Something speaks to me beyond this reverie;
I've been along this path enough to know just what it means.
There's a jolting recognition -- more than curiosity --
and it's blooming like a lotus with fearsome symmetry.

I didn't mean all this disrespect
towards the open arms of sacredness--
I couldn't recognize your hand
behind the veiled disguise.

I know you're the epicenter of the confluence,
but when we flow together out of this sea
will it be in wretch'd despair, or in rapt ecstasy?

If I sit silently still long enough
I'll hear you clear beyond this clamor,
but everything grasps for fragments of attention
with tendrils curled symmetric, poised for desiccation.

I
don't
know what I've done.
I was messing around, I was having some fun.

I
don't
know why I tried
to **** off the seconds and ****** the time.

Now
I'll
face what I've done.
I will stare down the shadows escaping the sun,
but the night's just begun.

I
was
just sitting there.
I was tapping my fingers and combing my hair.

I
was
sitting up straight,
I was balancing all of the pieces at stake.

I
then
thought this to me,
I thought: "I'm feeling funny, I think I'll agree
that the night's just begun."

I
heard
bells on the wind.
I heard echoes of laughter and all of its kin.

I
saw
things come alive
with the essence of nature that makes us all thrive.

I
felt
things fall apart
with the rolling of thunder that thumped through my heart,
and the night's just begun.

I
flew
out of this place.
I flew out of the building and out into space.

I
flew
down to the depths.
I flew past all the serpents, with plenty of breadth.

I
went
straight through the door.
I went right to the heart, I went right to the core
and the night's just begun.

I
found
them in a cave.
They were lapis and emerald, too bright to state.

They
were
made up of stars.
They were too close for distant, they were too near for far.

They
turned
attention to me.
They said: "We'll give you a chance, you should probably flee
'cause the night's just begun."

They
said
these things to me.
They said: "You've wasted your life pursuing this dream.

Why'd
you
do what you did?
You had so much going for you, and you're only a kid.

You
tried
to face the abyss.
You wasted your talents, and we'll just mention this:
the night's growing dark."

They
burned
my body to ash.
They scattered me with lightening, with one giant crash.

I
fell
from clouds to the ground.
I fell on a pile of rocks, nothing more than a mound.

Why
won't
this night ever stop?
I am stuck on this mountain, I'm stuck on the top
and this night's growing long.

That's
when
she said to me.
"Oh, my child, don't you know that you'll freeze?

You
think
you've wasted your life,
with petty distractions, and unnecessary strife.

How
else
would you know what you know?
Your mind is quite fertile, it's starting to show
that this night's growing long."

She
made
my body whole.
She made all that was extinguished continue to glow.

She
bent
crooked to straight.
She balanced the forces not a moment too late.

She
sent
me on my way.
I understand, without having to say:
this night's almost done.

I
don't
know how to repay.
That act of kindness without going astray.

So
I'll
do what I can.
I'll be honest and open, always lending a hand.

And
when
the night's getting dark.
Don't fall to pressure, don't give up your spark,
and you might see the sun.

Sail away into obscurity,
leave the past the way
it may choose to be.

Untie the clever knots
of education' s reign
and the Hell it's wrought.

Travel far beyond obscenity,
and hang your hat, timidly,
to live with calm serenity.

Sail away into obscurity,
without contrived security.

I never could count backward from infinity, the concept of eternity casually eluded me on a silver-back horse holding reins on the floods of organized cacophonies speaking louder than the silent ones. To the silent ones with frozen mouths caught quivering, consumed in doubt: don't let the symphonies of simple minds convince you that you shouldn't try. Forget these medieval magicians bending spoons with indecision -- they're just jesters sharing feasts with crooked beasts, swept up in the tide of disappearing time like rivers ripping rightly through the earth to an oceanic expanse of karma-laced incidents. I can  tell which moments are meant to be, scripted in the folds of destiny by the way space crackles opalescently then glows and ripples incessantly. The ancients knew the riddle, and wrote the verse in broken words.

I want to be the last bough bending by a brook as a dozen on-lookers overstate the understood in a field of frantic fever-fighters fixated on the moon. Stop, drop, break a neck, then lay in bed and recollect the days  before the disconnect when you kept your bright eyes side-lined in complexified complacency while the golden winged effigy decayed into degen'****. Multi-state probes propelled by a whim skitter like arachnids on the surface of your skin with words like a finger pointing at the sun that stop making sense before their job lies done. Who now will step down celestially with alchemical agility just to let The Spirit flow through them with exponential intensity as imaginal orthogonality skips with divinity? When'll be best to choose to confuse and diffuse every up-tight, no-sight tool on the loose then flak shrapnel to the castle as a billion petty hassles gathered up and coalesced as interrupted innocence? 'Til then these strides keep pace with the center of the storm, just inside the whirling swarm of wailing souls abandoned and forlorn.

The empty office hums
as air-conditioned drums
rattle through the ventilation
and I sit idly with time for contemplation.
The day rolls forward unopposed.
As I've read: "So it goes."
With a sigh, I make my tea --
an infusion with elderberry --
but that alone doesn't warm a mind
limping out of tempo with the time.
My soul's too slow to keep this rhythm
of skewed self-perception and idiot-ism.

Know that I'm afraid to express my love sincerely,
because every person I've known I hold equally dearly.
Nothing special exists inside my love,
where no one is treated as below or above.
Now if you pass me on the street,
you'll know me when our eyes both meet.
I'll smile from my core for you
and I hope that you reflect it, too.

Many are the ones I've loved;
few are the ones I miss.
There's only one I'm thinkin' of,
and I left her up north in the mist.

I left one sunny summer day
south, to make a life.
Now that I've made my way
I don't think I was right.

Many are the ones I've loved;
few are the ones I miss.
There's only one I'm thinkin' of,
and I left her up north in the mist.

These city-folk aren't even sane,
and I don't think they care.
How can I enjoy the rain
if she's not even there?

Many are the ones I've loved;
few are the ones I miss.
There's only one  I'm thinkin' of,
and I left her up north in the mist.

The moonlight passes through
foggy mist in an avalanche;
creeping tendrils hold balance
with the warmer air below.

I wash, in circles, the light from my face
with great scooping armfuls
of blissfully animated space.

Arms held, rounded.
Not held, rather perched,
effortlessly bending this warmth

slowly gathering around my core.
A tingle of sensation;
a signal of joy --

a standing ovation from my senses,
congratulating me for paying attention.

I'm trying to understand
whether I miss you
or the way I feel
when you're near.

I've heard that Love is a flower
with pink petals pealed back,
odoriferous in its display.

But from the flower follows fruit
which once pulled will rot and sour
if not consumed before it fades.

I'd prefer that Love be sandalwood:
slow to grow with grounding aroma
that after death remains.

All those half-dreamed things
whirl about as tiny freckles
in the speckles of your mind.

Now my dear, I think it's time
we closed our eyes
and counted to eternity.

So you think yourself a prince alight with fire,
dynamic in your expression of unlimited creation?
But what of the fear and obstacles rising perpetually
because of your unskillful means and application?
What if your timing is off by a moment
and impatience leads to more than one undoing?
Recognize that you're uneasy. How you long to be free from
unfairly mounting regrets or mourning!
Your current approach relies too much on will-power alone;
find another way, as will-power alone is not enough.
Undam the waters of life; go deep within and seek the light.
The world is beckoning, waiting patiently for you to realize
that you are never not becoming; you will always be renewed.
Seek the Truth, without clinging to the sensation of discovering truth.
Seek the Love, without clinging to the sensation of realizing that love.
Seek the Joy, without confusing intensity for a thing's reality.

You wish for changes and emotional revolutions,
to cast aside old worn-out thoughts and constitutions.
You wish to master your psychological well-being,
tactfully blending your intelligence and imagination.
But what about the path you thought you were still on?
Do you fear you may collapse during essential maturation?
Know that you don't know where your going.
You are out of touch with reality -- place things in proper perspective!
Don't delay the inevitable cycling of completion
if you would desire your hopes to come to fruition.
Seek stability in your home, and nurturing connections.
Learn to trust and ground your feelings in satisfaction.

The two choices stand before you; but which one will you choose?
The outer path of material unfolding is easily observed.
The inner path of contemplation is a little more reserved.
You can search for it, ask for it, or even knock right on the door,
but you can never open the door, through excessive use of force.
If you sit patiently, showing all the virtue that you've practiced --
if you have the courage to dare to ask the difficult questions;
if you have the will to seek the uncomfortable revelations;
if you have the persistence to remain silent long enough to know --
then the door will open for you, without the slightest hesitation.

The past answered back
in the form of flickering
images evolving in time.

I saw each of them as children,
before they ever had to work
or make it big out in the world.

I saw each of them as mothers,
the gentle curve of a smile
beaming into the eyes of a child.

I saw bones form from nothing,
wrapped in muscles, skin
and rippling emanations.

I felt the startling disconnection
of my mental projections
and healthy, natural directions.

I felt a subducting sensation,
coupled with crawling anticipation
as I glimpsed the essence of creation.

Here is where I take my stand,
to fix the things I misunderstand.
It's time the true work began.

He said
"your mind is numb"
in his low,
concise rumbling.

"Open your heart,
your mind.
Really start to feel."
His long, black hair
fell to mid-back.

"The blessings are
offered to all sentient beings.
But you must be open
to accept and feel them.

There are four precious
attributes to first be developed:
honesty, humility, kindness and purity.

Do not lie,
nor boast and brag.
Help all beings
and view the world
as dependent origination."

He smiled and laughed gently.
"Carefully cultivate,
awaken from the numbness,
and develop those you meet."

As she lifts her nose from her notes
I wonder down which stream she floats.

Does she fancy pastel summer sunsets
whose calmly colored clouds conceal
a simple lapis blue beyond?

Does she set her sights further, forever far away --
are there glimmering galaxies gushing light and gravitation
while solar systems spin and dance in divine inebriation?

Perhaps her discretion is more discerning
and towards all minutiae her mind is turning.
Are cells pulsing gradients, chemically communicating
with energetic electric magic undulating?

Maybe those electrons evoke enticing excitations
and her shining silhouette's mere photonic  emanations.
Atoms flicker, fidgeting 'tween fleeting forces:
Protons, quarks, gluons, and other shifting sources.

Ah, but, now I find myself gently pondering:
because I know exactly where she is
I've no idea where she's wandering! (To an arbitrary precision.)

In the beginning, nothing to know or behold.
Ignorant to all forms, to all words being told.
I exist, I exist! I'm not everything else.
Throughout eternity, I'll have only myself.

I'll apply energy to create new conditions,
and cause ripples and waves with distraught intentions.
From a "this," another "that"
and the polar play will distract.

From the two, another, awareness of faculties.
Nose to smell, tongue to taste, eyes to see.
Ear to hear, skin to feel, and mind to think.
Consciousness with an ego standing on the brink.

From the conscious fields, the earth starts to rise.
Water flows through being; fire keeps it alive.
Wind, vital wind, blows great energy around.
I think I'll call myself "ME." Yes, it has a certain sound.

From the elements, my corporeal form starts to dance.
With various appendages to keeping me entranced.
Eyes, ears, nose, tongue, my body and my mind.
Oh-**! Who knows what secrets I may find?

Ah, at last, the external world and I contact!
Who'd've thought that there'd be much in that?
Awareness and otherness meeting for a moment.
Before a strange sensation -- now I start to plummet.

I think I'm sad. There's cloth on me. I smell something astringent.
I see a bright light. Sounds all around. What tastes are contingent?
I didn't bargain for sensations that flicker up now.
I'd take it all back, if I only knew how.

A welling within! I crave food and deep loving.
Only want pleasant forms, otherwise I'll take nothing.
I want good music, beautiful things to observe.
But these forms in my mind, I think I'll conserve.

I'll repeat all sensations that are pleasant
and continue this practice and never regret it.
My Self is a thing, perpetually flowing.
I'll live forever; I'll never stop growing.

Forever happens much sooner than planned.
Every year I get older, I get sick and feel shammed.
How could this happen? I was so fit in my prime.
On my deathbed with my pleasures, I've wasted my time.

Through a strange landscape, I'm stripped of my Self.
Alone, all alone, with nowhere to turn to for help.
But there is a return to this world, once again,
to the beginning with nothing to know or behold.

What are their uses
when everyone confuses
the words I say
with the ones they think?

Hello, Mr. Man-in-Blue.
You know I've got my eye on you.
You I see looking back at me,
waiting for this man to stumble.

Well, Mr. Man-in-Blue
can you tell me what stands True?
Or could it be a mystery
with which we both will fumble?

To the psychonauts exploring
the vistas of imagination.

There is a simple question
I ask of your investigation.

Are you seeking to know
beyond bounds of limitation,

or are you using "psychonaut"
to justify inebriation?

Where did all the poets go?
I can't find them on the streets.

Where did all the lovers go?
All I see is lust and greed.

Where did all the culture go?
It didn't come with my degree.

Where did all the passion go?
It's just rote monotony.

Where did all the thinkers go?
Instead of blank redundancy.

Where did all the peacefuls go?
Did they join the milit'ry?

Oh, I don't think I'll ever know.
Where did all the virtue go?

My mind stands as a monument, patient as a mountain
with icy peak not pestered by casual considerations
'though mourning howls through the crags
of my thoughts, and an agitated earth rumbles below.
Stoically I face the persistence of time flowing slow.

I received dreams last night, visions beyond
myself and my actions.

I saw a great man, with great compassion.
He used the last of his strength to save another
from the rushing of a tidal wave.
As others lifted his body from the ground
and spoke of his noble sacrifice,
the man thought to himself:
"I must continue to burn with light
to combat the forces of oppression."

I woke then, suddenly, and my vision
filled with spiraling blue and green
diffraction patterns, rippling across the ceiling.

A deep pleasure burned through my skull
and swept down my body, accompanied
with a high-pitched ringing, tinged with fear.

I saw a great green grassland,
a deep emerald color contrasting the
lapis lazuli color in the sky.
On the horizon stood a single mound,
a deep red clay of vital earth.

May I never forget what I have seen,
and always remember:
suffering and bliss are not two.

I came upon a river,
as wide as the years
spent to to find it.

I took of my shoes,
to rest down beside it.

And as I stopped
to think of a way
to make it across
the waters someday,

my hair turned grey,
my flesh to dust,
and the river swept me away.

I raged and I churned,
I frothed through the years.

I carved through the earth,
deep valleys and streams.

I devoured all in my path:

animals and travelers,
I held nothing back.

Until at last came a ferryman
slowly drifting with ease.

His eyes fully open,
with a soft smile and care.

I surged fully violent,
to consume him with my wake.

But as his oar pierced my skin --
Oh, agony's bright light!

His oar parted then,
and my drops diffracted the sky:

the stars and the moon,
all jewels within my mind!

Again and again:
deliberate strokes against my rage.

As he made his way across,
my mighty rapids became

rhythmic lapping on the shore.

Then he laid down his oar,
and prostrated three times

fully bent and out-stretched
with his head on the floor.

Surprised, I looked the side
to see who he met reverently.

And, what did I see? Myself, just as before.
Already standing on the other shore.

I left, again, on the next step for my path.
Where I find myself now makes me look back.
Do I regret everyone I've lost on my way?
I won't know 'til the end of these days.

But the new place I'm at is enough to think about:

He's divorced, his wife took the kids.
He drinks and regrets what he never did.
His laugh is like thunder, distant and looming;
his voice's like his television: obscene and booming.

The other man is older, he lives in the study
watches television all day 'til his eyes become ******.
He belittles himself, and has lost the will to live.
If only I could teach him the power to forgive.

I learned he lost his wife and daughter.
One to cancer, the other manslaughter.
Now he drinks from noon 'til morning,
and chain smokes without learning.

But as I stay awake in the evening,
listening to their drunken speaking
I wonder, to myself, rather than deplore:
is this what my life will have in store?

I think I've forgotten more than I know.

If only my thoughts would leave me alone,
and allow these insights to grow.

There's a darkness growing shadows,
like tendrils from a plant,
with wicked thoughts of discontent
and ill intentioned words like "can't."

You say that there's a place you're going;
a place you once called home.
But do houses stand the test of time
while streams around them flow?

I never thought I'd meet you
beyond the scope of centered thought,
but here you stand before me
and I know that I've been caught.

I won't ask for your forgiveness.
Nor compassion, love nor hope.
I only ask to be met as a man
drawn out with the undertow.

I wonder what you'd say to me,
if Time could stall and talk.
Would we reminisce of summers spent
or bicker 'til the dawn?

'Cause life's a loop of distant thoughts
rippling blindly through the void.

Sometimes I think if I were sober
this would make a little more sense.
It feels like my life's all over.
Or maybe I'm a little too dense:

I only know what they say
when they say what I know.

Sometimes I think  that my heart's troubled,
like everything is a little amiss.
Then again, my feelings are muddled.
I can't tell agony from bliss.

'Though we said our good-byes,
hello still hung in air.
Did she understand how time flies
ever onward without a care?

Her smile was distant; the embrace not enough.

Yet, we said our good-byes
while hello still hung in the air.

Those days were delightful
with tea in the park in the evening twilight.
Through the fog, careless but thoughtful,
I'll remember the sun and hers eyes as equally bright.

Somehow, we said our good-byes
while hello hung still in the air.

I'll see you on the other side of me.
Between the way it is, and the way it seems.

I'll see you the next time I come around.
When you're lost and can't be found.

This is how it has to be.
It's the only path I see.

This is how you'll find a way
back home to the light of day.

I'll see you on the other side of me,
between waking life and dreams.

I'll see you when the winds don't blow,
but your stream continues to flow.

The earth, as it is,
is not a place I have been.
What is this and what is that?
Who will cast the final act?
Where are you and where am I?
Do we live before we die?
Because there's life and then there's death
ripe with strife and short of breath.
Then there's lies and there's truth.
You better hide when they shout: "Shoot!"
Should we duck or should we run
when we're stuck before the gun?
There's fear and then there's joy.
So hold me near, don't be coy.
I'd like to love before I go.

The horizon's bending backwards,
stretching sideways 'cross a vision
of glimm'ring hieroglyphic superstitions.

My body's feeling heavy
but my psyche just won't let me
return alone into the void.

No voice can seem to reach me
although their pleas beseech me;
can't I stay right here a little more?

I'd never stop to question
this painless vivisection
of what my life is for.

All is not as it seems.
Life flows out from your dreams,
laughing between painted scenes
of long lost memories.

Watch them dance across the night,
but stare too long and you just might
spend your time in silent delight;
lose your time to the quiet night.

Don't grab for the fading smoke and
resist the past you've broken --
don't keep a reminiscent token --
and you may find yourself awoken.

Let me tell you, my friend:
listening for whispers on the wind
can only bring about the end.
Ah, but silence may mend

reality's split seams.
Life flows out from your dreams,
laughing between painted scenes
of long lost memories.

She said it was forever
and that I surely knew.

Though we spent a lifetime together,
far apart we grew.

Now the peak has passed,
gone beyond the plateau.

A grand descent back down to earth
is all my heart could do.

She's left me feeling altered.
She's left me here askew.

She's left me here to ponder
what I thought I knew.

You're in the belly of the beast
but don't let it get you down.
You're in the belly of the beast
and no one can see you frown.

See how they look at you?
They'll try to ***** you in.
Is there anything you can do
to make it out again?

You're in the belly of the beast,
try not to make a sound.
You're in the belly of the beast,
but soon you will be found.

Hear how they laugh at you,
they'll fill you up with doubt.
But don't forget what they hold true
is something you can laugh about.

You're in the belly of the beast,
but don't let your spirit fall.
You're in the belly of the beast,
listen for your call.

Hate me, my darling.
I know I've done you wrong.
Hate me, my darling,
for the trouble I have caused.

I'm grabbing my belongings.
I'm leaving today.
I'm grabbing my belongings
and you can't make me stay.

Hate me, my darling.
I know I've been unfair.
Hate me, my darling,
for the times I wasn't there.

Trouble won't find me
and all I have earned.
Trouble won't find me;
those lessons I have learned.

Hate me, my darling.
I know I'm not the one.
Hate me, my darling,
now that I've said we're done.

Know that I'll be lonely
without you next to me.
Know that I'll be lonely,
but at least I'll be free.

Another day gone in the blink of an eye.
I'm feeling confused, but don't really know why.
So I do what I can
just to get by.

And the sun silhouettes those fading trees.

I spend most my time up in my mind,
not really concerned with the things I may find.
I open my heart,
let it all unwind.

And the sun silhouettes those fading trees.

I'm going through life with my eyes open wide,
trying to find a good reason to try
when you're too old to quit,
but too young to die.

And the sun silhouettes those fading trees.

I train all my thoughts up to the sky,
aim to dissect The Truth from The Lie;
but could it be:
the best is passing me by?

And the sun silhouettes those fading trees

Awkwardly she stands by me
and speaks about the weather.

Honestly, does she believe
that I am something better?

If this isn't good,
I don't know what is.*
I thought to myself.

It was a habit I picked up
from reading too many books;
to acknowledge the good
occurrences when they occurred.

It seems they happen more often
when you pay attention.
However, don't imagine
that the scene was perfect.

We woke up
on a hardwood floor,
hungover
and sleep-deprived.

My jacket was
the pillow,
and, luckily, someone
had draped a blanket
over us.

A cat wandered
under the blanket,
and sat down on my
naked shins,
which shook us
from our slumber.

She laughed as his tail
swooshed slowly across her leg
and pulled my arm
around her.

"I never expected
to wake up next to you."
She said,
in a whimsical way

We shooed the cat out
(he was quite stubborn)
and laughed together at the
absurdity of it all.

Later, we kissed farewell
and promised to meet again.
Now, I sit in contemplation;
recalling all I can about the night.

Moments are just that --
moments.
Parsed smaller and smaller
the further you look.

I don't need to remember each
minutiae -- how many seconds
elapsed between each breath --
only how I felt at her side.

I think this is what I'm aiming to do:
to hold each reminiscence sacred.

It's two in the morning
and we find Sam still
awake, staring at the ceiling
of his cramped studio apartment.

Overhead, thumps can be heard
along with moans of squelched desire.

He rolls out of bed, gets dressed,
and begins his evening perambulations.

Don's Donuts is his destination.
Although he doesn't much
care for fried sugar bread,
it's the only place open.

He buys a  few maple bars
and takes a seat at a bench,
near his overly-intoxicated peers.

The smell of whiskey and puke
permeate the establishment,
and Sam ponders why he doesn't
succumb to the same alcoholism.

Hey, Sam.
A voice registers
in his conscious attention.

He looks left.
He looks right.
He looks up.
He looks down.

No one is paying him any mind.
Besides, he doesn't recognize
the faces otherwise.

Yeah, Sam. It's me.
The same borderline authoritative
tone echoes over the drone
of the inebriated crowd.

Sam furrows his brow
and lifts the paper plate.
A small, luminous man
about the size of Sam's thumb

sits cross-legged under the plate.
He grins and golden emanations
cascade and unfurl from his
long (relatively), tied-up hair.

It's okay, Sam. You're doing fine.
Everybody likes you more
than you think they do.
You need to stop being so ******* yourself.

I'm just here to give you some
encouragement. You've seemed
a little down in the dumps
these past few weeks.

Listen, man, I know you've had it rough,
but suffering isn't a ******* contest.
This, too, will pass.
And you'll be a better person for it.

Then maybe you can help people who
are going through the same problems.
That's all you really can do, man.
Just help the people you're around.

Sam stands up which sends the chair
skidding across the floor into an
adjacent table. He flings the paper plate
(which still has a donut-and-a-half!)

against the window and screams
in a manner which contradicts
his timid demeanor:
"Who are you? Get out of my head!"

A police officer who, before this incident,
was finishing his third bear claw of the evening
observes the outburst and intervenes.

"Say, are you okay?" The officer puts
his hand on Sam's shoulder.
"What're you on tonight?"
The officer had seen a few
Drug War soldiers
exhibit similar collapses.

Sam feels threatened, he pushes
the officer out of the way
and hurries out the door
and down the street.

The officer follows in pursuit
and shoots his taser into
Sam's back. The electric
shock causes his heart's

circuitry to become irreparably
confused. He drops to the ground,
dead as the day before conception.

Will walked to his car, alone.
Another late night given to
that thankless, soul-stealing
excuse for employment.

As he opened his car door,
a gun being cocked
sounded behind him.

Then a voice:
"Give me the car
and your cash."

Will laughed:
"I've got nothing worth taking.
**** me and be done with it."

The hole in his belly
didn't hurt nearly as
bad as he thought it would.

A woman heard the shot,
and came running over
after the murderer had fled.

She said:
"I'm Maggie, don't worry.
Help is on the way."

Will awoke in a hospital.
He stared at Maggie,
and reasoned something like this:

"Well, I got shot; I'm probably dead.
And the silhouette of your hair
against the window looks
an awful lot like a halo."

She blushed:
"I waited all night for someone
to come visit you; to make sure
you were okay."

Then truth in reply:
"I've got no one and nothing.
You'll wait there forever if you're
looking for someone who cares."

She frowned:
"That's not true!
Clearly I care about you."

Will, in disbelief:
"So it appears.
I guess there's a first for everything."

She held his hand:
"But I've got work to go to.
I'll be back in the evening.
I'm glad you're alive."

Will nodded.
Things were certainly
changing for the better.

Maggie left.
An intern entered,
staring at a clipboard.

The intern, to herself:
"Well, 'Will' is certainly
a lot like 'Bill'.

And it's only penicillin;
what's the worst that
could happen?"

A few moments later,
Will died of a massive
allergic reaction.

Oh well.
Easy come, easy go.

Wednesday:

A movie theater
at around six o'clock
with beer and a movie for
only five bucks.

(Who could resist such a deal?)

As I stood in a line to
buy myself a drink,
I observed the other people.

Mostly couples.
A couple families.
Probably a few
small groups of friends.

But no one else alone,
as far as I could tell.
So I paid for my drink
and returned, alone, to my seat.

Then, just before the feature:

A woman turned my way,
as if she had something to tell me;
but instead she spoke to some guy
standing just over my shoulder:

"Oh, honey-pie, my dear!
You were almost late to the show!"

I laughed on the inside,
finished my beer,
and left.

Thursday:

Sunset in the marsh;
sitting on a bench
with a bottle of wine
to keep me company.

A woman walked by,
and couldn't bare
to look me in the eye.

She tripped over her dog
while trying to ignore my existence;
and, after apologizing to the
animal (what a human thing to do!)

she turned towards me, blushing.
I laughed and I smiled
but she grew more red in response.
Then she hurried along, leaving me alone to drink.

"Do you miss me?" She asked.
And I, trying my best not to lie,
said how I felt, in reply:

"I'm enjoying my solitude."
We'd been apart scarcely a day,
after being inseparable for months.

"Well, enjoy your solitude."
Immediately I understood the
influence of an honest word.

Ah, that's the last sentence I heard
before I was left to contemplate
the soft silence on the other side
of an empty receiver.

I slept well the first few nights,
expecting to find her back in my
arms by the end of the week.

Our paths never crossed again,
and her phone's been disconnected
(she probably forgot to pay).

She left a few things:
pants and underwear on the floor;
pens (which won't be used any more);
a toothbrush on the corner of the sink;
and an old picture of her's
which hangs hollow on the wall.

Now thoughts whirl around like
a dervish of misgivings:
if only I lied through my teeth
for the duration of a call.

She lies, softly snoring,
on my chest.
I know she doesn't mean
to lead me on.

We met a month ago,
when we both climbed
on top a roof,
to gaze at the moon.

We shared of few tales
of too many trips gone astray
and laughed at the people
through the sky-light

unaware of the pair
sitting cross-legged
just above their heads --
just above their heads.

We were made of different
stuff than those people
below us; that night
we weren't even human.

But days follow nights
and whispered words
rarely amount to truth.

She lies like everyone before her:
afraid to hurt the people she loves.

Icicles dribble down the tip
of my nose as frost fogs
the humid corridors of my mind.

Tundras yawn before me
and sea-foam green ribbons
helically orbit one another.

Streaks of yellow roll between
the spiraling bows in the sky.
Stars twinkle slowly, just beyond.

An icy howl jars the halcyon
serenity as a harbinger of
hardships and blizzards.

But I am not of this.
I carry a hearth in my chest
and open my arms to embrace.

Ah, and now she steps down
from the gathering clouds;
her gown rippling as it unfurls.

Her aurichalcite eyes echo unsung
songs until I can't bare the separation.
My unstrung heart beats on, begging

for another verse from her slightly parted
-- but how much they open! --
lips lying, parabolic, atop her chin.

She meets my pleas succinctly:
her out-stretched hand offered
in tribute to another kindred soul.

My mind is fixated, not a thought
intrudes on my contemplation
of her exotic inebriation.

Does she know what she's done?
How every movement makes
me stutter, slightly, shuddering

(unavoidably)? How could she
understand this intoxication
which I don't even hope to know?

I suppose that's all man can hope for:
a single day, maybe not more than an hour,
where "love" can even be considered.

Rest your chin atop your opened palm
and stare out that window, keeping your vigil.
Pay no attention to the simple minds
chattering inanly over your shoulder.

I know what it is to see the rain fall,
through the glass, outside this building;
how the drops diffract the lamp's luminescence
into a shower of sparks, like galvanic dashes.

Your fingers are no longer of your body.
Pale blue lightning leaks, in arcs, from the tips,
leaping away, indiscriminately contacting your lips.
Smile, and the brilliance would stain your teeth blue.

Smile -- please! -- with your electric, beaming grin.
There's no need to speak, just turn your spotlight
in this direction, so I can reflect your radiance
and we may, for a moment, bask in it together.

If only an errant ray would land on your face,
illuminating the crystal hung behind your eyes,
painting rainbows on these drab, off-white walls;
coloring the blank expressions seated around.

You brush your bangs behind your ear
with your little finger and your rings
glint slightly in the lurid lighting.
You look down and resume your calculations.

Listen:

for some reason (truly unknown)
people call me when their trips turn turbid;
when palsied limbs jitter,
and eyes (rolled-back) flitter.

Maybe I've got one of those faces.
You know, the ones that
(between forehead wrinkles
and laughter dimples)
let her know it's okay.

Maybe I've got one of those faces.
You know, the ones that
(between penny-sized pupils
and long-haired scruples)
let her know I've been there before.

I could hear, with jaws clenched,
a deep-seated anxiety born
beyond the scope of a point
or a dab; of a joint or a tab.

And I know that trepidation;
that unending uncertainty,
interlaced -- intertwined! --
intimately with self-searching.

So, I told her about the day I found myself.
I was in a cliff-side cave, at around dusk.
Conflagrant cloud-bursts bowed to the sun
and my battered being bent along with them.

Roiling waves, gnashing madly on the serrated shore,
met my gaze with an equally unnerving force.
A melancholy crimson bathed the frothing maw,
like everyday pitfalls surely lead into that jaw.

I rolled over, away from the ledge, to another surprise:
the cave in which I was laying was only a disguise.
Stars! All the stars! Spiraling macrocosms now no more
than motes of dust floating aloft and astray.

I saw the dome of the cave come unhinged at the seams
as the million billion myriad suns erupted outside, exposed.
The volcanic initiation left floes of iridescent star-shine
eddying, diffusing into a vague effulgence.

Then the moon billowed out, with her gossamer gown
flowing streams of silvered dreams behind.
And the flowers (though the fangs of winter's
bite clamped down into their nape)

bloomed in unison -- in unified exaltation -- to herald her return.
Rose buds burst, and the lilies -- the lilies, I remember the lilies!
Rose buds burst, and the lotus -- the lotus, I remember the lotus!
I saw them rise up in offering, only hoping to touch her feet.

But each, at peak perfection, could only unfurl their last petal
and fall back down, below other (faster rising) worshipers.
Again and again they rose and fell; and ebbed and flowed.
Between their birth and demise, they embraced each other

in a mesmerizing dance, around the stems of friends and older plants,
towards divinity with leaves grasping leaves, and thorns grating thorns.
Enwrapped -- enraptured-- in foliage sewn rags; enrobed -- enshrined --
in coliseums fanned with fronds and fragrance (sandal and cedar)

I found myself.

Sigh again, my dear,
--
'though it's enough
to hear you to breathe.

Sigh for the lost days
and sideways glances
that you'd rather have
never even seen.

Sigh for being wise
in another realm of fools
and I'll propose a toast.
How unlike them you are!

Sigh like the last rustle
of an autumn breeze,
and I'll imagine
the hillsides ablaze.

I'll imagine leaves
whipped up in a whirl as
a flaming tornado and,
at its center, a girl.

Her long hair tossed
askew and her face --
her rounded, demure face --
curved in contented bliss.

Her dress rippling rhythmically,
syncopated, fully, with the twirling
wind and its fiery cargo;
how she smiles amidst the movement.

Sigh again, sweet angel,
and I'll pretend I'm not in love.

Be brave! Be brave!
I hear the cry
call sharply through
the enveloping mist;

every evening the fog settles
down atop this sleepy town.

'Though temptation bleeds
from every fractured brick!

In this mist I feel
invisible; a sprite, a specter --
an evening wisp diffusing
down streets and alleys.

The darkened smudge of
another average man.
He walks by, equally ephemeral,
and dissolves again into the haze.

So it has been until now,
even without the fog.
They always pass by,
fading again into the haze.

Although the sea may take no pity
on a stranded boat, do not give up hope!

The fog is my sea, and frosted
grays my gradient to infinity.
Vacant echoes answer my calls:
"How are you?"

Okay. I'm always okay.

Then listless lapses into silence.
I wonder if passion died with God.

If it has, you're the one who killed it.

Formless voices fill the air,
murmurs with pangs of guilt.
Growing and growing,
the dissonance turns to consonance:

Silly child, it's all in your head.*

The streets are no longer familiar,
my own hands now seem foreign.
I hasten to catch up to another soul;
someone living to help me find the ground.

Only my footsteps sound in the night.
No one else is awake at this hour.
Insomnia, alone, takes these walks with me.
All the while commenting on my folly

and the white, beckoning infinity.

Yesterday
I felt like a character
in a Hesse novel;

all I had to show
that time had passed

was the lingering scent
of tobacco smoke,
an empty *** of coffee
and a banana peel.

That, and a vague comprehension
of my impending mortality.

Drinking alone makes me feel
sorry for myself, so I avoid it when I can.

I walked over to her apartment,
with a six-pack in my hand --

no ****** beer, no! The finest
local, solar-powered confection.

But I never made it inside;
never made it through her door.

I met her just in time
to pass her as she left.

But that's the story of my life, I suppose.

I see how my life
is dripping through
my hands;

how these years are my "prime"
and they'll never
come again.

Somehow,
it's Saturday
and I'm drunk once more.

Sitting
in my living room
spinning towards the floor.