I linger long for you
in the desolate wasteland
that is
my speechless silence.

Lusting for replies
to my love
that demands
and scorns.

Why would the rose
of fields so fertile
dare to touch
this trodden ground
worn,
and weathered?

Who am I
to claim
your ****** toes?

Nothing but this exists.
Nothing but you,
Nothing but me,
Nothing but this nothingness.

I am the infinte,
the almighty.
I am everything and nothing,

I am the void in your soul,
the mystery in your ear,
that call of night and darkness
in the hallow sweat of fear.

I’m a wreck,
a ship on edens shore.
I am here,
there,
and one day I will be no more.

I am dissatisfaction and I am pounding at your door.
But do not answer or acknowledge me.
I am too busy
waging little wars against my battered skin.
I am that itch that stings in the crook of your back,
the place you cannot reach.
Let me freeze or let me burn,
but do not come out here with me.
I need
to be
alone.

They say you're weird.
They do not understand you.
They are young.
And you must forgive them…
Or don’t.
You’ll learn either way.
But to forgive,
is to pretend
that you are not hurt
that your ego didn’t burn,
because they chose for it to do so.

They say you’re skinny.
They’re jealous.
Or maybe you really look emaciated.
You disturb them,
they disturb themselves.
Jealousy, ignorance, and boredom
writhe in fiery strands that dance like worms;
electric and evil.

Keep your distance from such things.
They will grow
the more you let them hurt you.
Choices are such a strange thing.
Too much power
for one youngster to handle.

They say you’re weird,
they say you’re skinny;
keep your distance from such things.
They fear you and are not worth your time.

A man walks through wood and brush,
range, and valley.
Delirious and disoriented

He stopped upon a gentle stream
and as the man bent down to drink,
The stream began to speak.
It told him things,
with a voice that moved so soft and swift.
It told him not to walk
any further than his legs could carry him.

The will of the soul you see,
has a funny way of tricking what you think.
Making you believe
that the mind can transcend
the capacities of bone and muscle.

Oh yes, the brain is strong,
but if your body fell fatigued
then surely not the mind
could carry you along.
So spoke the stream.

A voice now deeper
rough like gravel under foot,
said, look, the ground where leaves were shook.
Beware of what they hide,
Beware the hidden roots.
They snag and grab and wish to trap.
Beware the hidden roots.

Trees seem and speak like friend,
but in the dark of night
they wear different faces.
They laugh, they taunt,
they whisper things above your ears.
I hear them say,
Let us keep him here.



The stream spoke this time, softer like the first.
There was caution in the voice,
wary,
of the man’s impending thirst.
It said to him, the thing he cannot forget.
It reminded him of breath.
Reminded him that each one is borrowed,
traded in like gambling chips
upon one’s cosmic completion.

The laws of dirt and sky do not appreciate
a struggle from their kin;
unable to accept his final breath.
You must be like the wave,
momentarily breaking free
and then when beckoned,
returning to its salty sea.

It was then that the voice grew dim,
overridden by the roar of rapids.
The man’s neck was craned towards a placid eddy;
the “friend” to whom he had spoke.
Yet when he raised his head,
his only friend was birch and oak.
Looking down again,
he saw nothing but a muddied puddle.

A chill ran from spine to toe,
The man knew what was next to come.
Looking through the weave of trees,
he saw the setting sun.
His throat, dry and rough,
tightened and began to close.
It was then that the man looked up,
and his fear went with his gaze,
snuffed out like candles’ flame.

The trees began to speak,
but they were not talking amongst themselves.
The trees were addressing him,
whispering…
Remember, the Teachings of the Stream

A man walks through wood and brush,
range, and valley.
Delirious and disoriented

He stopped upon a gentle stream
and as the man bent down to drink,
The stream began to speak.
It told him things,
with a voice that moved so soft and swift.
It told him not to walk
any further than his legs could carry him.

The will of the soul you see,
has a funny way of tricking what you think.
Making you believe
that the mind can transcend
the capacities of bone and muscle.

Oh yes, the brain is strong,
but if your body fell fatigued
then surely not the mind
could carry you along.
So spoke the stream.

A voice now deeper
rough like gravel under foot,
said, look, the ground where leaves were shook.
Beware of what they hide,
Beware the hidden roots.
They snag and grab and wish to trap.
Beware the hidden roots.

Trees seem and speak like friend,
but in the dark of night
they wear different faces.
They laugh, they taunt,
they whisper things above your ears.
I hear them say,
Let us keep him here.



The stream spoke this time, softer like the first.
There was caution in the voice,
wary,
of the man’s impending thirst.
It said to him, the thing he cannot forget.
It reminded him of breath.
Reminded him that each one is borrowed,
traded in like gambling chips
upon one’s cosmic completion.

The laws of dirt and sky do not appreciate
a struggle from their kin;
unable to accept his final breath.
You must be like the wave,
momentarily breaking free
and then when beckoned,
returning to its salty sea.

It was then that the voice grew dim,
overridden by the roar of rapids.
The man’s neck was craned towards a placid eddy;
the “friend” to whom he had spoke.
Yet when he raised his head,
his only friend was birch and oak.
Looking down again,
he saw nothing but a muddied puddle.

A chill ran from spine to toe,
The man knew what was next to come.
Looking through the weave of trees,
he saw the setting sun.
His throat, dry and rough,
tightened and began to close.
It was then that the man looked up,
and his fear went with his gaze,
snuffed out like candles’ flame.

The trees began to speak,
but they were not talking amongst themselves.
The trees were addressing him,
whispering…
Remember, the Teachings of the Stream

I knew you once.

We walked hand in hand,
On roads,
Paved with flowers
In colors we did not know.

We hatched a plan.
We were going to start something new,
something we had never done before.
We’d leave the homes we knew,
We’d start over, me and you.

We came to find,
That we could only walk on flowers for so long,
Before they were crushed beneath our wake.
So we made,
new roads
Forged new towns.
Raised new cities.
Cities became sanctuaries.
sanctuaries became nations.
Then nations birthed ideals.
From ideals grew prejudice
From Prejudice grew competition,
And in the pyres of faded glory,
Chaos overran our kingdom.
Riots broke out.

Hand in hand
We watched
As all that we created
Was burned to the ground
Reduced to rubble
And ash

The lives that we had started,
The people we had fostered,
The dreams that we had built,
Vanished with the smoke

You said that you could fix it
You told me not to worry
That all would be okay
You would rebuild the cities,
You told me you had to stay.

I returned the way we came,
Melted in the safety
Of my father’s arms
Evaporated in the warmth
Of my mother’s gaze

Now I watch you from the clouds
Fall upon your face
Roll down your cheek
I am the rain,
The river
And the storm

Let me calm your waters
Dowse your fire
And keep you warm.
I can’t stand
To watch you burn like they did.

Take a peak inside that stormy dome,
see if you can't find yourself
a semi-peaceful slice of mind that you can call your own

Tie a leash around its neck,
try to walk that creature home,
Show it to your mom and pops

“look guys, look what I found roaming around my teenage mind?
This is the friend I was telling you about
I know he’s kind of ugly, shaggy and unkempt.
His looks are mildly incestual
But I love him all the same
Do you mind if I sit him right there next to you?

Maybe the three of you could exchange some words
He knows the same ones I do
Even those nasty slurs
I don’t exactly understand him
No one else does either
Everyone knows him,
But few seem to remember

Don’t go looking for him on your own
He tends to get real shy, sometimes reclusive
He’ll dive down deep into his subconscious home,
Forged of past memories, images and emotions
The ones that I dare not touch like the middle of the ocean

I wait by the shoreline, drifting in and out of consciousness
Anxiously awaiting,
the lumber that he’s plundered
from my stormy subconscious.
Then again,
maybe this time will be just like the rest.
Maybe this time all I get,
Is that hollowed out feeling in my chest

Suddenly,
He surfaces for air
And there he is
Speaking to me of sufferings and joys
My very own melodrama and vanity
He even touches on insecurity.


Things I never knew I tried so hard to hide
How did he find it all?
In that underwater den,
Where all these things reside.

“If you don’t come home with me, all this beauty may be forever lost”
I told him.
So that’s why I brought him home
I call him creativity
Could you watch him,
I need to be alone?

You are the voice
Truth and beauty

When night takes over the sun
The light runs
Into the depths
Of your ever warming being

Laughter of the child
Embrace me in your heat
Wrap your joy around me
So I may be a guest

Read to me,
The history of your sensitivity
Baffled by your willingness
To put your self aside
Most the time
And bring the needs of others
To the front of the check out line
Leaving yours behind

You are gentle
As you are kind
Naïve,
you are not
Blind to the way out of the dense wood of your imagination and fears,
Sometimes.
But find a way out,
You must.
It is in the darkness of the wood
That your fire begins to dwindle
You are infinite warmth
And you are destined,
to grant it.
Above all,
You are destined
To find it.

You are the voice
Truth and beauty

When night takes over the sun
The light runs
Into the depths
Of your ever warming being

Laughter of the child
Embrace me in your heat
Wrap your joy around me
So I may be a guest

Read to me,
The history of your sensitivity
Baffled by your willingness
To put your self aside
Most the time
And bring the needs of others
To the front of the check out line
Leaving yours behind

You are gentle
As you are kind
Naïve,
you are not.
Blind to the way out of the dense wood of your imagination and fears,
Sometimes.
But find a way out,
You must.
It is in the darkness of the wood
That your fire begins to dwindle
You are infinite warmth
And you are destined,
to grant it.
Above all,
You are destined
To find it.

Caress the curvature,
and catacombs of your cranium.
As you sit back
and contemplate the complexities
of your mind.

Drift into a state of relaxation,
amongst the ebbing tides of a soft creation.
Below furrowed brows,
made famous by frustration,
into the depths of foggy thought,
I found my naval base.

An island,
transmitting infinite miscommunications.
Rhetorical bio-essence bounces off the constellations.
An angelic reverberation.

My mind begins to melt
Seeping into walls
Formed by divine hallucination

Exhausted by sheer elation.
Transfixed in a state of utter meditation

I do not believe,
that the solution to our problems
lies in the hands of our politicians.
I do not believe,
in the conviction of the world's religions.
Or those who preach of
Lucifer and Jehovah.
I do not believe,
in changing ourselves
to please those around us.
I do not believe,
in this world’s
so called "justice".
I don’t believe in these things because;

Society is a shifting tide,
government is corrupt,
religion is flawed
and people are fickle.

Privacy is long forgotten, buried beneath Capitol Hill
And peace is a flame, flickering in the winds of change.

There is also that
which I do not see.
Things that do not stand in front of me,
but in these things I still believe.

I believe in things we cannot touch
that others do not know,
that we may question and hypothesize,
but never doubt.

Things that make the branches grow
And form the winter snow

These beliefs aren’t good nor bad,
but they are mine to bear.
Because through my time, this is what I’ve seen,
and although that does not make them so,
my beliefs, will never cease to grow.

I carry it well
this weight of mine.
My boots dig in,
and I trudge forward,
as I travel through these endless plains of time.

Golden Roses, up to their necks in red
From the rays of, Mid-Day Sun.
as he sits,
laughing overhead.
They fall victim to my weight.

I yield,

to passing serpents, rattlers on their ends,
alone on a dusty trail.

I stop at a rock,
balanced upon another,
a perfect equilibrium.
Achieved in a state
of quintessential delirium.
I remove the pack from my back.
Ease these callused shoulders,

a dangerous embrace,
from this mid-day sun.
The heat becomes a temporary weight to carry on.
Carabineers gripping tight;
to things I’d rather leave behind.

Let them rest on the neighbor’s lawn,
forgotten cells, lying on the rocks of a riverbed.
Let them rot in the broken complex,
****** away in an indigo vortex.
Let them slip between the floorboards,
of a weathered porch.
Rage blind eyes make way for a deafening silence.
The time has come,
empty that pack
and carry on into the setting sun.

In the shriek of the night,
I found you.
Scarred and alone,
heaped in the corner,
left to your own devices.

Fend for yourself,
in the darkness of your solitude.

Can you see the footsteps that precede time,
tick-tocking
like grandfather's rocker
in the endless shadow that is your daydream?

Do you hear that ancient language,
that was burried in the ashes?

*I found it in the shriek of the night.
Flickering flame that dances in my skull.