everyone hums to the rhythms of their synchronized eyelids
and lungs pumping out golden dolphin breath.
Together copacetic drinks are raised and clinked
echoing like a hummingbird's wings shimmering in the afternoon sun,
Great Spirit, the bartender serves up a round on the house
of midnight snow owl whisky
for those ruminating Rumi and Hafiz's poetry,
the ones already beaming crystal quartz incandescence
from their heart and minds being present in the swaying
space that is the sacred spiral grouse dance.

Some peeps puff tree in the maui wowie mahogany lounge,
the prairie dog smoke carves the air
as these folks reflect and stare at their streams of consciousness
like a blue heron waiting for that third eye fish
for dinner.

The mirrors reveal our inner higher self children
of the moonrise kingdom building the iridescent
bridge to the rainbow road.    

When when it's last call
we shall tiptoe home like drunken mice
stumbling up the melting sphere clock
to rest upside down opossum comfortably
giggling giggling thunderous heyoka whispers
into each other's shoulders
until the aquarian dawn.

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.

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.

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.

She bohemian art shaman,
         a cosmic clown tribe,
         a Voodoo Chile; Hendrix-haired.

Sometimes I think the Wankerverse*
is the best description
of where  I like to make pancakes for her....

A kiss from her lips feels like a sunrise
after a midnight Shpongle dance party.

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 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.

Closed my heart for a moment
to open my eyes
& mind,
didn't realize
I was nakedly dancing
with some reprobate snakes  
because I was trying to make them smile
like a stripper searching for tips.

I liked the way they rattled
through life, their *****
thoughts synced
up to diff'rent
drums 'till I felt the venom
in my veins they claimed were
love bites, despite the paralyzation
of my intuition and warmth.

I was seeking out the snake's smile
if only for a little while
cause I thought my heart could help.
But snakes can't crack a smile,
no, snakes can't crack a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HUGE W A L L S
     overlook
         the
       future....

timeline tunnels blocked--
Pink Floyd wasn;t kidding
         about THE W A L L S....

But a HUGE hug hangs
     the stone mental blockade
            on the gallows under a crescent moon

       while gypsies cheer with tambourines and  
                     artists draw with the ashes from their cigarettes
                            and
                      ­writers jot down the joyous carnival mood between shots

Chinese lanterns and Ramadan Fanous
             illuminate the b r i d g es
                      brrrrrrrrighter
                                 iridescence and
                                      swinging
              ­                 with misfits dripping anticipation
                      spinning sufis swaying
                                         to see the mural landscape opposite  THE W A L L S.

She say
         drop the bass

And boom,
like that--
       sitting inside the room
harmonica blues breath smokey tunes
of 'ol trickster death burn a hole through the windows
in the shape of a blinking eye--
mischievous snake smile>>
              cat's eye grinning rhythm spinning around
       and around
           the room with
       spray-paint tagging walls
               and doors and inside drawers

black cat scratches records reckoning the two hip-leopards encircling each other-

ready to pounce, ready to bounce,
wild eye nature heartbeats take control,
               mind off, skin folded on the floor--
                          encircling,
dance spirals 'round the fire in our sun-sploding hearts
hand in hand eyes locked claws frock backs, jaws aghast wide fangs smile with lavender delight as ONE LIGHT builds, ONE LIGHT BRIGHTS glowing inside mind's eyes psych-ed-el-lick;
a song in unison to ONE time, one SPACE ONE MIND ONE
        ONE      
      ONE
zero......
FOX FIRE.

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.

Buzzing emerald jungle swoons—
           hip kitty soul eyes embrace the red wanderer.
It’s a tactical chess game,
        both aware of the other’s presence.

Nebulous black perched in shadows,
     desert red fool skips like a rock.
          when eyes eclipse each other
an electric hummmmmmm buzzes
as their hearts start glowing like a peridot ember
the wind whizzes and twists
through their perfect curly hirsute
           rushing luscious aurora energy pulsing
           to and fro like giddy hearts exchanging notes in class…
Their blurry bodies bound forward
    fox scorching ground while panther burns branches
        lightning leg movements paws calls thunder
          sun red hot fuzz lunges up
           midnight cool moon goddess panther slams down  
            colors collide and crash and cling and clap
            spines ignited in tye-dye holographic rainbows
their claws singe each other’s skin
their eyes swirl black holes
holy howls and breath coalesce
as one love
as one sight,
all encompassing
mythical tail told to all
through campfire gypsies and artists canvas
panting the dancing fox and panther
the bhavacakka.

Like a gray cloud,
you block out the sun to my self
when I’m having fun.
Yelling—drinking—jammin’
Your memory rains
on the campfire I’m sitting next to
with friends I’ve only met tonight.

& the rain start's pourin'
the rain start's pourin'
       --the rain start's pourin'

dark clouds
on the outlier
of that single ray of sunshine
time can't unwind
that molecular moment
our bodies decided to part.  

& the rain start's pourin'
the rain start's pourin'
       --the rain start's pourin'

As our minds buzz and synchronize,
        the energy ripples forth from
the trinity hearts of light ignite--
spinning
       turning-twirling
............burning
and our electric lighting fingers
flick with fleeting umbilical ember connection....
        our universe expands,
    our higher nature god self is revealed
in these moments,
we see the shaman animals and light lives
of ancient futures in our third eye galaxies
              melting fallacies like ego chains
and self-degradation poison......
      filling ourselves full of ONE,
eyes locked, bodies tuned, minds reading
realms opening.....
             realms burning
          life......life consciousness consciously burning.....
     burning to the moon, cooling in the sun......
          lounging lazily by the cherry blossom tree...
                                          <3

Parents would prefer kids stay away
from these three jobs,
cause as they'd say
There's no way to make any money.
At least you can sell paintings with art
or hock a few bucks with albums from your music.

No parents encourage children into any of these gigs,
especially prophecy.
Today, a kid would be fed pills for breakfast
if they expressed any interest in becoming the next Jesus or Buddha.

Suppose Moses decided to go try an open mic comedy night
instead trading his commandments for a set list
but I bet his adopted parents would have lectured him just the same.
At least Moses would have gotten a few laughs.

The job descriptions are strikingly similar,
just like the outcome
a 50% chance the audience will applaud and chant
or watch you in heavy, maudlin silence... sweating nervously struggling
to maintain a sane face while raucous thoughts of loathing and doubt chew then spit out pieces of heart and soul forcing a confrontation of an emasculated existence for five to seven minute while....

whoa, hi, sorry.
Must've been having a flashback for a few seconds,
forgive me.

There is a difference though,
in the mindset of this trio.
A poet knows they're crazy,
a comic ponders if they're nuts
while a prophet thinks everyone else is just cuckoo.

I can see why parents don't want you to
go near these three jobs,
problem being, it's more of a calling than a culling,
and once it's answered,
all I can say is, well...




good luck.....






have fun.

Recently
it seems
every time we talk
our cacophonous
voices don't sing.

The harmony's off--
lost it's charming ring.
The tye-dye mind's eye melody
is mellowing into a gray spring.

And I'm wondering why?

But...
I think I know.
Only asked cause
I was hopin' you might hum some other musical notes,
ones that won't turn this song into a black swan dive
forced to call the huntin' dogs to track
back to a time where you and I laughed freely.

But there's this feeling
that this is how your other he must have felt
while you and me were undoing our belts--
yelling & screaming
as my parents were sleeping
upstairs above--
we played each other like saxophones
to this grand Nirvana relaxed crescendo!

But as this poem progresses
the tempo stiffens--
    your voice lessens--
as the harmony's off-key
and the melody's riff softens.
It's not hitting me hard like a gong-
feels like two people singing
different lyrics into the same microphone.
Someone with synesthesia can see
our colorful speech atrophy
instead of pirouetting in turquoise dreams.

If that sounds harsh,
sorry, that's the reality I perceive--
we don't want each other to leave,
But our avoidance of labeling
what we are also established what we weren't
and now this playful...thing? we had
feels like a breaking carafe as it hits the floor.

I want to continue writing you more poems and songs
but it's hard when the harmony's off-key
and losing it's charm.
   This new lentando^ tempo's like a left arm going numb.
I want to keep composing
but it feels like water
instead of kerosine pouring
on the fire that was inspiring
as this mournful melody dilates throughout my being.