I believe in the things between
senses.
unseen, unheard, un-so-on
and so forth.  
both feet firmly planted in
thin air.
I stand for our love.

I imagine castles with our names
on them.
countries to our honour.
hearts and initials on
every living tree on Earth.
like some teenage girl I
picture a wedding on the coast.
priestless ceremony
where the god in all things
holds the only blessing
we need.
before Her I stand
for our love.

before friends and enemies.
before poets and politicians.
parents, siblings, teachers.
before my head and heart,
toe to toe with common
sense and pessimistic
realism.
("this world will **** what we
have; strangle us with the
piano string of everyday
stresses and sorrows."
"no.")

I think of eternities.
lifetimes of souls.
I take you on for
forever.

I stand for our love.
I have never washed my
hands after handling something
holy. I would never write like
this, and be lying.
I have never tried
to hide a
tattoo.

Blood moon
dripping with solitude
each pore a mossy mole.

The backdrop transparent
blue waters
molecules of sand
at the hollow
sunken eyes.

Waves throw against
artery edges
a rising tide climbs high.

I’m still
in my solitary vessel
eyelids apart
the blood of life
crawling in my veins.

so you work hard,
one task to another.

brain race, eyes cannot
keep up, reverse turn
read again. rush on
to washing, class and
garage. be known
that all is not italian,
though you wave your
arms, flap hands while
talking.

it can be an indication
of disorder, a slight
abstraction. tasks

repeating, sleep hard

wake to find a black shape
floating.

so you work hard?



sbm.

Dying slow in the mountains seemed much easier than simply breathing at sea level.

I've been thinking that maybe I was happier when I was still drinking.

I tried to write a poem called Pointless and never made it beyond the title.

Dying seems easier than breathing at sea level.

r ~ 11/7/14

a warm dawning sun
rises slow on hazy horizons
with winds wildly
blowing
down endless
interconnected currents
we wake up
to birds singing
timeless songs of morning
and our forgotten past
leaves us hanging
like willows weeping
in the rain

November mist wraps a wet blanket
as I walk the falling day’s labyrinth
beneath neuronic trees of a waking forest
along a river dying in hyacinth!

the boatman sings a home going song
floats happy at the end of the ride
the river is narrow a few furlong
and his home is on the other side!

oil lamps flicker from the bank huts
winds carry their laughter and cries
grow darker tree barks as darkness shuts
all but the sky’s heavy sighs!

I hasten to escape this melancholic gloam
an alien in this forbidding night
the boatman must have reached his home
and the river is lulled in starlight!

Every morning
I arise a different
Poet than the one I
Fell asleep as.

The poems doesn't speak to you.
It sings, it whispers, it screams.

The poem isn't going anywhere.
It dances; glides or crawls.

The poem isn't written.
It is cried, bled or shivered onto

Paper. The poem doesn't care.
It's just there. Where it belongs.

It doesn't mind or like.
It loves, adores or despises from its

Soul. The poems isn't created.
It blesses the poet with its birth.

And in the middle
Of the writing I understood
It's for me, my life

Sadness, Pain
is temporary,
always  passes away...

Joy, Happiness
is temporary,
always passes away...

Kindness
is permanent,
people always
remember
an act of kindness...

Rain wet pavements are mirrors to
Yellow lights and subtle neon.
Click-clacks of women in a hurry,
Even the taxi drivers are too
Tired to use their horns.

Leaves the size of Samson's hands
Keep dropping around me,
Sticking to the ground
As if glued into the scrapbook
Of autumn.

Somewhere between cold and
Not. Winter and fall.
Morning and night.
Alone in a world full of others
Than me.

Silence
Is
Golden
But
Screaming
Is so much more fun