Green Eyes

I heard him talking loud about the girl, like the song.
On repeat in his mind, now plays in mine.
Consistent like a record broken
playlist shattered like a mirror-rearview.
Thinking back to a time where music
Made her laugh when he sang the words.


Music is a funny thing
How stuck it gets inside
the machinations of the brain.
Sticky lyrics,
Stuck to memories.
Like a cruise down Ocean Drive.
With her, it’s quite a sight to see.
She looks out to the vast enigma with Green Eyes,
Sings Orange County
In their song
That plays again.

two drifters

lost in current
the push and pull of present
entanglements constant
at a time of darkness
can not drive out darkness.
if only light can do that,
why does this flame lack liberation
in dire straits?
blinded by no light-
the logic of this
eluded them both
into oblivion

hours pass with counting waves
songs no longer songs
as for the lyrics-faded just like the moon
clouded with a chorus  
repeated melancholy
becomes a dream adrift
dreamt by both

until the rising sun
paints the world melodious
and the drifters
do awake
with eyes of blue
no longer closed
they find a world so green

two drifters

float on
through the hills
they are the music makers

off to see the world

And if i could write one letter
to be, if that, my last,
the beginning would be simple, yet,
To You,
complex.

If my memories could play,
for us,
for the whole of the world
to watch,
you'd maybe see,
like crystal; clear,
so fragile and so rare.
So beautiful
as to hold within the palm of my hand,
your hand
in mine
i hold the pen that write's the words
i've been meaning to say,
so i speak through these machinations.
And here is the disclaimer:
i may confuse my memories with my dreams.

Today it rained,
and i saw us from a distance
in my dreams.

Love, Me

imagine all the people-
dreamers and believers-
encompassed by the power-
not of one, but all...
for those who fall fast asleep
lay lost in mind-over
                  matter
...failing time after time
                                                    to see
the happening-
heartache                                    and
horror in a world of us         to dream
such beautiful sights
where the hands
can hold the power-not
to ****
but to hold-another
hand-
to unite-to conquer
the series of the minds
at lost
for at last
the lives that matter-
all-people-
believers
must instill the hope
that dreamers
have the power
to create.
Believe in the power of dreams.
Open Your Eyes To A New World For The People.

Plastic

“or would you like a paper bag for all of your groceries, sir?”

entangled:

he parked his car next to the handicap spot

or was it not?

he couldn’t see since it was raining and his left windshield wiper fails to work,

should probably fix that

like his life, to be completely honest

or not to be at all.

he should have called his wife the night before she

ran the red light that put a stop to their own tomorrow. he

took it all for granted

like the light switch that he switches on and off

and on. off. on and off again he doesn’t think of what it would be like to live

in darkness.

he checks his pockets to find an old receipt of a medium iced coffee with cream

no sugar

and he thinks about all of the sugar that is still there in the cabinet above

the kitchen sink

untouched.

for only she did sweeten such bitterness

he could taste it on his tongue

still

could taste her on his tongue

still

entangled by the present

he holds the plastic bags and walks out into the future

of unintentional consequences.

yeah right.

he tells her,
take a backroad
and
go left, faster, let us gain momentum.
narrow and discrete
where the wind blows
wind you can't see
but she can see the future.
she can not grasp it though, aside from the feeling she drives.
driving through the future with her eyes closed.
through the lyrics she can hear the song
over         and over    again.
under water,
rushing ,
like blood into the brain:
an overflow of thoughts
breaks the windows-
glass, which
mirrors past and present.
will she drown?
will the music still play?

yeah right.

the radio breaks
and catches fire

yeah right.
there's no flame to find underwater

memory disguises a moment in time
that only the wind shall remember.

She was born of delicate porcelain
so fragile, yet stone cold.
Even the optimists expected her to break hearts into halves
No woman as sentimental as she
brave, yet naive.

There would be battles between
her heart and mind. Forever.
Immersed within the meaning, her mind fought with reality's shield in hand. Forced to surrender to the heart
cutting deeper with its knife.

Misconstrued by the mirage, she trusted no one, so she trusted nothing.
Even the light at the end of the tunnel may lead unto another
darker than the first. She claims no pessimism
and she is not at all afraid of loss; loneliness; literature's lessons on how to simply conquer the fear of letting go.

No. No feeling is simply that without reasoning. what is
one without the other? Never simply two, but
Three. Like the tale of all good things to come
Aligned by the sequence of belief, of fate, of miracles all simply
Leveled by reality. Stone cold like that of The

Winter until time turns it to The Spring, morphing into The summer.
Only to leave her stranded within the mirage of the Fall. She forgets no one. She forgives them all
Made by a woman. Sentimental since the beginning. This is the story of
A woman born into a
Never ending series of falling in lust

The foot prints with color.
Stamps across the streets where
cars create a sense of second pace,
passing by the signs now faded green
reads not Route 44
but rather Route 4..something..
Will they ever repaint it green?
What's the point? You wonder
when you're late for work and you may barely
make it, because your gas tank is on E yet again.
What else is new?

New job. New wife. No kids.
Because, can you really afford it?
Price tags are merely fiction
and I know this because of what happened once in second grade.
The library was my favorite place.
It's one of the only places that one is never alone.
I was the only one in class to mix up fiction and non fiction on the test.

And still, I am confused.
For I walk this world with carbon footprints
tears like rain drops-acid even,
and not the kind that spin inner thoughts with color.
Instead, the kind that is not kind at all, but
hurtful-scars the surface of green grass
left to fade like an old photograph.
And the colors fade like roadsigns
that the cities overlook.

Lights can be blinding.
No flash photography in the museum please.
I'm living nonfiction.

cigarette daydreams
i hold on to it-
like fate
between my *******
only to throw it all away
mistakes-
i run around
a blues traveler
mr. blue sky
wont u give me some advice
mirror mirror
i look
i have looked into the future
only to find the feeling
like i only go backwards
mind-so mischief
i fail to recognize

while my guitar gently weeps

i listen in regret.
as she lays silent  
underneath the bed frame of my childhood. there are
memories packed into the pastel yellow duvet
that i clutched to comfort my fear
of letting go
of figures in the past time.

i never learned to play her
and the shame overcomes me when
acoustics touch my heartstrings tenderly. i grieve for
her life for it has been so isolated.
she is simply "what could have been"
an awakening that has yet to rise
and escape into masterpieces

i long for her while i never truly knew her
at all
her infinite potential to create such
flawless forms of storytelling

i long for the forgone companionship  
encompassed so deeply
though for now she rests still
beside scrapbooks crowded into
spaces without room to breathe
or purpose to see the light
of the morning

Acoustic guitar in a subway station sounds
nice, until it floods with rushing
waters, soon drowned
by the screams of the travelers
who drop their bags-full of life
at the moment. And they start to run
up stairs and toward streets
yet the motions are slow and the scene is silenced.

A girl dressed in blue jeans, ripped slightly, removes her jacket
a luxury of patchwork corduroy ,
a birthday present from her mother, or perhaps it was her mother's long ago. She wears it to remember, to imagine:
what if?
she is young,
yet her wisdom is proven,
and her love makes light in a tunnel so dark.
as a man rests underground
she covers him with a coat of colors
and so softly whispers goodnight.

She runs
and they follow
her light.
She escapes to the city above
where stars fall into the waters that make way to the streets
a dream or a nightmare?
she can not decide,
but she closes her eyes anyways
this way, she may never know.
like September, she falls,
and with the world she turns.

If i can't scuba, then what exactly
has all of this really been about?
she thought.
She masks herself with comfort
diving miles below surface-
level headed,
toward a space.
connecting dots
like thoughts through constellations.
there is no weather
under water. she is weightless
and she experiences
a sudden darkness.
four walls                 there-
an amphitheater
with a singular light that shines upon one
black box
still upon a stage.
And it seems quite apocalyptic in a sense,
where pure isolation can destroy the mind..
with inputs uncontrollable..
beneath the land of living..
where one can breathe without the realization
of seconds passing by
like the slow rotation of the world.
However,
her doctors assured her that the depths and heights she dreams to reach are not approved since science can be restrictive based on rules and regulations.
And the fact of the matter
is:
that she will never dive deep enough nor conquer altitudes
with measures high enough to understand the content
that her subconscious instills within the mind.
Her theory will remain a mystery
among matter floating centered in a still life
painting
like one left out there in the rain
to melt away. to fade. to become so easily destroyed by nature's impression
on Tuesdays that feel significant
for a reason still unknown.

To **** a butterfly is
To see something so small
So small like us in a world where
i
Is a place where love blooms
Like a flower in a dark room
He asks us,
Would we trust it?

To paint a butterfly is
To be made of music colors
lyrics in a song where
i
Is the writer
Of a love letter
i
standing for
Idiosyncrasy

Caterpillar crawls
To cross the line-living life in the margin
No more
Love is not just a verb
i find a cocoon
still
Silent in seclusion
still
Until the release

To watch a butterfly is
To be in a moment...in time
Where the world synchronizes
To the flutter of imagination
And poetic justice
Saves the soul

We are tied to the ocean

As a wise man once said,
Before he sent a wise man to the moon-
sang Sinatra, in a song of course,
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars!
Instead, Spring in Boston, Massachusetts
Surrounded by the trees and ivy league
He walks. Amidst the second day of spring
TIME in ‘63
Each page, like a day in the life of a legend
Becomes wrinkled with time.
The essence of Boston: strong.
A sense of freedom?
Scents of red-cherry wine
In Martha’s Vineyard,
Does drip-like blood
Onto a blank-white sheets of paper.
Folded into tiny paper planes that fly
To the moon,
That is tied, like us, to the ocean-
Blues,
Like waves-
People watch in awe with their right hand upon the heart-in silence
From the shore of Hyannis Port.
Photographs, like memories,
Fade as time transcends.

And when we go back to the sea,
Whether it is to sail or to watch,
We are going back from whence we came.

“A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on”
-JFK

she stumbles into the next room.
white walls are
transparent in the aura
to the white noise.
have you ever dropped glass before?
a vase full of color
shatters slow in motion.
pieces scatter.
a shattered stillness,
like the silence in this room.

until the silence breaks
by a glass frame.
falling to the floors,
opens up into a world of color-strokes of someday.
she can hear it playing
from the house
under the streetlight flickering.
she looks into the white wall
to a life of euphoria
in a visionary moment
of interstellar picture books.
goodnight moon.
she recollects her thoughts
and leaves behind nothing
to be a part of this starry night.
and there she lives among the stars-
a muse in motion.

she walks on water

the clock spins counterclockwise

blind-and now she sees

I lost my birthday present yesterday.
Sterling silver,
and I wore it on my *******
since I’ve always been so fond of symmetry.
Though I hang my picture frames off center
to create a sense of balance
on white walls.

20 years.
A piece so simple, and easy to overlook.
But to feel it
And to see it there as I hold onto the
steering wheel that I use to control the very little
space that I place myself within. The present
reflects the sliver of sunlight that shines through
the sun roof, opened almost always.
When it rains I know the consequences
because I had made that mistake before.
I hadn’t checked the weather.
Now I am almost certain of the tides in 7 locations all around the world.

Lost in the sand and washed away
I walk without the comfort of the balance.
Blue stones always catch my eye
Even though my eyes are green, and I do connect with the nature of the shade.
On a series of levels,
Blues tell stories of matter
deeper than the surface.

I lost a gift so beautiful.
And instead of the ring, I’m wearing the guilt.
But this feeling must go.
And I realize this now,
That the mind will posses simple treasures
until they’re washed away
By time.

when I feel the color green,
I can breathe with ease,
and I am transparent in a natural state
of being.

I felt an earthquake once before,
which lasted a handful of seconds
where comprehension could not dare
to overrule the obstacle of fear.
And I felt my body sink
into a darker place (where it sometimes does t to prove itself of
overthinking)
where not even the sound of a siren,
nor the sight of dying stars
could lead to an escape
one day..
like the air leaped from a lung.  
And I stared at the sun so long
that I began to doubt the myth
of going blind completely.

Until the time came for another two dozen hours  
(or so)
when a memory consumed my entire
being, to exist within
a place where I could feel the oxygen leak
moments at a time
drip-
dropping levels quickly
when I could feel my heart beating faster
than I could have convinced myself
to push myself
to run faster than I believed was physically achievable
without running out of air.

There was a time when I felt love from a distance:
A mere fixture of imagination.
And I feel that the term
"too close for comfort"
may or may not be necessary,
in the terms of my summery here,
since miles add up like words
on a page
that has been printed and copied
for one to read...

alone...

to feel-
alone
and to escape
into a room
full of green grass
and glass walls

Is where I feel the wind
as I walk from past to future.










true story

he was a fool who thought he knew it all
and he could read her like a book

and when she couldn't read at all
he taught her how  
to sound it out

the As, the Es, Is, Os

you're only as old as you feel
in the very first grade
under a birch tree
born in Castle Comb
borne by angels
tracing letters in the name of the Lord

it was a Sunday morning
and when it started to rain
he took off his red and white
flannel shirt
and covered her as they walked away
from pastures
and into the parish

when the mass began
her mother handed her the bible
and when she opened it
to proverbs 13-15
she could only make out a couple of words

she looked for him when walking down the aisle
but what she didn't know
was he snuck out to the garden
because he loved her

and he would love her until the end of time

on their final days spent together
he gave her a tattered leather book
barely bound

and when she opened it
she found yellow tulip petals pressed
into the page

where she read

"in the heart of a man of understanding wisdom quietly rests, but she must make herself known to the inner self of fools"

proverbs 14:33

not to be confused with maraschino
cherries

reminds them of the pretty girl with the blond hair
who can tie that silly little stem into a
silly little knot
in attempt to catch the quarterback's attention
the one who failed to decipher
a quarter
and a dime
until he turned age ten
and that she was- a 10
rated on their silly little scale
weighing nothing but all the options

this makes the pretty girl irate
because she can do far more than tricks like that one
she won her fifth pageant just last week!
she sings- not just for fun and she's even going to college
to wear fancy navy blue suits with golden buttons
and cherry red lipstick
because she knows she can kiss far better
than the rest of 'em
silly little boys stained with dirt and wet grass
she'll know exactly when it comes time to rain
the moment she reports as the next weather woman
aired on channel 6

they'll watch her as they sip
slowly but surely on their wisers waiting
for commercials to cease
to see if she comes back around
in time for Sunday's game and the local diner
with the neon sign that can't be missed

but the sign is gone
she took it with her-dragged it down to break through
the pavement that gets too hot to touch in the heat of the
summertime

she's sure they'll miss it- the memories

and all they'll remember when they see pretty girls
with blond hair

is her perfume by moschino
and the cherry on top

he set the drums on fire
which is what started it all.

the catalyst
for a sound that shook the earth,
so much so
that the the redwoods broke the silence
in a forest full of minds lost
lost among the falling leaves
that catch fire.
drifting toward the coast
to meet the footprints
soon to be washed away
by the force of reflection.
and the fires rage up toward the clouds
which shade the surface from the sun.
day is night and night is day
in a world that fears
live music.
and i dream about the drums so much
that i hide out in the dark room
full of pictures
that reveal moments
sensitive to the real world.

the red lights nearly blinded me
once-
as chemicals filled the atmosphere
and i escaped just in time to
watch it burn
peripherally.
i walked away and never looked back.
to return was to risk my sanity.

and i let the cds burn.
i locked the letters in a shoebox
and buried the box beneath the surface
of my time here. i used to read them too often
never to be read again, only recognized
by my own subconscious.
at a time where music reminds me, still, of an instant.

see, i am dependent on sound and color
of the drums
that distract me from surrounding,
so that i don't surrender
to the fires
that consume
so many souls in which see only red.
to be in this world full of vibrancy and passion,
expressed through the essence of art.
it is a shame to feel it burn.

i saw the drummer live years ago
and i learned how to play myself.

i'll tour on Mars instead.
i read about it yesterday,
and it appears to be red from a distance.

i spend three days in dreams with open eyes
until the last rose petal falls
silence writes "remember me" in italics
just to emphasize the disposition
of three
in a space for two.

blurred visions of glass shatters
like a roll of film that leaks, stains blank pages
ruled by the very narrow lines of what could have been
and still could somewhere be.

and two toast to somewhere over the bridge
a touch with force to damage such glass
nearly transparent to mirror
this consequence of causality
and the knot that ties two tethered
will detach forever
like broken glass.

three divided into two
uneven
halves of hearts
of glass

if snow fell into june,
it would alter summer's state
of mind.

if salt turned to sugar,
and the oceans turned to ice,
the tides would cease-
motionless.
And nothing should move
below surface level.

if secrets were for everyone
to hear,
no one silent would be safe
from sound surrounding...
like a shot in the dark.
And no, you should never shoot the messenger,

but if wrongs turned right,
she surely shoots the messenger.
And the wars would break the ice
into the heat of the core

which would send us all into space.

And if it snowed in space
and gravity kept us all apart,
(similar to secrets)
we would float
until we fall to sleep.

if money made sense,
and i could spend it
wisely...
i think i'd buy a star myself.
And I think we'd watch it burn
from the edge of the moon.

I never hear music in my dreams.

Maybe I do, and I simply don't remember.

Awoken by the storm and sound of music
I felt instantly numb
to reality.
I fell asleep to 3 doors down.
I woke up to chasing cars,
and then in silence I returned.


I saw myself 10 years from now:
Parallel,
from a little blue mailbox across the street.

I stand in a city full of life
while a woman in a candy apple rain coat walks past.
She was talking of a movie that is now on broadway...
To a friend? Talking to herself?
I moved on. Across the street I watch. I wait. I wonder
what will happen next.
I sense a bigger picture. The frame is expanding.

Traffic fills the streets and I see her pacing back and forth.
She runs.
I move faster now with the fear of losing her. I follow,
and I guess so does the rain.

Taxis stop and go and there are noises everywhere.
The rush of the rain shocks a crowd with motion,
and they step with purpose.
I see lights now sprinting blindly through the streets
behind a girl
short of time.

Grasping the golden handle of a door
that nearly closed before me,
She entered
and
I enter
just in time for the beginning.
Red curtains open.
And there it was.

My movie come to life.
Or was it hers?

In a world full of rocks
there's a roll full of film
filled with photographs-
squares- like the infamous cube
To remind her that even colors
get oddly mixed up sometimes.

Blue walls
where memories rest.
And she sees,
in the eyes of John Lennon,
Circles.
And she imagines, when she listens to
The Question...
what would it feel like
to walk through a kaleidoscope?

The pond.
It knows her soul
desire to fall in love with love itself.
Her energy is art,
but there is no use for picture frames
to restrict the flow of such creation
through solely just a window with purpose
to dream, to wonder-wander
time to time.

She walks
from one star to the next-
out of her mind,
Making music of her own.
And I look up from the surface
to see her presence on that lucky rock-
Planting flowers on the moon.

I paint the walls in shades of green like leaves of grass. It grows and I talk about my days in paragraphs. How long can they survive in cold winter nights? To be frozen over is a risk I couldn't bare to take alone. How long can i stay awake to tear pages into pieces? They, like little leaves of grass, are frozen over. I look to the wall and see past pictures taped to what once was blue. Books marked by middle pages marked by red roses and letters never folded evenly into envelopes. The beginning is a reflection of the end, and one can not exist without the other. So I ask myself, what is the purpose of the lock without the knowing of its key?

she wears a satin gown to set the scene
imprinted with what appears to be roses
and as she begins to speak
she cries

tears are made of salt and water
which cures deep cuts
soothes surface level scrapes

have you ever tried to heal a scar?
the time it takes is almost never worth it
why waste the bandages on anything but blood?

have you ever run a red light?
in an instant- the fear meets the thrill
and that's where it gets dangerous
in her monologue

she talks about the color Red
and the fire that burned the bridges
built throughout her lifetime
a world plagued by make believe
cursed by empathetic magnetism

but she does believe in healthy living
wellness, grace and gratitude

she even eats an apple a day
like they told her as a kid in a candy store
only to waste tissues in her Tuesday appointments
with a woman whose name is probably just an alias
for a twisted identity that ends with a PhD.

have you ever picked roses off a bush
because you know it'll take a man too long to realize
that he should have paid for half a dozen?
(because now he pays for it)
well, now you're paying for it because the rose bush
isn't in your own backyard, but the neighbors
and the thorn catches you by surprise
drawing blood

she then numbs the pain with bottles
of red wine
(though she prefers a french white)
to her lips
stained by the madness of merlot
she cries

and we let her cry
as the audience applauds
they throw red roses upon the wooden stage
lit by her fire

her monologue concludes with velvet curtains

this cut (although not the deepest)
will heal soon.

patterns on her buttoned blouse
as to gemstones on his crown
glistening gold intrinsic
as to such history profound

he walks through crowds on narrow red
her days spent on narrow trains
libraries full of lessons
her journals filled with tattered pain.

stands on her doorstep moments many
his key stored still beneath the jade
while her footsteps echo corridors
and his love is truly trade

their bedsheets made of cotton too
moon full through window glass
held within the arms of others
two ghosts of someday's past

and the first thing she can't remember
is the difference between sleep on the floor
and sleep through the static.
and the last thing she remembers
is the thought of music
and how different it may sound upon the surface
of the moon.

cigarette smoke mixed with daydreams
while she walks across Abbey Road
into the center of the city
that she wishes knew her all too well,
but clock towers question
her timing too.
"the loveliest faces appear out of the
blue."
she often ponders the pendulum
and the consequence of her freedom
movement from place to place
person to person.
out of the blue.

at exactly meantime,
she walks alone
until she enters the telephone booth
that takes her into
a blue world:
unlike any other landscape
painted by Van Gogh himself.

It's the final Tuesday and the window opens on its own.
I'd stay for seven Tuesdays more, but alas
I'll let it be.

There is something to be said for those who
fail to fall asleep at night, and
practice patience to welcome mourning.

Here is where restless waters seem to silence.
Where shadows are cast by the sliver of the crescent moon. She is the
Tide's Matriarch who controls transcending vessels
Where friends and fathers float.
"Did you Hear that?"
A sudden splash- a glimpse of purpose for the patience and-
"There it is again."
He senses a whisper over his shoulder when the ship propels him forward with urgency. He stumbles until he falls back onto his feet.
He smiles, wiping away wave remnants from his cheek, and
baits another hook.

He looks around and casts in the right direction only to be pulled towards the left, so he leaves with everything
and nothing all at once.
He closes his eyes and sees faintly in the distance, two fishermen with Their muddied boots and caps pulled backwards. They laugh. They cry. "There" he whispers.

They're waiting and wishing while grasping tightly to the magic of
perfect timing.

Where if you let go, you'll surely miss the moments for
Forever memories.

if you take one step back…. .
You’re farther away from moving forward
to make the most of the time ahead of you
Because there’s no going back in time
to change choices or erase them
Because Memories would lose their meaning
And you grow through what you go through
To feel deeply and to learn intently
About the little moments that create the beautiful soul within yourself

and if you take two steps forward. ..
You can only learn more about what you’ve only dreamed of discovering
and there may be someone waiting there
To pull you farther into the future
Who holds your hand during hard times
And cries with you for the happy moments- the sad ones too.
Because it is better to feel everything than to never take the chance of feeling anything at all.