your eyes. they meet my gaze
watching me. seeing.
you are there. with me.

your eyes. watch him pass
watching him. seeing.
you were here. with me.

my eyes. watch the wrist.
watching it. seeing.
you aren't here. with me.

the blade. slices the skin.
watching it. seeing.
the blood drains. onto me.

A flick of a wrist, floating harmony
Fingers dance, twist and sway
Pluck and strum
The chords shape so heartily and wholey
The air reverberates and shivers the spine
But surrounds you, a warm embrace of song
You feel so fine
As the grandeur grows and grows,
Rythm picks up tempo swaps and shifts fast slow fast faster
The minor mirrors your mind, that soft depressing tone
Another strum springs alive,
Your fingers pick up pace
Pluck, pluck, pluck pluck PLUCK

SNAP!!... twang, ping.
oh
You were playing with my heart-string
The music dies,
And so do i.

You shouldn't have to go.
You shouldn't of signed up to do this.
You tell me that you'll come home to mw,
But it still worries me that you wont.
Every day and every night I worry about you
Going over there.
I love you with all my heart and soul.
You say I relax you and keep you motivated;
How is the question, I'm just myself.
I'll cry myself to sleep every night
you're going to be over there.
I tell you don't promise me you'll come home,
But please promise me that your letters won't
Stop coming to me even if a friend has to write
To me in your place.

Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

SanITY is merely a Social constraint
A M E A S U R E M E N T of normality to which

ALL
are expected to conform.
What if we lived in a world where sanity didn’t exist?
????????????????           ???????????????
where every body was completely
U  R  S  R  C  E
  N  E  T   I   T  D
Where Politeness was a curse and Con form ity a sIn
To B tru lee
“”          
to  Act and speak without                                                                        FEAR
to SPEAK with our MINDS
to LOVE UncontrolABLEy
to not be  Afraid of fear.
To encounter each proble m as  a
GLOBAL COMMUNITY
S   ev     era      l  m i   nds th  ink    inga  s        ONE

           thought
to let                 wander aimlessly like a cloud.
To be intoxicated by life.
To LOVE
To LIVE to be
HAPPY

August 8, 1999

There’s no sense in trying to describe the present
it always runs like dye;
diffused and confused by constant currents
in the river of my mind.

Memory is the ferryman
who laughs beneath his breath
each time I seek him, begging
to take me there and back again.

He smiles like an old adviser
subject to a child king
and picks up his oars, still dripping
from the last time I came knocking.

He never ties his boat
I know why, but he won’t say.
he hopes one day I’ll turn the world
and let the dingy fall away

Like a tired tutor ready
to let his pupil fail
he swings a gaze that navy father
would save for son before setting sail

Do you find the silence clearer?
He pulls us from the pier.
Because I won’t bring back
every cricket to your ear?

Or does the laughter seem prevailing
when I don’t give you the chance
to collect in such detail
each abundant downward glance?

My finger starts to tap and
I anchor eyes on opposite shore
and clench a fist into the dye
that hurricanes about the oars

The bank beyond this river
is salt white washed and dry
and shows off only footprints
I dragged out from tides

Its only touched by water
where I choose to tread
and only on these paths
does the river dye it red

I slip into a grin
and Memory sees me smiling
he lets words fall again
with the clatter of iron filings

And how about the nights?
The inky drinks of smoke?
Don’t you see they make my job
No more than ******* joke?

The less that I can give you
the more you fabricate.
You sedate your days awaking
to make that other shore ornate.

Every day you come to find me
and we cross this boiling stream
to bring you back the torso
of some amputated dreams.

I can’t fill in their limbs
so you take them to your cell
and flesh out puppet wings
to play heaven with your hell.

You coward of a tyrant
I wish you would realize
the bliss that you remember
is just your best told lie.

Now he leans in close and stops his row
to watch my face unwrap
we drift a muted madman’s pace
till he curls his words into a trap

Before he even spoke
I feared the question mark
Why do you find the weight
So much lighter in the dark?


Sometime before we fell
from the river’s mouth to sea
I chewed a knot within my jaw
And squeezed between my teeth

a defeated growl of malice
*Just keep rowing