my thoughts are a vicious ocean
and my words are dry sand
that the ocean cant reach without force
and so languidly, it retreats
and its waves continue to crash into each other,
destroying anything in their path.

pattern matcher extraordinaire
looked up to the clouds
saw faces there
looked beyond the sky
into that infinite expanse
the infinite looked back at him
purely by chance

There's a black hole in my stomach
Twisting and churning

But never feed it.
It's like feeding demons

emptiness is swallowing
Wallowing
And echoes through vacant organs

Time: 4:58 pm
A few good days
A few

Once I dug your car out of three feet of snow
Three footed
Sure footed

I finally met Joe.
The music we fell in love to.
He was gentle and kind like the notes he twisted and the lyrics he spun.

It's amazing how complicated feeding yourself can be.

Elusive
Weakness or strength
Slipping or sliding

There's a black hole in my stomach.

Your Horoscope today, reads like an open palm
floating on a feeling that dangles from your gypsy heart
entangled in the Dharma throb of an all-nighter.
sipping whiskey from a flask of gin... with the moon's skirt
flipping your hair to the West, as you bow to the East.

full of long drums and Absinthe, your shadow leans into Paradise
with an icepick and a candle. The lemon eye of a wrinkle
in blue - protrudes through the canvas
of your flat space
to the Very rest
of You.

your trajectory is far removed from your Reason.
Stars aligned, no longer plot. But they -
Highly Recommend.

the charts suggest that you
are the Squire
to a Lost Night
in Profound  
Lament.

But your Wings
are like the Miracle
your Levitation
Dreamt.

It's in the dirt smudged into the lobby rug,
And hidden in cobwebs under the stairs.

It's drizzling down the side of tall buildings,
It's wafting towards us in the air.

It's in calloused hands and drying mouths,
It's in every grimace and every pout.

It's life.

You may not like it.
You may turn from it in disgust.
But it's in you.

The same specs of sunlight you crave,
Crawl in the night.

It's the stuff of life.
And it's in you.

Liar, Liar, pants-
Pants? Pants? It's more like: Liar,
Liar, soul on fire.

On a lazy path covered with Jasmine and Silver Maples, I walk back in time. In the partial shade of over hanging tree limbs, I close my eyes and feel the cool southern breeze. I smell the ambrosia that fills the air as the blossoms from flowers and trees mix to form a perfume quite like no other. I open my eyes and I can see barefoot children running down a dirt path to a deep and slow moving creek. I see cane poles flopping in the wind and hear the sound of rocks skipping across the water. Trapped in the images of home, I fade with the memories and let myself get lost in time. I find myself at a no particular destination, far away from the rest of the world. I just sit on a log somewhere past nowhere in particular.