Night glides over the white wings,
settling down from the sky.
Arrival in a familiar place awash with memory.
Come and gone,
return pulls tendrils from squishy matter,
lays them out before me
lights in the pitch, great expanse whispering,
tugging my sleeve.
There is a hill,
and a home,
a tricycle and bad accident,
fluffy morning pancakes,
play dough,
summer sun stretching for years.

The moon wanes, translucent power grows dull,
senses pulled back beneath a layer,
sticky apathy encasing,
chambered in gloom.

It waxes,
the beams gleam stronger now,
feeling returning,
bubbling, burning.
How bright this glow!

Catch it quick,
grab a jar before it darts
and sinks away into the lagoon,
where the stench and vile waters
swallow it back up.

It's velvety here on the fringes
way out in the darkness
absorbing light, tugging photons
down with this immense
gravity.

Space dust, starlight, no matter can singe
nor emotions depress,
darker than night, a siren song
making all past tense
certainly,

but I am not full and cannot find
a cure for emptiness.
Heed me no mind. Your galaxy
will crackle and smolder
long enough.

Wrestling thoughts left this brain exhausted,
but aloe words prevented burns.
For now, checking off to-to lists
comprising domestic upkeep
and work duty
is enough that the end of the day
feels accomplished,
miniature success.
The reward?
bed

Four pillars topped by bronze statues,
the stages of transformation
from tadpole to frog.
I've felt like the frog for so long,
at the peak form I can be,
suddenly an idea from my soul!
I haven't yet grown legs, I'm still a tadpole.

Apartment smokey
as oiled chicken bakes,
pepper flakes crunch, pop
from excess drops,
muscles hot from crushing rocks.
A time tested method for calm head,
shed weight, elevate concentrated focus,
no external locus.
Hippie-dippy, hocus pocus,
tokeless moments notice
change and composure,
closer to found by stealing
body from ground, resurrecting
ancient things, lost memories,
how to place my foot,
shift weight, drop knee,
reach

for the next stone.

My father called crying,
witnessed a man crossing highway I-80
get smashed by an SUV.
I have no answer.
Dad was the first responder,

"Eyes up to the sky, nothing, nope, gone.
Dan I, there was all this blood
and his eyes were wide open..."

The SUV driver went home someone else,
two deaths that day,

"He had to be drunk, or or high out of his mind, or, because
why would he do that? Nobody just just walks out like that, he
must have been drunk, who does that?

I can't bring myself to say it,
couldn't suggest it,
how to do that smoothly?
Set it up with a deep breath then-

a connector, a communicator,
abstract, not quite the real thing, just close,
just a sound to represent.
Do words fall short?
Almost always,
so why continue to speak?
Why seek connection through futile means?
Touch, a look, are much more accurate.

Time to shut eyes, reach out,
and communicate.

Vast time outside,
hours and hours running, biking, exploring,
no need for meaning to haunt me.
Where did it even come from?
It's unwanted!
Never was something I cared for,
experiencing is enough.
Then monetary things popped up,
some numerical demands
handed to me to settle those handed to them,
and maybe a little on the side
for a vacation of course.
I guess that means I'm back to work.

The page this was written on
has rain drop stains.
Something about all that falling water
gets a brain going.
A jogger bobs along,
only rain walkers remain,
the rest are gone
back to their homes.
Something about all that falling water
really gets to them.
The wetness does end folks,
it's a cycle.
Missing out on a whole.

Crows gather overhead,
called a ******, right?
Sure don't like a ******
right above me,
splattered in the tree
I'm sitting under.
They could peck me to bits,
or worse,
they could ****.

Energy displays its fickle ebb,
bubbling through tree branches,
whipping up the alley.
This cosmic dance trots on,
eternal music raining from stars,
and it's as if I need just one touch,
one grasp,
to be pulled along, allowed to ride
the current to better horizons.

I sit up tonight and ponder creation,
its limitless possibilities rendering me
incapable of the act.
Like being *****,
think too much and it's gone.

At least this chilled whiskey
might warm me,
give muddled clarity
that will dissipate
before I awake the next day.

I feel that tug,
that green grin trying to charm,
and oh, it's workin'.
The seduction can't be denied,
it's implied over, over
till it's almost too much.

Suddenly I think of population's
scary multiplication,
forever piling more humans,
more, more, more, more, more
to a gasping planet.

The ice melts in my glass,
condensation gathering to the ridged sides,
even this small pour brings a grimace.
I'm scared of a clear mind,
what it will show me.
The desperate cry from capitalism's throat?
My plight, my strife, my struggle,
to obtain balance at a nation's fall.
The sheer worthlessness encompassing
anything it once stood for.

I teeter here, sips become more water,
precious water,
already commodified

There's a wind on,
a real, big wind.
Too strong for kites,
likely to snap the string,
flying the kite
far, far, far.

Walking is a battle
between you and the breeze,
brewing up a tussle.
See the people bent over double?
They know, they've got it,
they know the score.
You and the wind, destination moot.
Forget jobs, forget groceries and lunch dates,
you've got gusts to tackle!

The door shuts,
the whoosh mutes and hair settles,
you've made it, but the wind,
it still howls.

It's the closest I've got to a soul.
Ever present and when it isn't
I'm hollow,
desperate to feel its powerful touch,
wash over me, connect me to the hive mind,
the swirling voice, collective planet,
except those with no access.

Yes, it is life blood,
cool streams in the desert,
a thing so desperately sought.

don't eat it,
but don't tell me
"It ain't Texas enough."
I know.
We are in Seattle,
the owners are Chinese,
and I'm Californian,
so it's definitely not Texas.
It's a mutt.
"Dog food," said a customer.
I don't blame. I ain't mad,
they just pay me to be here.

Optimization that negates authenticity,
moronic, trust me.
Feed the machine what it wants.
Find out its favorite flavors,
bitter? sweet?
Make sure to provide a constant stream
of goodies,
savory? saucy?
make the links buttery, c-lickable.

Petals flurried in the wind,
gusts rushing white clouds.
A final hoo-rah,
a perfect storm
before bare branches.

We sit and watch,
petals in our hair,
mischievous tendrils of air whipping.
We sit and watch
with wonder, this blessing,

yet we forget our own.

Ducks lay with tucked noses
relishing rays, taking wing
on Spring's first winds.
The water a flurry,
flapping, diving, thriving,
my mind takes a deep breath.
Toes grip the ground,
sprout roots, push through the dirt
moist with water replenishing my energy.
In this moment
this lake, this shore,
the entire forest,
you and I,
meld.

It's an odd spot, like limbo
where slow mo tempo drawls
as I crawl to the next stop,
the next lot,
the next way to stay funded.
Redundant tasks strap to my back,
but I can't complain.
The opposite of this society
is a deranged range bound for the drain.
Each piece here benefits from the other bits.
Separate would be desperate
so I must do this,
but can my assets affect the universe?

I have a hidden chest,
full with sorcerous wonders, a trove.
In a hallway, down a staircase,
through a maze chalked full with traps and danger.
My way to keep it safe
from prying hands,
the coin-filled eyes.
My prize, my treasure.
Is it better to keep under constraint or let it free?
How can I share it with the world,
and keep it all for me?

Sitting on a boulder
nestled in a valley,
clutch tea in a tumbler,
watch the water and leaves
that slide on its surface.
Green moss takes refuge on the rock,
a welcome pillar to guide toward the sun
which sifts through the trees.
A wound in the city,
a green scar
reminding us what once was.

A way to celebrate such extended camaraderie,
a formidable force against separation.
Change of stations brings no hesitation,
transportation advances have us prancing,
dancing across state lines, borders oceans.
The excellent chance circumstance lent us
and here we are
ready to take it
while the world drives itself
to the bitter end.

The heat torches the house
making it practice for hell,
though hell might be frigid.
Nothing helps douse the flames.
Fans only slap with hot air,
sticking your head in the fridge
can't last forever.

Even the night doesn't bring cool,
just taunts with searing darkness,
the illusion of sanctuary.

Suddenly life seems long,
stretched out.
Scenes I'd forgotten
display on an internal screen.
Could these memories be mine?
Do they belong to another me?
They're intangible.
How can it be that I was that person
and ended up me?

People I haven't thought about in a millennia,
now dance across my vision
telling me their secrets, heartache and happiness.
Could I be so cruel
to dismiss their life in my actions, my passions,
to dismiss that they've produced the man
I see in the mirror

Last night's fire is all but ash.
Pine needles flutter with the breeze.
At ease in a recliner,
outdoors,
open,
aware of the connection
between all things.
There is certainty in nature,
the promise that everyday holds change:
birth, death, growth, decay,
and yet it all remains the same.

Like seeing a goddess sleep,
the curves of your hips
more perfect than any marble statue.
Your parted lips beckon,
drawn breath rising, falling,
a voiceless calling swirling toward the soul.
Graced by private moments,
who gets the change to see a goddess sleep?
I kiss your cheek
and save this moment
forever in memory.

Time changes leave me lost,
a time traveller unsure of his whereabouts,
the hand of his watch deceiving.
Leaving yet another temporal plane,
desperate to return to the ground
tread by my lover's feet,
to rest my head on her shoulder.
I fly back in time,
rewind just a little,
our connection will reel me in,
grab my ethereal string
and pull me into her bed.

It moves things,
pulls them back
with only the slightest change.
All it takes, "is" to "was",
to curve the timeline,
subtly, but definitively,
turning great things,
great people,
to memories.

Thirty three stones
stacked and painted
neon green, purple, grey.
The sun's blaze shimmering heat waves
back toward the flat landscape.
The magic pillars attract disciples
to their path,
bring color on a desolate drive.

A rocky, wavy buffet
served out on the water today.
Waiting on the whales,
but their hiding,
or sleeping,
or swimming away.
In the misty distance waits Diamond Head,
looking out on us,
unassuming.
Take a dive
in the Hawaii ocean.

March single file, up, up, up.
Take the stairs two at a time,
sweat beads run lines down your face.
Get to the tunnel carved in rock,
push past the crowds to break out,
then up, up, up
till you peak at the top,
the trail's end.
Survey the crater, lush, serene,
barricaded against the city
which spills between hills and mountains.
Forget it all,
turn to face the sea.

Fine rain falls onto the reflection pool,
tiny ripples bouncing off each other,
transient touch.
Mist hangs on the mountains,
shrouds peaks.
A bell tolled out,
reverberating purity,
find peace in obscurity.

Slippery, muddy, tropic path,
foliage overgrown.
Sheer rock face reaches skyward,
water pouring, crashing
down to a cool pool, overflowing.
The jungle holds millennia,
falling,
falling,
without rest.

Five sea turtles bask,
the evening sun glinting off their shelled backs.
The sand glistening with each waves retreat.
Like statues, the turtle guardians.

One cracks an eye, slow,
peeks at those watching,
pointing,
then closes the eye again.
Not concerned with human things,
it's only desire to store sun fire
deep under it's scale skin,
bring it back underwater
and heat its soul within.

Fine sand grains coat my toes
as pure, crystal waves break,
playful, ancient, against the shore.

The swaying plink of reggae guitar
bounces over the sand,
lulling a laze in my core
then emanates out across the beach,
past the break,
and out to sea.

Fairytales once seemed far away,
things for folks who were fools.
Frog princes, magic kisses, happily-ever-afters
just trifles for filling time.
Resigned to let whimsy fade,
my poems grew dark.
Gloomy art from a gloomy heart.

Once you fell into my life,
a quick kiss, a skipping heart,
the veil was lifted.
Like all fairytales
the darkness was defeated,
magic restored to the land
and the hands of this silly poet
now set to pen brighter things.

My poems swung toward the sun,
and life with you has become
the fairytale,
bound to have a
happily-ever-after.

She’s a dark elf supermodel,
kills werewolves for fun
with daggers, arrows, kicks to the throat.

She’s a dark elf supermodel!
She makes monsters run,
Strikes, poised to run down a foe.

She’s slaying it nightly,                                
She’s badass, she’s art,
My mind is seduced.
She is the only                                          
dark elf of my heart.

Suddenly life seems long,
stretched out.
Scenes I'd long forgotten
display on an internal screen.
Could these memories be mine?
Do they belong to another me,
because they don't feel tangible.
How can it be
that I was that person and ended up me?

People I haven't thought about in a millennia
now dance across my vision,
telling me their secrets,
their heartache and happiness.
Could I be so cruel
as to dismiss the fact that they
live in my actions,
my passions,
that they've produced the man
I see in the mirror?

I don’t mind cruising in the slow lane,
despite this weather, hot and heavy
and not in a good way.
Seeing a torn ear,
blood smear, stitches,
the aftermath of a bad habit eruption,
and the rubble removal,
bit by bit.
A record player, clothing bags,
bits of sadness dusted from the blast.

So the slow lane will do,
the engine doesn’t need the stress,
unnecessary revving,
destination mute.
The trunk and this chest
on their way out
to a cooler place

A desert wind blows hot and dry,
whispering a prayer for rainclouds.
The Milky Way spills across the night sky,
with Saturn and Jupiter shining down,
interstellar eyes
that see the white lizards
skittering in the sand,
and me laying on my back,
gazing up,
swimming in starlit possibility.

The usual travel excitement
is dormant,
put to sleep by somber things.
No bright, floral swim trunks,
no blue-striped tank top,
no flashy ties or eye catching button ups.
Black pants, black socks, black tops,
black-faced watch,
black thoughts.

A sudden loss.

I'm envious of playing cards,
played according to the game,
unashamed for following the rules.
The suites mix seamlessly,
pressed together to make the deck.
When they're drawn up
they're played immediately,
know their fate
when their face meets the light.
Then they lay discarded for awhile,  
before being shuffled up,
and brought back to life.

Glass, shattered, scattered,
blasted over the concrete.
A forgotten ketchup packet,
never knowing the sweet release
of being squeezed over fresh fries.
Bricks printed with names, donors,
good deeds in memory.
A bustling street, not crowded,
but busy, whirling and rushing.
The occasional feet, sport-shoed
or slippered, or booted,
crunching past the shattered glass.

On a long walk home
from the mechanic shop,
I stopped and paused in awe.
A pristine park, lush, green,
lay to my right, completely inviting
except the black iron fence
and imposing gate.
Beyond the bars were tables and grass,
a play structure waiting to be filled.
No kids laughed, no parents chatted,
the place was empty.
I say down to rest,
back against the bars,
grabbed my thermos and poured
a steaming cup of tea,
my eyes scanning the streets.

I don't know about my connections.
They're transient, maybe?
Energy put in is pulled, not given,
and the eye contact,
the ******* eye contact.
My irises give away too much.
Holding my gaze is too deep,
almost like sharing
those secrets I keep.
Deserving?
Hardly.
Pretentious? I am, definitely,
hell, even I hate me sometimes.
Cut the lines,
sever the ties,
I never cared much for them anyway.

All these people spilling,
letting themselves slosh over the sides,
tossing back courage,
tongues slipping secrets with a flourish,
nonchalant, letting things fly.

My lid, usually ******* on tight,
loosens slightly,
but not enough,
not like the rest.
I play things close to the chest.
Y'all don't need to know about me.
y'all don't need to hear my things.
I've got dead friends,
I've got self-inflicted scars,
I've got self-hatred, loathing, lies, wounds,
but I share them crucially.
Don't try and rouse it from me,
if I share,
I care,
otherwise,
beware.

I write in pen,
for fear that lead would fade,
slowly scraped from the page
as ages pass.
Maybe grasping the inevitable,
whether leaded or penned,
moves my hand toward ink,
marks me for the passion to float,
not sink.
Despite that bite, I'm toothless
half the time,
a spaceship primed for travel,
but un-fueled.

So,
this notebook is your fuel,
empowering you to fill
from end page to end page,
engaging your will to strive,
thrive,
rise,
continuing to pen rhymes.
Not to live,
but to exist.

Don't be afraid to be a mammal,
designed to laze.
Learn a lesson from the kittens,
eat, sleep, play.
Shame has no place
saying the day was a waste.
Society pushes productivity,
filling every second with money-making,
side jobs, schemes.
Take a seat society,
let us dream nonsense dreams.
Let us use time to sit back,
soak in the sun,
and smile.

You always shook my hand,
always wanted your family to flourish,
always seemed content
knowing your kids and grand-kids
were living happy lives.
I didn't know you well,
but I know you cast a calming spell,
and without you here
the world is missing
something important