I’m listening moon.
I get lost in your moments so often I forget what you mean to say.
At least what you were never saying.
At least what could be said ever at all.
And I guess, like the rain and the wind, it grows on us.
No shelter could say to me otherwise and like everything else it is and is also growing on me.
My planned soaks and my calculated colds erected into a home against the unknown.
Wait, what is it you were saying?
Could I hope to hear it all?
The knowing enough keeps my body dry but tonight I want to soak in your thoughts
where they’ll grow on me again and again I’ll cast them off.
Making room for the next.
Lasting never,
never lost.

Watching people compile the data of their lives.
Projecting and archiving information to stimulate cultures of us
when we give ourselves space to be about what makes us us.
To lose sense of myself is to
castrate
my own vitality
and why I fall in love with the toils of another’s expression.
The catalogues of souls that stand like sentinels in the arteries of the human race.
We were here. We know this moment.
We share it with you and you know the moment in your way,
in the language of your life
and you are heard while being spoken to.
Living to be romanced in this way,
to be understood in the ways we know
with the words constructed on top
of the emotion which was constructed on top
of a moment
now a memory.
A mortal drive of creation in evolving consciousness,
immortally moving another.
Now theres no going back.
I’ve challenged narcissism to grow from nasal gazin bathroom mirrors
into seeing yourself in it all,
to sense the language;
Lust
and fleshy aspects wrestle urgently in the song of your life.
Sorrow
and the audience retreats into the cushions of their throes
or runs from that back alley full of discarded mental furniture.
Love
and their minds explode with connections blossoming into each wonderful and terrible memory that grows into a mesh of a net cast out into the ocean of their heart.
Each memory connecting in a timeline of our moments.
The lines of our lives are filled in with dead words
masking all life to ever show its face.
If only we gave those dead symbols life
in the way life gave them to us.
The language of you while being born with the stubborn disposition
of restless curiosity of our being that begs the questions
of where our lines could go
and with what we could fill ourselves with.
Possibility bursting at our   s e a m s ,
spilling over into our realities.
Aligning our minds towards considering perspectives;
perspective being one thing that our paradigm of truth does not demand more of.
So eager to settle into a home in our head,
we chase the walls and roof of one truth and forsake non-sense of what has yet to make sense
when maybe the bigger picture
and all the multitudes of its non-sensical parts are waiting to hold hands together
in that same portrait,
framed on your nightstand
where you can see how it makes sense,
so the sense can put the weary wights of the unknown to sleep,
so that you may dream with certainty.
So then, what makes more sense than non-sense?

At the mirrors edge I strain to see what else.
Tracing the frame, it’s there I drop out,
into a symmetrical arena.  A personal hell.
Longing for the last after each new bout.
Every contender’s aim is one that can’t be helped.
Shadow boxing polar aspects of myself.  
The only wager is penny-less.
A counterweight to doubt.
When the verdict is in,
who is it that wins out?
The bread winner of recycled debt
owed to the sentinel of the self.
The indelicately celibate
having *** with themselves.
"*******. Thank you."
"*******. Thank you."
*******. Thank you.

Mind is an island.
Setting sail on conceptual ships with charts of stars and atlases
only limited by imagination.
We look to the sea and our reflection shows in calm or turbulent waters.
Waves of wonder crest and pause
in the moment when the sea sees it’s reflection in us.
Peering out at the horizon
pondering ways to reach the other islands.
Feelings bloom into language used as planks in our ships.
Taking magic and turning it into science.
Growing into a symetrist seeking balance.
Trying to stay afloat in a jolly boat
to breach interpersonal moats.
But a parched heart wants to get wet.
Eyes turn from where the sun sets
and into the self.
Unflinching, I abandon ship.
Care for a swim?

When I think about how I got my first taste for words
and how human it is to know the language will fail
but dress it up and try in vain anyway,

I think it’s because all the ******* time I have spent thinking of safe and clever ways to tell people I loved them so they wouldn’t mistake my love for something less than my equal definition.

That’s because growing up in a garden of shame,
rejection was the only fruit to blossom in the
then only place that was a home.

Back when I used to think in terms of to what is what owed and how
I had accepted that nobody could ever know
what ten thousand tickets in an arcade,
while eyeing the prized Mr. coffee machine,
could mean.

It means black coffee in the black of night,
thinking I owe everything to everything,
and believing you could know what that means.

Is there a place of singular desire?
The kind of want that takes on it’s own form and creates its own world
when nothing else matters save that which you clamor for.
Does a body break when it’s borders Annex another lost and hungry nation?
At the heart of which lay a train station
Where all the tracks reach out in every direction
An odd way to reach in.
Can that one body, once two,
know all the right ways it must move
To keep harmony and rhythm in some dusty groove
Of our body’s railway blues.
Foreign to you and you and you
But we all know what to do
When our limbs compel us to move.
So heaven must be a dance that happens all in an instant
And is over even quicker when what you want
Is what’s been given.

Fine fellows ******
with rare and bitter darkness.
We've seen a bit of life
just a bit
tiny divvy of self import.
There is a trail buried in this field
left in the wake of transit
we walk like two wheels upwards
inwards
towards something whole.
Like an engine run on sweat
and trust.
My man,
this is not done.