Here I sit, and I wait, waiting backwards,
clawing at the trail of seconds,
the course of which remains steady, despite my best efforts.

The last moment of starlight is a welcoming peace.
Under impending interruption,
they flicker so softly.

They will fade soon, and the clouds will be the first to awaken,
From void in the night sky
to the perspiration of a planet.

I may watch, or ignore.  I haven't decided.
But watching is a distraction all on its own,
for when I watch, I'm not experiencing and only photographs are retained

In the very brief moment when silence explodes
a wave of new light will emerge from yesterday.
And when the night has set,
the world can begin anew.

Oh, but for the words I cannot tell you, I would have your heart.

Maligned against the shadow of my conscience, truths too frail to echo freely
reflect, carrying bursts of fantasies that tug against the structure of my soul.

If I could, for a fraction of an instant, take you into those ideas;
if you could sense just a drop of the emotion that paints my dreams
and etches the critical beauty of your face into my eyes, involuntarily...

If I could only overwhelm you the way you do me...

But I have nothing but words to offer, and words decay faster than flowers

I could return to you your dignity,
if you would return me my attention.

If only anything else were worth focusing on...

Stop reading, I tell you;
there is no resolution coming.
Only laments and curiosities,
incursions into the soulless depths of mesonoxian thunder,
maybe a note on the desirability of warm socks,
but no satisfaction.  

Don't expect a mournful awakening,
nor deliberate (or otherwise) profundity.
-disregarding the note on warm socks, of course-

I have given you warning, and if you continue,
the burden of  exploration falls on you,
for consideration is the ferry to insight,
of which this text is built strictly without.

The boatman may ask that you pay with your wisdom
and refuse those that have no treasures to offer.
Would that not be the most desirable life?
Where we live to learn and when we have,
the boatman ferries us into the undying waters?

And those refused must wander and wonder
why they were excluded, where wisdom is birthed,
realizing that they are exactly as intelligent as they work to become,
to which the boatman might say, "Welcome aboard.  Tell me more."

Allegorically speaking, this notion is nonsense.
Metaphorically speaking, completely absurd.
Practically, it's practically insane,
though actively, it is inanely preferred.

Alternative to apathy and pageantry,
wherein the boatman has empathy for those without wealth.
There is no true truth, only real observation,
so stop trusting my judgment and go create it yourself

And the last and the worst of the problems grew slowly
like primitive oceans that the valleys accrue,
and the keyboard and bristles spun webs in the corners
while the masterful details to darkness withdrew.

The seconds would echo if a pause were addressed
and dissolve all the clarity that I thought that I knew;

encumbered, unwilled,
like the treasures of sadness
in the soul that sheds softly while collecting dew.

And then there was quiet,
while the creatures were barking,
and disdain and the darkness receded in hue.

For a moment, awoken, while the thoughts were subdued
But exactly when spoken, uncertainty renewed

There are just words
that resonate, meaningfully,
-as if they have meaning-
from the echo within my skull
to the entrance within my soul.

And to you who infers,
who proclaims the righteous totality
and splendor of connotation
under the guise of one's own God,
within and without,
I thank you for your consideration,
for finding your words in mine.

For when 'you' and 'I' are swapped,
when truth is but a sound
and notions dissolve into the echoes of life,
this will be but a piece of paper,
marked up crudely
from clandestine forethought
into a portrait of emotions, unvisible.

Should I share my tears onto this page
it could have no more significance
than the weakest tear in the fabric
as it, too, devolves into brusque indifference.

When the thoughts have decayed
and I find myself a stranger to this text,
I will know its meaning extinct
but for its interpretations

Imagine then, imagining
-the pigeon in the prism prison-
driven by unfathomed space
to creation's end by feckless wings

The scope of scape, identified,
holds measure of your lucid mind
Beyond world's end, the conquests swell
to amplify the conscious realm

The limits shatter outwardly...
Now exercise the feckless wings
exploring vastness to be understood,
realizing the next level of prism prison

To a manner unpracticed I thoughtfully drift,
preparing the actions in which such hope might exist.
And though hopelessly broken, I cannot refrain
an intent that has woken: a refrain of disdain.

These shames be postponed while the outcomes could be,
lest the speaker alone should condone prophecy.
Other factors removed, in truth I'd concede;
for the evidence proves that I cannot succeed!

But in spite of the actor, hope must persist
though external factors and the chances of risk.
-Elicit reaction by means that are blind-
so that a manner unpracticed becomes a manner defined

A timely observation; complacently inscribed,
finding truth in aberration and restitution in denial.
So long conversely spoken, unmentioned but believed:
to live without intention and die conventionally.

With wide consideration, the bearer must unload
a prideful commendation: what glory in control!
Internally awoken, vehemently believed:
to live without conventions and die intentionally

I'd love to defer conscious thought for a while
and exist only simply, independent of mind.
It beckons a question of lucidity by species,
to which I'd suppose that none truly are,

despite wholly hoping to release all control
that I claim to not have and have not, not by choice.
If only I could ignore structured design

                                        I wish I could design
a Structure without structure
that runs
and saunters like lovers on a warm summer evening
hypnotized by the other and existing only simply,
woven in the other's arms

Hello, Nightmare.
It seems our paths are linked, for a time,
and I shall endure your company so long as you endure mine.
But withhold your persuasion, to pervade my conscious mind
lest my fears suffer inflation and your motives shall unwind.

Keep your nature hidden, or subtle at the most.
To adherence you are bidden, or seek you a new host.
I'll settle for the ******* of a parasitic ghost
for I am short of comrades and parsimony lost

Don't tremble, my love
for there are no endings.
And even your fear will decay into dirt,
lost and forgotten,
becoming the foundation from which-
-new lives bloom
-every life blooms

At the ****** of pain, your tear, as it falls,
diffuses into the pallet of design,
unobserved, from now through yesterday-
-to quench the thirst of descendants
-to trickle over the face of the Earth as her own tear-
-as it is

Don't tremble, my love,
for the air will not warm for your comfort.
You have only you
and all the kings and Gods, stars and beasts
will never have you-
-not like you do
-not like I do

You may tremble, if you like,
if you feel bereft of comfort.
But it won't be restored
unless you take it yourself

Unraveled by uncertainty,
overlooking the scape of ambition
from the precipice of desire.

Oh horizons...  and the wind breathes deeply
and valleys depress
and horizons recede while the landscape approaches
        me, still marred by uncertainty,
and chasing horizons into endless morning

The plumes and bulbs recoil in hesitation,
hiding their beauty in wary caution from the stranger that I am.
And for their hidden quality and my own unyielding speed
I cannot stop to notice the deeper unmarked treasures
of immediate permanence

But through my hubris and their reservation
a trickling smell lingers of softness, beauty and love to be taken
for and by senses, so that they may be immersed, even temporarily
in fleeting bliss

Where might I be
in my last breath?

When the ongoing sunset fades into darkness
where absent stars twinkle, ignorantly,
and the oceans drink and ruins crumble
in eternal, perfunct serenity,
for there will be no dawn,
where might I be?

At the unmaking of history when origins die
and the land masses curdle and cover the sea,
when Poseidon emerges to reclaim his rites
while Hades laughs gaily, where might I be?

When time falters truly over caesura
-If "when" it can truly be considered to be-
And the void calmly beckons for matter's fair soul;
when the ellipse quietly loops, without warning,
and darkness pervades over freedom and truth
that cannot exist ingenuinely
for nothing remains except nobody,
if 'be' I can be, where might I be?


At the end of the pages, where the margins dissolve
live creatures of forethought creation who choose
to acknowledge the limits of what they control,
or not, says their God, says the author, says I.


For every soul, a collective demise.
And a needless debate o'er if preconceived.
But the truths I create are the truths that will stand.
And so, at the end, here is where I am.

In tedious fashion, as uniformly descried,
stumble these thoughts with bumbling pride.
And though they would, in sequence, march fluidly,
each solo intent breaks tangentially.

A web will insert with some links between chains
And focus diverts into scattering trains.
Manifest indeed, your yield must unwind
in cacophony, useless to the mind.

Don't think these excuses and don't think me excused,
nor elaborately spoken, nor plainly confused.
I push full comprehension in a manner unwise
because thoughts about thoughts are a thoughtful demise

Tell me, blank stencil,
what would you say if you were the voice and not the mouth?
Would you, too, struggle to fill yourself with poignancy
as I so often have?
And in your earnest desperation to draw meaning from chaos and with chaos,
would you, too, crumble inwardly under the eternal, ethereal frustration
and destroy your medium and yourself to absolve your pain
the way so many failed expressions end?

No, I picture an innate fluidity,
where you rattle the truth and beauty of creation
as naturally as I breathe.
The poignancy of basic, instinctive survival-
Breathing to fill my empty lungs;
Expressing to fill an empty page

The lovers in their windows
drew my bitter eyes;
Heavens aligned that I would find a heart on to rely.

The eyes that caught me glancing
were faded as my boots.
The words inane, we shared our pain in darkened disrepute.

Her breath assuaged discomfort
and hazed my gazeless stare.
Reserves dismissed for hollow bliss, I came to be ensnared.

She stole from me my envy
and catered to my pride.
At my whim she’d quell my dreams and hold herself astride.

Today is not remembered
by distant sons, estranged.
The grand divide one must decide is cold comfort or change.

The grains upon my table
could satisfy no more.
Again enticed, against advice, I shattered our rapport.

I sent my love a dying spring
so she’d remember me.
But when the tears fell from her face, they washed into the sea.

The stars that rose above me
emerged from out the foam.
And by their light, I stood, contrite, and spent the night alone.

Removed beside the brookbank,
in hopeless disarray,
The rock and roll will steal her soul and watch her float away.

On the lawn in the court,
on the bench by the bush,
pipes are singing cacophonic rhythms.

Breezes, on becoming aware of said tune,
gather to dance
and trade their burden treasures

Once wearied by translucent celebration,
the breezes turn home
carrying echoes of song and gifts.

The piper stifles his tune
and leaves the court,
which returns to equilibrium

Do not look at me and think of a river.
I will die climbing mountains,
not marching blindly to the sea.

Do not expect me to tell you my secrets.
Like a storm withheld by a leash,
there is no charm like mystery.

Do not compare me to a familiar soul
My intentions were never to emulate,
but to enhance the existing for my brethren

I’d rather be an unbound book
whose pages are out of order,
who makes you think laterally.

I’d rather be the wayward snow.
A raindrop is paired with a goal
and forgets how to move sideways.

I’d rather be
in a different place
in a foreign heart
giving life to new things.
I want to be inspiring.

The mockery of a chastised fool,
too frail to utter vows.
These demons have refused my soul,
an offer, a life, a howl.

Pressed to feel my growing pains...
How lost in common lust.
And though the world was built in frames,
those doves were destroyed by dust.

When the rays would stroke my neck
and the breeze offered a kiss,
I’d stretch and strain to connect
and suffer at fate’s cruel twist.

The memory of pain,
forever etched like the cracks on a statue.
Remnants of a forgotten master, a dead king.
Visible historical lamentations,
so much clearer than simple memories.
A touch,
Digits entwined,
The proximity of two engines
As their gears turn, synchronized,
Soft, fragile, corruptible,
Yet dangerous, raucous, unheralding.

So strange to lose control.
The overpowering eagerness,
the invisible fishhook
reeling two flailing hearts
from the comfort of the sea.

And yet only the superficial wounds remain.
Worn like jewelry.
The softer scars,
the ones that heal.

As simple as a locking gaze
latched by ropes, devised through rays.
The beacon light out through the haze is
Narrow and unaware.

Trap me now unyielding sweet
as if eyes and heart should meet.
Callous though my heart may beat,
Shallow and unprepared.

This anguish fault projects a wish:
The subtle brush of lips on lips.
Alone at last, hung by my wrists,
Hollow and unfair



A concept now and nothing more,
though I’d like it be so.
The sea-salt air, my vision torn,
tethered by a rope.

The pounding in my head
beats the pounding in my chest.
I prefer no beat instead,
as the town with deadless rest
beats the sound of restless dead

Today I feel no longing.
Characterized like a crossroad,
but different,
like being lost in the woods
with all directions abound, not limited.
And no reason to commit to one path.

I’d rather not decide just yet.
I’d rather sit and wait.
For though I know each path has virtues
and they will all exit pines
to open grace and cathartic shine,
the resounding factor of length of time
makes me hesitate.

And as I waste away my life
waiting for one path to materialize
into something I have passion for,
the trees around me become visible.
The forest is alive, and finds meaning in its life
Simply Existing.

And I envy these woods because its life has more meaning than mine ever could.
No matter which path I take.

A gentle vision, that,
The girl who stabbed me with a stiletto-

Half lucid entangle, enforced, but not pleaded,
Such expense at the offer of a lude game conceded.
Tense hours wandering, unlaundered and restless,
to the ripe desert fruit, found snared and defenseless;
felled by the brute who enforced vanity.
The frigid and harmless might stand to agree.

Now rigid in darkness, at the face of your palm-
two islands are bridged.  Awaken embalmed!
Silence, abridged like the unclaimed draw sweat
splattered in the fallout of our budding duet.
A matter, devout; raconteur be concise.
But no pestilent drawrings of a frail soul suffice.

Unhinged as if the veil of heart should drop.
I claim my mind to hold no gentle art.
The gears behind the rusty cage won’t stop.
Endure, my dear.  Should fear appear, depart.

Uncaged, alive, abhorring some denied beat
Alone, endowed without faith to atone.
Those eyes abound, a prayer to be discrete!
So lost along the care to bear my own

What life that lusts for love could be alive?
When but the thought of pain should so impede;
And such is life for bees that leave the hive.
Alas, my friends.  To dogma I concede.

Infernal light consumes the world I know,
Yet dark along the alley streets I go.

The trembling thunder chains soul to awake.
Though depths be the bane of the weak,
To strike the divine is to drain the opaque.

What holds your reason, should judgment mistake?
Though the alternate prospects are bleak,
The trembling thunder chains soul to awake.

Were it be you, could comfort forsake?
No, unaware, your posture bespeaks.
To strike the divine is to drain the opaque

The valiant of will won’t welcome the quake
Empowered, the sordid, the broken, the meek,
The trembling thunder chains soul to awake

Ethereal dance, whose lost weavings partake
those apes, who stand tall, boasting technique.
To strike the divine is to drain the opaque.

Yet pardons, in diligence, to the transparent fake;
On fires dwell qualms of conceit.
The trembling thunder chains soul to awake.
To strike the divine is to drain the opaque.

The dawn of a journey; the slate, as yet, blank.
A charm of the breeze attached at the flank.
A cathartic virtue posed as an outcast
For your ship and your crew, dead hand of the past.

Once veiled by the mist and engulfed by ice,
The albatross kiss framed your quarters at night.
Sound luck unheard cleared a space on your shelf;
You killed the poor bird and held it yourself

Its merit unlaced and outrage profuse,
Obliged as a vigil, so strung as a noose
To remiss of a sin you couldn’t undo.
Sometimes a captain’s remiss of his crew.

The struggle of hope in alms of despair
Caught in your throat as you finish your prayer.
Once woven together, as roots with the earth,
Now tortured by weather, the fruits of a curse

The mast downed by lightning, the sky’s bitter wrath;
The swirling foundations of an arrogant past.
And though your veins pulsed as the crew flew about,
Your body was choked by the legs that gave out

Who knows if a curse was the cause of your death?
Perhaps all you stole was a free bird’s last breath.
The ocean, denied all its depths, would agree
A mariner in plight is a dead man at sea.