This is the morning
No this
this is the morning
Where etherized upon a table I will finally sit up and be seen.
No, this is the morning.

Together milling loudly across park(ing lot)s
This! This is the morning!
Perhaps you've seen me undressed, perhaps you've seen me *******.
This is Morse Code these are hieroglyphs these are fingerprints on a frozen window pane. Meaning(fully equipped with the right place for a time) nothing to lose without first finding X.

This is the morning where to stay at home to garden and crow, hooked on the missing airplane lost in spices and exotic tea.

It's becoming a bit weary
Listening to 'uh...hum',
Forgettable moments I wish would go away,
I still love listening to the ever-increasing pauses though,
I still love her,
Listening to quiet breath,
Something in it for me I suspect.
I am not the same, I guess,
The excitededness doesn't extend across oceans,
What was boundless has become empty,
Or so it seems,
I miss her so,
Depression of promises left unrealized,
Meetings going un-met,
Kisses lost to forever.
Eyes that will never shine with mine.

The angel moves stealth-like
Appearing as summoned
Here and there to help
Look out, he could be watching
Making sure the nightmare monsters are held at bay

I have an angel watching me
Day and night
His work does not cease
Amazed at the honor
Of having you around me
Just wishing to touch and feel your feathery body

An architect of tile and stone,
mosaic played beautifully in natural colors of desert hues and corresponding twists of evergreens,
Super-heated heavy iron,
along sparks of arc that weld the mind to something infinite yet sublime,
Pastels,
blurring lines of what is real from what is seen,
on canvas unrealized,
Sculptured earthy clay resembling remembrances of more than simple glimpses set in stone,
Artistry of gastronomy,
purging old ideas and new-found taste to tease the discriminating palates of those inclined,
Poets reading widows tears in pouring rain,
outside well-lighted and closed laundro-mats in frigid airy nights,
Waiting to be heard and yet unrecognized in blue-grey hoodies,
Svelte voices and incantations that long for listening ears,
Writers writing about journeys and destinations,
each mile travelled and another respite upon their road, 'Poets, preists and politicians...their words are their ambitions',
Maybe someday there will arise,
a scientist,
that will surmise,
'All is one and one is all',
Then the bleats will not go unheard.

Only one fan,
Making crazy noises in the kitchen,
'kurchunka chunka chunka'
Maybe it needs a good cleaning,
Or some attention,
Like love.

Why is the bus so bright inside?
Clearly exposing the man sitting at the back?
Making a hard left turn in front of me. Incandescent, I see a man finishing sun-flower seeds,
And looking through glass, and my rolled-up windows, my avoidant eyes make contact, then I realize...he is me. Traveling on a slow-soul-train to downtown or whatever it may be, eyes lock for a moment and I wish him freedom.

Epochs and eons and celestial time,
Enormous chunks of eternity,
Pass so quickly by,
As I move through this realm,
Dragging  behind me,
Unequaled paramimity,
Or a word that sounds like that,
Forever is blurred by tomorrows and todays,
Moving through life,
Sorrrow remains.