"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.

Even continents will crumble
from the pressure of the world.
The highest clouds will tumble
into twisted patterns of a curl.
Maybe the wind is screaming “mercy”
to the idle feeling in my bones,
but I only know what I perceive
and my mind is deaf to foreign tones.
A heavy soul's another burden
sailing on the ocean of the mind,
hoisted onto shoulders again
causing frayed virtues to unwind.
My thoughts are turning icy.
Frozen sheets claw up my back.
Icicles growing through my psyche
antagonize the fire that I lack.
I could be wrong for trying
to see the blues through rosy glass,
but when flocks of thoughts go flying
I watch the purple pass.

I've got sixty-two cents, and a head full of space.
Spinning, just spinning;
there's nowhere to go in this place.
Stand in one spot, watch it all spin by.

I've got sixty-two cents, and a need to go try.
Stretching, just stretching;
soon there'll be wings to fly
off the ground, 'til I've found freedom.

I've got sixty-two cents, and a soul full of wisdom.
Waiting, just waiting;
someone must enter this kingdom.
It's open to all, just a question away.

I've got sixty-two cents, and that's all I can pay.
Begging, just begging;
may I take the ferry today?
It's not near, only waves crash here.

I'd love to see you swimming
in a sea of ceaseless bliss
where adventure waits beginning
in the fading echo of a kiss,
where life and death start to stall
long enough for us to pass
and understand that through it all
this interconnectedness will last.
If you look up from your basking
and see my shadow standing true
don't be too afraid of asking
"Boy, what's going on with you?"
I'll meet you straight with honesty
and say sometimes I'm uncertain
in this movement to the apogee
but my work is no big burden
for when I finish with the climb
I'll see your face in the eclipse
as the questions of a lifetime
flow answered from your lips.
I'd love to see you lying
in a field of scattered flowers,
not concerned with frantic trying
as we whittle through the hours.

Should I remember what I could forget?
Of days palled by fetid gossamer crowns?
Of this skeletal hand clutching a cigarette?
Of living in mockery amongst circus clowns?

When fabric tears in criss-crossed patterns
and crystal castles recede -- disguised --
I hang, with heavy heart, these lanterns
to guide beyond such self-demise.

Yay, 'though I'm lost and I'll never be found.
My ship set sail without a sound.
Good-bye Earth! Good-bye solid ground!

Yay, 'though I'm off and I'll never be seen.
My destiny lies in between
Winter's death and Spring's first green.

Yay, 'though I'm gone and I'll never return.
I've got no other life to burn.
I've got no other wheel to turn.

Yay, 'though I've left and I'll never resume,
someone else will finish my tune.

Fear will take shelter
under the rafters of faith.

Allow the building to collapse;
no harm can come from

the liberation of becoming unmoored.
All beliefs must come to an end.

It is okay not to know, so long as
the mind remains open without

hoping for a solution
or fearing a rejection.

That is freedom.

Om shanti tra-la-lace,
empty head fulla space.

Mismatched mouth and mind,
squawking every word ya find.

Buncha penny-sized pupils --
spun-out "gypsies" popping pills.

When ya finally say what ya mean,
I'll be where I was with no in between.

Om shanti tra-la-lo
pack yer patchouli and go.

Bring on the end; I'll laugh to the grave!
This system and words are utterly insane.

Why must I claw and clamor for bread?
With how it's going, we're better off dead.

There's nothing to do, but sit here and laugh
as people debate what's gold and what's chaff.

Desires clung to and procured -- pahtooey! --
it smells like manure in the gardens of fool'ry.

It's the same; **** the rich, and the poor!
With rice in my dish, I need nothing more.

Somehow I find that my life runs in place;
like everything I've done is vacant space:

She knocked on my door, the other day.
She invited me out to the woods, to play.

She was wired on something, dilated eyes;
she couldn't get over how we all will die.

There were tears in the tree-trunk as rain came down;
we were huddled together on the outskirts of town.

She gave me a hug, and glanced far away;
it must have hurt to know I wouldn't stay.

A few days passed, in the silence of life;
there's nothing to say while you're waiting to die.

Then Thanksgiving dinner with strangers (or friends?),
though this time they stumbled over caps and stems.

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.

It's been whispered,
from treetops and mountains,
that far below the heights
she wanders unhurried,
compelled by the wind
to idly stroll along
a path fringed
by flowers.

It's been said
that she wears a
flaxen crown;
a tranquilly woven
diadem, with the echoes
of a sun-burst
flitting gently in the jewels.

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?

In that first moment
I knew something was different.
Maybe I was high,
but as I passed by
I noticed how her eyes
wrapped 'round the other side,
and her face gently curved
beyond what I observed.
As I wandered through the store,
I forgot what I came in for.
What I had seen
I couldn't believe:
is this what they mean
when they say "beauty?"
I noticed the ring on her finger,
the piercing in her nostril,
the color of her eyes,
her lips,
her smile,
the sound of her voice
as she bid me good day.

The next day I returned.
The automatic door opened,  
she turned
studied my face.
A smile, then back to work.

"I like your shirt. Are you from Philadelphia?" She asked,
referencing the Philadelphia Folk Festival shirt.
"No, thankfully."

Should I have told my experience of Philadelphia?
Of psychosis bordering on dementia,
of raw confusion and terror,
of stupid decisions compounded with error,
of hopes and expectations,
of my inability to maintain relations?

"Seems like a fun event to see."
"Yeah, it was wild."
"Did you travel all the way out there just for it?"
"No, I worked production."
"Oh, how cool! Would you like a receipt."
"No."
"Have a good day."
"You too."

The next morning I needed coffee,
and a few things for lunch,
and a way to strain
the massage oil I was infusing.
Again, as the automatic door
parted she greeted me as before.
A moment of careful study
before eyes a-flash with recognition
and a warm smile I did my best to return.
I grabbed my things and came to the aisle.
There they stood chatting.
I heard snippets of words,
but I'm not one to intrude
"Sorry for the real talk" she said.
"That's the only way to talk." I nodded my head

I didn't say how my past few weeks
contained realer words than I heard them speak,
how I had to navigate the alleys
of bickering and emotional valleys,
of overdoses and institutionalizations,
of kidney failures and hospitalizations.

"So what are you making...?" she trailed on.
"Oh, pasta or something." My response.
"Pasta and...jelly?" She asked pointing to the cloth
so aptly labelled jelly cloth.
"Nah, man, I've got to filter the coconut oil.
I infused some herbs into the oil.
Now I have to get them out."
"That makes sense. I remember you buying the oil.
Isn't coconut oil amazing?"
"It truly is a miracle."
I can't place the look in her eye.
Do I remind her of another guy?

And while I'd like to get to know her
I've learned to be cautious with a stranger.
'Cause you never really know
from where they're coming
or where they'd like to go.
Maybe I'll head back tomorrow,
buying bread or lord only knows,
but I've been strung along,
strung out,
hung up
to dry
too many times
to have the audacity
to try.

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.

Flitting and flickering, skipping 'cross reels of form,
this thought's not a thought to be trifled or torn;
'tis the thought from which all others are born.
It is, complete, with neither mercy nor scorn.

Wholeness and vastness, sinking down the abyss,
this thought's not a thought to rejoice for, nor miss;
'tis the thought of imminence -- of 'blivion's kiss!
It is, unending, with neither sorrow nor bliss.

Chaotic and entropic, consuming all in its wake,
this thought's not a thought to leave alone, nor take;
'tis the thought under which all minds will break!
It is, ever-flowing, with nothing at stake.

Love, I'm lost in typhoons scattered
to the fiercely rising wind,
where currents flow together
throwing my heart into a spin.
Now my mind is getting dizzy
from loops of ragged thought
as I follow what I see,
but what I do is not enough.
Go and strip me of my senses.
Scrub this essence to the core.
Deconstruct these walls and fences
with ruthless promises of more.

Love, I'm lost to tidal tempests
with emotions as the sea
crashing huge and reckless,
flooding every part of me.
Now my resolution's blurry.
I don't know what I've got.
My stomach's churning worry
to a frantic endless knot.
Go and ease this journey.
Build an island from my bone
reinforce it with some mercy,
where no one has to be alone.

Love, I'm lost to wildfires burning
up and down the golden coast,
destroying years of learning,
consuming what I love the most.
My lungs are getting heavy
from sighs and acrid smog,
from preciousness gifted already
to ungrateful, petty mobs.
Now I'm getting cold and numb
to the tragedies I see.
I'm stunned deaf and dumb,
and that ain't how it should be.
I'll go and get the shovel first.
Then dig a hole somewhere within.
Deep enough to be immersed
in the fountain 'neath my skin.

Love, I'm lost in my own universe,
and don't know if I'll see you again.

I wonder if I'll see you again, or if you ever tried
to send a coded message everywhere that I am blind.
I hope you know I never had an eye for reading minds.
Maybe it was written in a language I can't read
between the hidden syllables of words I cannot speak.
Or maybe it's in the way I constantly long to be
somewhere in the redwoods umbrella'd by the canopy
in a drizzle of rain,
fog creeping into mist,
while owls read their poems
with nothing to do but to exist.

Fraudulent faces,
with decadent cases,
know not which path to choose.

Clever replies,
and the feelings they hide,
only work to conceal truths.

The window is open,
for the door, it is broken,
and our secrets all run loose.

The sky, it is burning,
And the world, it keeps turning,
as neither side calls the truce.

Keeping in time,
with mirrors and confines
confuses the rinds for juice.

He came to town when skies were gray.
He said: "I can make the clouds go away."
So we looked up, and there he was.
He said: "Well, can't you see it's all because
you hold so dear to every day?"

He came to town barefoot and grinning
just to set our little world spinning.
Spin, spin, oh spin little top
but please don't stop
'til my eyelids drop.

He raised his hand and waved his arm;
and mumbling a little charm,
said: "I'll save you from the game,
it's easy to do, forget your name.
It's no cause for alarm."

He left the town when skies were clear
but now the things we held so dear,
from all our minds, are far and gone.
So, we stare at stars all night long
and sleep away the day.

He left the town barefoot and grinning
just to set our little world spinning.
Spin, spin, oh spin little top,
but please don't stop
'til my eyelids drop.

She asked:
You know what's unfair?

I replied:
The sound of your voice and the smell of your hair.

Each separate reflections
of altered deceptions;

like all intersections
of other-than-present's,

every point will yield
to a forward direction.

Neither had seen a thing
like this in their lives;

a single soul's creation
outside the bound'ries of "mine."

But each knows the riddle
to catch the next dawn:

Think, eat, breathe, pause.
Drink, sleep, breathe, pause.

Though they hit play on the day,
could they tell me how it ends?

She sparks her vice
and braces for
what happens next –
what has to happen next.

But through the puffs,
her grin betrays the desire
to get lost in the moment
as, above her head,
the last stars start to fade.

I've been told to find a teacher, but
no mere mortal who weighs the world
with gilded, golden scales.

I've been told to kiss the feet
of anyone who has walked between
this world and that.

She told me that it's almost winter.
Already, icy fingers claw up my straightened spine.
"Breathe out," she says, "and when you can't breathe in,

you are dead." But still the breath comes mechanically
in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in
and I laugh at the absurdity of it all.

After a talk about the moon in a pond, with
its reflection being obscured by ripples,
and only calmed by a tamed mind,

the others rush to the food to fill the void.
But the sky is clear, the moon is full,
and the pond sits gently rippling, waiting to be tamed.

Still they can't sleep,
though time marches on.
Specters of a distant past,
I can see they don't belong.

These ghosts and ghouls
all playing games
inside a broken house,
with me inside
-- trapped inside --
searching for a way out.

I want to flee;
this place is not for me.
But I'm trapped on this wheel
denying all I feel.

Sunlight sneaks inside
through bent and broken rafters.
I know that dawn
is just beyond
these bent and broken rafters.

The dog’s running off,
while the rest of us laugh,
giving a gentle guffaw.

Can we believe
the way people dream
carelessly floating along?

The sky’s falling down,
but all through the town
everyone insists it’s wrong.

Isn’t it queer
how all becomes clear
after the curtains are drawn?

The sun's going dark,
as we play in the park,
even though our spirits are gone.

Isn’t it strange,
the way people change
before they finally withdraw?

How I wonder, woman:
do you regret the love you've scorned?
For all the ways you've been inhuman
do you howl and wail and mourn?

You left me singing empty songs
devoid of any soul, hollowed to core;
I wonder if you count your wrongs
and fear what waits in store.

But should he raise his voice at you,
stare him right into his eye.
Say: "Anger's not a virtue.
Don't sip on poison, hopin' that I die."

And should he raise his fist at you,
don't stay and hope he'll change.
Because men like that aren't all too few.
They're enamored with their rage.

Know that you deserve the best,
not an ounce of fear or discontent.
Believe that you are blessed,
if you would but give it your consent.

While standing alone in a field somewhere,
as silence fills the air,

silently guessing the words I'll say,
until my thoughts decay:

These flowers have powers to heal and bless;
there's monsters in this flesh.

How long must I find myself all alone,
turning my thoughts to stone?

Yet still I must question all that's been said;
nothing's outside my head.

So, I'll stand alone in a field somewhere,
forgetting how to care.

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.

Please, mother please! I can't find my way out!    
It's all I can do, to manage a shout.
Though I sit still, my thoughts whirl about.

Mother, oh mother! There's spies in this house!    
They're black as a shadow, quick as a mouse.
They steal the secrets right out of my mouth.

Please, mother please! Soothe my troubles to sleep.    
They hide in the places I dare not creep;
In the chasms and the cracks running deep.

Mother, oh mother! I'm loosing again!    
I'll relish the taint and wallow in sin;
Then I'll return to the creature I've been.

Please, mother please! Why won't you rescue me?    
I call out to you from my bended knee:
"Please, mother please! I just want to be free!"

If I stay the night
in a city by the shore,
I'll do my best to wait inside,
not search for something more.

If I meet another Rose,
I'll pluck out all her thorns,
and remember there's no love
in the brambles by the road.

But if I meet her in the night
and she's staying in my home,
I'll try not to hold on tight
and let her move on alone.

If I meet another Rose,
I'll pluck out all her thorns,
and remember there's no love
in the brambles by the road.

If I'm drinking wine
and she's fillin' me with laughter,
I'll lie and say I'm fine.
Then not pursue her, after.

If I meet another Rose,
I'll pluck out all her thorns,
and remember there's no love
in the brambles by the road.

Sometimes silence is the answer,
for the questions we discover:

Will I find what you've buried,
behind the  self's emissary --

that which stands the test of now,
un-vexed by the notions of “how”?

I don't want the facade of a face;
a masked illusion of filtered grace.

There were things I liked about you;
but as I look again . . . –

Still, I must search the depths of Friendship
to find a new way to sift through the *******.

Maybe one day we'll see eye to eye;
maybe some day we won't have to try.

Maybe one day these games will be done;
maybe some day we'll learn to have fun.

O happy leaf, happy feather!
Let us share this happiness together.
O happy ground, happy sky!
So much joy, my spirit could fly.

Take my hand, fly with me.
'Cross this blank, dreary city,
over the trees to the sea.

Take my hand, I'll fly with you.
Show me what stands true,
and we'll discover this world anew.

Could this be new land
with untrodden ground?
In each grain of sand,
a cosmos I've found!

O happy sun, happy day!
Won't you live this joyous way?
O happy moon, happy night!
Won't you keep this joyous light?

Won't you take my saddle off, and rest it on my grave?
Won't you take my saddle off, and rest it on my grave?
'Cause if you take my saddle off, and rest it on my grave,
we can walk down the street goin' our own way.

Don't you leave me lonesome 'round these parts no more.
Don't you leave me lonesome 'round these parts no more.
'Cause if you leave me lonesome 'round these parts once more
I'm lacing up my shoes and I'm runnin' out the door.

I love to see you laughin' in the morning light.
I love to see you laughin' in the morning light.
'Cause when I see you laughin' in the morning light,
I forget all my problems and I think feel alright.

Won't you stop playin' these games with my head.
Won't you stop playin' these games with my head.
'Cause if you stop playin' these games with my head,
I'll sweep you off your feet and I'll carry you to bed.

"Would you like to share my umbrella?"
A voice said behind me,
quiet and reserved,
testing uncertainty with a modest proposal.
It was raining, after all.
Maybe I looked a little forlorn
walking alone along the path.
My pants were soaked and
I was contemplating the pattern
that liquid found through my pants.
Top of the thigh,
middle of the shin,
top of the foot.
I stopped and looked at the voice.
Her head was wrapped with a scarf,
dark brown pools reflected
through the opening of cloth.
"Sure." I said, and stepped inside.
She fussed with the umbrella, said
"This umbrella leaks,
I don't think it was made for the rain.
It must be one of those sun umbrellas.
My head keeps getting wet."
She unwrapped her scarf,
her straight dark hair fell out.
She patted her head.
She said her name.
Maybe I should feel ashamed
that I don't recall her name.
Me: "Where are you off to?"
Her: "Jack Baskin. You?"
Me: "Core West."
Her: "Where's that? By Kerr?"
Me: "The parking structure."
Her: "Oh, I know where that is.
           Do you know what time it is?"
Me: "I dunno, 11:45?" I checked the time.
        "Oh, wow, 11:58."
Her: "I don't have class until 12:30."
Me: "What class?"
Her: "Spanish 4."
And we talked in similar patterns
for the rest of the walk.
She liked the rain, and so did I.
She wished she stayed home.
So did I.
I showed her a path in the forest,
past the makeshift hut
that habitual smokers crafted
to hide with their habits.
I showed her the bench,
she was pleased with surprise.
Her: "How old are you?"
Me: "Oh, twenty..." I hesitated,
doing mental math "...four. You?"
Her: "Twenty-one."
Me: "Ah, I see you're surviving your twenty-first."
Her, laughing: "I lost my ID when I turned 21.
       I didn't do much drinking on my birthday.
       I don't like the clubs, or bars."
I didn't like them either.
Me: "What're you doing when you graduate?"
Her: "I want to join the Peace Corps.
          I want to travel around the world,
         and help people. It's why I study biology."
Me: "Yeah, travel is great. You should go do that."
Her: "Well, I told my parents. They don't want me to.
          I was born in the Philippines.
          My parents immigrated here.
          They want me to be happy and stationary here.
          Not traveling the world, you know?"
I knew.
She reached into her bag, pulled out a banana.
Her: "Would you like some of this banana?"
Me: "Sure."
We talked a bit more, about the dreads
of dealing with box-checking pre-meds,
of the work-load for a graduate student,
of what it's like up in Arcata.
Twenty minutes disappeared
quicker than is fair.
We left towards the engineering hall.
We parted at the parking structure.
Her: "Farewell, it was nice talking to you, Dylan."
Me: "Aye, it was a pleasure. Farewell."
I felt bad I didn't remember her name,
but I'll remember the unsolicited kindness,
and try to pass it along all the same.

Not even a look,
not even a glance!
I was lost in a book,
she was lost in a trance.

Not even a friend,
not even a past.
It's the same in the end;
the questions remain unasked.

Spinning around in the gentle moonlight,
she asked me to hold her, though just for the night.
The circles stood still as the embrace took hold
and the silence around us began to unfold.

I awoke from my dreams
of meadows and peace
to an empty bedside
of temporary retreat.

That evening had passed
through the fires of dawn.
Our moment but a flash,
the span of a yawn.

If only we'd met closer to home,
not out on the road, wandering alone,
we'd still be together out of the cold.

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.

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.

The path, it is crooked;
and all that I look at
is bent and skewed on review.

The path, it is broken;
and all that is spoken
are lies based on truths I once knew.

The path, it is vacant;
and all that is sacred
wouldn't do to move the fool.

The thin veil before
the form of forms falls away
is nothing, if not a negative thought,
lesser than even the grave.

Could investigation of this situation,
yield anything not known?

Or would observation of this reservation
reveal the specters dancing below?

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.

We speak of things that don't exist
with words that can't describe.
This life's a bitter sea-shore mist;
we'll return with the tide.

While your senses spin 'round, reeling,
can you still tell what you're feeling?

Can we find the things that matter?
From where do these thoughts come?
I see this mirror must shatter;
this game is finally done.

While time lies 'round us, curled,
we live beyond this world.

So let's sit amidst the forest
and let these days grow long.
Forget of all this petty stress,
our hearts will remain strong.

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.

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.)

If we continue to fall through this space,
Moving and spinning without any grace,
We’ll come to the spot where I lost my place.

If we should stop just short of the fall
We’d have to admire the end of it all;
Perched on a cliff on top of our ball.

Please, let me dive this one last time,
And it will be the final sign.
Leave me to dive this one last time.

If we all see the way it could be,
Sitting alone alongside a tree,
We could taste what it is to be free.

If we close our eyes to ignore,
And keep on the same, just as before,
You’ll find my body on the floor.

Please, let me dive this one last time,
And it will be the final sign.
Leave me to dive this one last time.

In the shade of a willow,
down by a stream,
I wander down the hallway
of my fantasy.

I'm drifting like a cloud,
a shadow in the sky,
trying to find the courage
to go ahead and try.

I'm looking 'round at beauty
that's battered to the ground,
trampled by the people
blindly wandering around.

It's got me feeling hopeless.
I'm really feeling down.
Is there no one here who loves me
in this God-forsaken town?

I'm ignored by the strangers,
polishing their diadem.
What they all believe
is a wish fulfilling gem.

Life has got me thinking
that it's hard to find a friend.
I think of all those little games
that I don't comprehend.

I'll recognize your face
when I see you in the crowd.
I'll know you when you say
my name out loud.

Where are you, my lover?
Have you gone and lost your way?
Have your forgotten
everything you'd like to say?

I'll wait for you, my darling,
honest, brave, and kind.
I'll think about the mysteries
and magic we will find.

Walking by the river.
Footsteps in the sand.
Everything I say to you,
I know you'll understand.

Something about you hit me over the head.
It stopped me and demanded that I pay attention.
If you could see yourself from my perspective
would you recognize your pattern,
or would my mind's symbolic formulations
elicit vague, unknown connections?
Have you seen your half-closed eyes
as twin crescent moons caught bathing
at the waterline, innocent yet fully exposed
with your mischievous grin whispering bubbles into foam?
Have you seen your kaleidoscopic iridescence
pouring outwards in a whirl, projected as a flaming wheel
spinning without consideration to the bounds of our perception?

I want to shake you now and make sure you understand.
You're heading to the top, love! It's not the time to play pretend.

I've lost myself to noises
uttered mindless in my drunkenness,
but what was spoken I cannot even say.
For now's the morning after
and the undertaker's laughter
reminds me that I'm not worth
the sweat he lost to dig the grave.
I could lie and say I'm fine,
but the truth would stay the same,
'cause I'm incapable of tryin'
when everything I do is lost in vain.
There's always someone better,
someone bolder, someone smarter,
someone committed to their arrogance
that makes you think they know the way.
I know that I don't know
the inner workings of my soul,
and my body's slowly rusting
like a clock out in the cold.
I could cry out to the heavens
but my calls would be ignored,
for they're too busy flowing sweetly
through the kings and crooked dealings,
spreading like illusions on the floor.
I think I've withered in the sunlight,
dying for relief, for someone who knows
the hidden, hopeful things to say.
Things that lift you by your spirit
so your heart can know and feel it
and, love, I know that someone isn't me.

Don't grieve for me, love.
I'm not drowning.
The ancient sandcastles
speckling the shore have crumbled,
grain by grain, desiccated from
seasons in the sun.
I've walked impacted corridors
with shells as cobblestones.
I know the tide has receded
lower ever than before.
Don't grieve for me, love.
I'm not drowning.
'Though the coral architecture
is weathered, bleached and barren.
The thrones sit vacant
hissing sighs like salty grit.
I've left the ghostly kingdoms
for the waterside, to sit.
Don't grieve for me, love.
I'm not drowning.
First a toe, then ankle's depth.
Then hands and hips and shoulders.
Before my eyes drop below the line
I see the sun's farewell.
Somewhere between the rising and falling,
my perspective lost its bearing
but the sun is softly sitting, shining out to me
as a beacon to the joining of two infinities.
Don't grieve for me, love.
I'm not drowning
in this darkened atmosphere
with filtered, softened rays above.
While there may be monsters somewhere,
they don't seem to bother me.
In this place I move around, almost invisibly.
Sometimes I hear a friendly song,
or see an outline pass nearby.
While I'm alone, it's never lonely
because this ocean is alive.
Don't grieve for me, love.
I'm not drowning.
I'm not even lost adrift.