I stretched myself slowly upwards
That slender back
How did it happen
Skin
Covering everything
Sprawled out over the lawn
There is a body of moments
Confused buttercups
Embarrassed breeze buffeting our nature.
Mow us down you mother
Before I grow too long

Had the hospital to himself
   He had broken his childhood against Army historians and mothballs
When reassembled he would say
I could carve a better man out of public demonstration and a woman's hair.
But the world had to bury him
In a coffin lined with a transparent curtain,
False perception,
And blame.
Until it all caved in
Pointed back to him
Reborn again
A stranger in  
The home town.

The
                                                audience
         was
                   sleepy.

                                                                                    So were
                                                                                                       their mouths
                                                          throats &
                                                                         intestines
                                                                                                                                         weary from all
                                                                                                                                                         the tired
                                                                                                          digestion
                                                                                                                              white wash
                                                                                                                                            
                                                                                                                          auto-subscription

                                                                                                           that's bound to die
                                                                                    
                                                                                      like you

So lace up those boots

                                            and

                                                   live.

I'm trying to
but
I could go to jail
                                                             for fraud

                                                                                            because
                                                                                                            
                                                                           old pals
                                                                          
                                                & old sweethearts

                           made a slow deviant

from what's expected.                                                                                                                                                                                            
                    
                                                                                                                    Grown men

                                                                                                                         afraid of the rain.

When wearing moments like clothes,

which Pavlov’s ***** would suggest is a moment’s cost,

it’s hard to imagine what it means to be naked

if all you can do is remember.

In the rare occasions that I forgot,

I find myself bare bodied with a thought;

if all is fair in love and war

then all is fair and why talk?

There are some differences in the shades

between what one calls reality

and another calls god.

Both wrapped in the tattered garments of their lives

stitched together with words defined by their cause.

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.

During it's first showing,
The Wizard of Oz's audience didn't know about the color.
Imagine, the first ever technicolor film
a surprise.
Why have we become less and less astonished?
Naive simulacrums
such poor copies
of copies.
The soul of human heart
a game
of
tele p  h     o         n             e.

It wasn’t until I had forgotten everything I had learned that I noticed the clockwork of our first world machine.
The people as the cogs spinning simply to be the dream.
Yet, not actually.
A frenzied free for all on a linear trip up the ladder with eyes on the prize and no peripheral to see what is lost to the bloodbath below.
Our modern joy paid in full with their soul.
Slave from birth to grave in clockwork that doesn't tell time.  
If only the money misers could be convinced of a two way street
to up shift the whole god ****** machine
and not just leave your brother in the gutter because you can’t believe.
Their steady faucet of the drip drop dribble trickling into your mind until it’s all you know.
Nothing outside that bubble ever gets exposed.
From generation to generation.
Grade school skill sets for a life led by expectation.
With history from the victors,
and morality from a minister.
The whole of the world,
the whole of your life,
is censored.

An other,
outside of life,
a gleaned sum stacked into towers
that could never topple
because none ever amounted to a single stone.
This thing that, despite our best efforts to love,
often reminds us of a need to be contrary for the sake of being anything.
Still, all who attempt creation despite decay
carry a noble hope to never condemn the world
to an absolute knowing.
If described, heavier than ethereal
may come close to the tock implied in it’s tick, however neither
like now
and right now.
Obsessed only with the capture of this resurgent thief
I am attempting to draw a circle around with this passage’s entirety
knowing somehow, very well, that it cannot be contained.
There.
A phantom force lodged between complacency and rebellion.
The enigma itself
unraveling eternity for the sake of an intersection I cross
on nights where I could swear I was never a body
floating without need for up, down or any direction
because here all things reside in transit.
And it's here, with all my weight,
I vanish.

To the T, like a letter I must of looked, accented only
by an estranged alphabet who longed for the The
surrounded by what in a room with no roof made of why.
Night hung overhead with billions of demarcations for the end of a thought
So with them I just stopped and learned that one may never be still.  
Even now we are some cosmic cursive spelling out a
fluid motion so concerned with dotting an i and thus it is forgotten what follows the pronunciation of the self.
A shadow come late of a lightness that we ought to translate but
cannot be contained with these inadequate vessels,
these symbols so riddled with leaks that when they finally reach terminus
become such tired tenants of exposure.
Like these letters I must have looked,
on a page made of mirrors who’s reflection all but apologized
for the failure to realize an ethereal hand tugging at my pen,
an incomplete cursive within without place, without name, simply without.
Not even.                                                            ­                                        
Like those letters I must have looked.

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.

Average aesthetics impressed upon
the dreamers asleep with the television on.
They are selling validation,
the slippery crutch of the only comfort craved.
Forget the details,
we are ****** clockwork,
counted on to come,
but never arrive,
where saying no to yes
likens to tallying time
until what you are chewing
wants to be swallowed.
Pearly white definition grinding moments into pulp
for the insatiable,
that never goes hungry.
This is all of it.
******, ***, and the rest.
The patriarch in his Sunday best.
The wild generation,
rejecting the paranoia of their parents.
The whole of the ******* world
who copes with a regurgitated existence by selling narcissism.
Ours is a secret we are trying to tell with our lives,
when it’s realized it dies,
causing mystics to spill their insides
over silence, the answer that can never be vocalized.
Lo emotion,
the romance of confusion!
The one thing that can have no institution,
in our modern illusion.

A new morning where my dreams suggest yesterday still isn't dead.

I have a new capacity for ******. I can’t put my finger on it.

We were fighting for the resistance, at the edge of the world.

Upon waking I forgot what it was that I would **** for.

We were running.

Put down anyone who tried to stop us.

We got away,

then found myself alone in bed.

Having just been a lover who fought a retreat

I want nothing to do with mediocrity today.

Chaos is an empty room
with everything having a sneaking semblance of shape
you could reduce it all to a notion
that begs everything to form
I wish we had gotten god right
people want to agree on goodness
so much they become less than ideal
I am less
and less
real
every time I speak
because it's impossible for you to know what inspired
my meaning
in goodness that can be agreed upon
only when made whole
in form
and substance
like dreams
where the doing is also the goal
Heaven and Hell have only
made appearances in our neck of the cosmic wood
still, we invent axes to keep ourselves warm
and hold to both paradise and perdition
existing elsewhere

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.

Will is a wish that your birth charges you with. There is a quartet of letters given to each generation, a formless trinket tossed around the human flame like some universal kumbaya that always had a face. We could learn a lot from where were aren’t if we let ourselves imagine it. Dreams of what it looks like when I poke out the eyes of my love. Nothing begging something, the body of a bonfire song. Is it not each flick of the tongue? Is it not a federation of sounds finally reaching accord? Hurt like hell to learn when I should stop asking questions.

Cut myself on double checking
                   so I stopped.
   Did nothing I wasn't sure of
         and so I
               felt nothing unheard of.
                           Am I lazy in my knowing?
            If I saw life,
would I call her by name,
                                                        in the way
                                                                ­                    some people are
                                                             ­                                                          afraid of?
                                                 Like eye contact
      or tenderness?

A weapon sharp &
your armor hopeful for
not needing to be necessary
in spite of it’s donning.
Who hurt those who hurt you?
A library of open wounds encompassing all of history
only to go on and be known as the world.
This place that becomes an acceptable excuse for knowing better
but doing worse.  
Wonder explained and mystery unraveled only to discover
under the oceans of it all there still is a thirst we cannot swallow.

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.

Your lens is                                                                                 your language
       hurting you faster                                                        to write words
              broken                                       ­                                 beauty                          ­ 
                    slowed to a                perfect                   wonder
               ­              which could                       be called
                                                          ­  ?

                                                     Impossi­ble.
                                                      Throwi­ng
                                                         honest
                                                        ch­ildren                                                                                                    ­                                                                 ­                   
                                                           into                             
                               ­                           some
                                                      dead thing
                                                      that lingers
                                                      on through
                                                         ­ all this
                                                       and takes
                                                        the form
                                                            of a
                                                        question.

When Babel was erected,
                                            
           ­                               they wanted nothing to do with words.
                
                       A singular voice

so heavy with itself

                                                  it topples under it's own
                                perfection

                                                        Slouchin­g toward each other
              no limbs
                                   to cover the distance
                                                                ­            
                                                                ­                 between
                      
                                         ­                                                             here­

and being heard.

                                                     I don't know about heaven,

                            imagined I,
    
                                                         ­                             standing on it's golden shore
                                  
                        ­                   at the edge of an ocean where
                                          
                                                               every sentence,
                        
                              ­                                                            every­ syllable,

                                                                ­                                                 every utterance,

                            exhausted.