The eyes snap open,
Like the shutter on a camera,
Pupils fixed and tracking,
Watching every move,
Never blinking,
Pinholes peering into the depths of you,
Below subconscious,
Leering at your mind,
Keeping record of your every move,
Seeing inside,
Knowing your thoughts,  
Knowing what it thinks to be 'you'
A total surprise,
'no one can tell, right?'
It's like beauty,
Obvious to some,
Invisible to others,
I know ,if you know, and dread these dreams,
release me.

Lying entrapped in her arms,
Falling into her eyes,
Falling into her mysticism,
What is possible in this communion?
Instant contemplation?
Her doctrine becomes mine,
Tenets and principles,
Unknown,
Become mine,
I absorb her teaching and instruction,
I submit to her whim,
Less fanciful than my own,
Losing myself inside her,
I submit,
To her ever-shifting paradigm,
For her offerings,
Her sweetness that she dismisses,
For that is her,
She seeks someone to discover her beauty,
Which only she knows.

27 years incarcerated.
27 years of committing to the same ideas and ideals that shut him off from the world.
Unsurpassed courage and finally unsurpassed Grace.
Forgiving his captors and those who would wish to remove his hope for a brighter future for his people and his country.
The longest and most arduous marathon ever won.
Redeemed at last.
Oppression crumbled by one man's will.
And being humbled by the journey.
As if anyone would've done the same.
Rest quietly 'trouble-maker' for now.
The invitation to return is always open.

Maximum hot silence,
As neutrinos finger-out,
Playful harmonies,
on this fretted frown,
Nano-seconds before light overwhelms,
And billionths become measured,
Strutting and strumming and fingerings found,
Playfully erupt,
Like sound interrupted,
And staccato resounds,
Expanse and corruption,
Bringing me down,
Creating life glimpses,
Often unfound,
This mere direction,
Taking lifestyle mirth,
Unknowing and knowing,
For whatever its worth.

Tonight I saw Orion rise,
And chase the Pleiades across the sky,
The North star shone,
To give direction,
Vega offered introspection,
Ursa Major,
Too much to bear,
Gems of creation,
Everywhere,
Regulas rages in blazes of blue,
So beautiful now,
With the waxing moon,
The only star,
That will not shine,
Is the one,
I thought was mine,
But now you're in,
Anothers sky,
Why can't it be mine?

Life is a dare that I accept...but I lose.

Memories,
With long shadows,  
Cast by the light of age,
Exchange truth,
For a more comfortable delusion.

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

Having stems and branches,
Like thoughts and philosophy,
Growing and taking root,
Harboring life of all sorts,
Insect and bird,
Marsupial and primate,
So many others to name,
We climb them as children,
Play-houses with signs,
That say 'keep girls out',
Poets speak of them,
With admiration and awe,
We chop them down,
For fire and heat and cooking our fare,
We build houses from them instead of within,
We sit on their stumps,
And invoke memories of days we climbed,
And the poets write beautifully about them,
Upon their skins.

I eat my sandwich,
Cause I'm hungry.

And the blazing sun,
Creeps slowly,
Over the edge of the world,
Chasing clouds away,
Pushing hard against the dawn,
Weeping final raindrops,
and escaping across horizons,
Cumulative Nimbus,
Recede,
Showing might,
In its flight,
Escaping heat,
Bringing dawn,
And sunsets,
Somewhere,
The Earth turns,
And spins and spins and spins,
And surprisingly begins,
Rainbows shine,
And drift with time,
To places,
That live within.

Allow me to sing,
While I play your heartstrings,
Let me bask in the light of your eyes,
Allow me to soar in the wind of your whispers,
Let me rest in the shade of your life,
Again melt my heart with the warmth of your smile,
So precious the honor,
To stand by your side,
Forever and always,
I want to be near you,
If fate should betray us,
Be still my poor heart.

Oh no!
I have just been diagnosed,
With a case of Extreme Stupidity,
My doctor says its probably terminal,
But with advanced methods and invasive procedures,
My chances of survival,
Are, at best, hopeless,
With proper treatment,
And a well-balanced diet,
I should be able to overcome the side-effects of the medication and therapies afforded by the state-run institutions,
And return to a 'normal and happy stupidless life'
There is no family history of this disorder,
But ten-out-of-twelve succumb to it,
So he says,
As I try and do the math,
The manifestation of this illness becomes clear,
Ten of twelve is equal to...umm...let's see...if there were one hundred...divided by...umm...okay wait...say we had twelve...or no ten...hold on...let's round this up to the nearest number...what is thirteen..dividing it by eleven...when chances are...2:1...is that what he said? Oh ****! I am terminal...minus 1.

I've seen this one thousand times,
But I watch it anyway,
Hoping to gain something new,
But I know I won't,
Still I watch,
With eyes open,
And open mind,
Yet nothing is new,
It's like you,
Same shades and colors that you choose,
I get bored and angry,
Not because of me,
but because of you,
And it scares me to hell,
Not because of you,
But the rituals you do.

A wishing well,
Old pennies thrown in,
New,
Brilliant,
Shining,
They shall be yours again.

Each day I arise,
Awaiting sunsets,
On the horizon of your mind,
Sinking low, this illuminating and colorful depiction,
Throwing colors about,
Magenta and burnt-orange,
Violet with blue,
Having missed the sunrise that is you,
Glistening sparkley eyes,
Drawn deep with longing for my awakening
In your soulful eyes,
Feeling soft the generous love,
That cannot be contained,
It is felt and wanted,
Needed,
Desired,
Cried for over sleep,
Disturbed in otherwise quiet dreams,
Held gently and admired,
Love undisturbed,
Lost I feel,
Shaken about,
Startled from this dream,
Realizing,
That love will come,
I remain parched,
Thirsty,
I wanna drink from your well,
And quench this overwhelming dryness,
But I fall short,
And never reach you,
I slowly die,
Laid to rest in this arid and desolate desert,
Falling prey,
To the burning sun,
That is you.

The film begins,
No wait...the filming begins,
When a child grabs ahold of a new toy,
A camera that doesn't lie,
But sometimes the images are blurred,
Out of focus,
Not always sharp and crisp,
The way a well-known and famous director would do,
There are rules understood,
Yet, unknown to him,
The child points the camera in all directions,
Perspectives never seen,
Unaware of the well-defined dynamics,
Of film-mastery,
Pointing aimlessly at times, to the sky, the ground or inconspicuous leaves lying on the freshly cut grass,
Actors left out of scene, dialogue goes missing, interpretations left to doubt,
The master, taking offense,
Buries the child director,
In condemnation,
Without offers of help,
'...if you can't do this child, find some other way, to express yourself and your ideas,
'cause you're giving us a bad name, to all who came before you, through struggle and through strife, please little child, put down your lens, so we can do it right'. Scolded and hurt and shattered, The child did surrend, and giving up, his lens of glass, to such a bitter end.

And slowly closing eyes,
And slowly closing eyes
Painted behind temples,
Smathered colors upon white and inviting canvess,
Monastic Lisa and her friends,
Filling mosaic and print,
Surety of smile,
A thousand nothings to do,
Weeping a single tear,
Causing heavy paint to elude.

If Michaelangelo,
Were alive today,
He would sculpt your svelte and lithe figure,
Into the finest Italian marble,
Marble that would last for ten thousand years,
So all men, from this day forward,
Would have the opportunity,
To perceive and envision,
That which only,
He and God could create.
She laughed at me,
Again.

They surround me in the dim streetlights,
Watching my every move,
Turning corners and disappearing into night,
As I make bad decisions again,
It's as if they are ashamed,
My judgments are my own,
And they know it,
They flee from me,
Walking into darkness and shadow,
Turning away and disappearing,
Heads hung in shame,
Saddened cries and tears not known to me,
As angels walk toward home,
And telling God,
'Not today'
Angels walk away from me.

A mariner on the ocean of the eternal,
Looking above the bow,
A panoramic view of the presentation of self,
Nautical boundaries and jurisdictions,
Inhabiting and found,
Consciousness of all,
Abound.

At first glimpse,
I shudder,
there is something in your face,
I almost recognize,
It's different now,
More articulate,
your eyes have become hollow and vacant,
Without spirit,
Haunting and hopeless,
no longer being seen as bestowed by a diety,
lifeless,
No longer illuminating a disheartened world,
Seeing too many unfavorable aspects of life,
drawn,
the light which once poured,
nightfall surrounds,
not of ignorance,
but from experience,
the secrecy of these shadows,
the rendered soul,
cause me to visit the unwelcomeness,
that I have known,
twilight touches my face,
as I step away from the mirror,
promising never to return.

Stepping up to the plate,
I knew what was coming next,
Hot and fast,
A little curve at the end,
I could get to first base,
I guessed,
Rounding the corner,
maybe second.
A little hustle in my step,
A slide perhaps,
A double on opening night.
Anxiety as I approached,
Ready to swing away,
'can I do this?'  
I stepped out of the box for a moment,
My turn to shine,
Stepping in,
Choking up,
Relaxing my shoulders as I prepared to follow-through,
Eyes fixed on the pitch,
A homerun would be nice,
Then I realized,
Just getting to first-base would be a home-run for me,
This rookie,
My god,
Dating is sooo hard.

Busted up and broken,
Looking less than before,
Still admired from years ago,
Still beautiful.
'get up and walk ten feet today',
Admired again,
Quite beautiful,
Moving about,
For nothing else,
Than to prove,
Strength,
And love closely follows behind.

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.

Sometimes it occurs to me,
Okay...every morning it does,
To be honest,
As gentle light filters slowly into my room,
And breaks along the window sill,
And scatters across the empty floor,
Reflecting on empty socks,
And what I wore the night before,
Shadows created become ominous shrouds,
Reminding and inviting me,
To return to the unconscious world I was so rudely thrown from,
Kicked out of,
No more peace for me,
No more sleep,
I toss and turn,
Hoping to find that serene place,
Where inviting and invisible wishes remain,
Please another minute or two,  
of unreality, so I plead,
don't make me wake,
It's quieter here,
It's warm and so comforting,
And then the stupid alarm goes off!
Really? It's monday already?

Hospitalized all,
No one showed.

Tonight I'll try and mask the tears,
That pound against the arid ground,
Like thunderous rains in the Texas night,
Rumbling from a strike of light,
Rivers swell and breach the banks,
Like hearts left lonely,
And eyes left blank.

It's difficult being a godess,
From what she says,
Listening closely to the cries of those afflicted,
Surrounded by pleas and self-acrimony,
And the Ill-nature of things,
Her soul abounds with sympathy,
Her will strikes down her empathy,
Suffering begets compassion,
Be it beast or human fashion,
In the mind of mortals,
It is through these portals,
Redemption is often found.

Tattered and torn,
Beaten and worn,
Death is the only healing place.

I've heard mention,
of a choir of angels,
A myriad of angels,
acappella,
Sounding like a thunderous orchestra,
Singing unto the Almighty,
This concept I can understand,
An All-powerful creator,
Would require an amazing soundtrack,
Background vocals of creation,
Filling Him with whelming tears and pride,
Perhaps choking-back tears,
As word became light,
And heaven and earth were created.
I suppose again too,
Like any King,
He would have other court appointees,
A muse perhaps,
To inspire His creations,
A scribe to record His every breath, sigh and description,
At last a jester,
To amuse Him between acts,
A folly,
A clown.
I still exist,
Here, In the mortal realm,
To continue to make the Architect of the Universe,
Laugh His ******* *** off,
As I dance and perform silly tricks,
To amuse and distract Him,
from the serious business,
Of being God.

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.

All of us write,
late into night,
Simple rhymes becomes prose,
As night draws to a close,
Connotation becomes denotation,
Expressed or implied,
Painting pictures with words,
Of a world much denied,
Of heartfelt regret,
Or anger or pain,
We elude to the simple,
And write about rain,
To illuminate others,
Of that which we see,
Another perspective,
Of what may be,
We invite opinion,
Of comparitive worth,
The definition of judgements,
Are all that we need,
So bleeding and ugly,
Take care to impart,
A wonderful meaning,
To a forlorn heart.

'...He went like one that hath been stunned...'.

When and where,
Did I start following your star?
A thousand lightyears ago?
A lighthouse, a beacon,
Through densities of dark-matter,
Shining so brilliantly through eons and epics,
Calling me to explore early explosions,
And beginnings of time,
Golden light reaches me,
Faith and speculation abound,
Dynamic and static this knowledge,
Cold steel anvils crushing hard against burning and fiery tempermental vestments,
Wearing proudly this armor and adoration of you,
Like many who've come before,
I am the King,
At least this time...

Still is your heart,
Silent,
Between the beats,
Silent,
Feelings of love,
Silent,
Like your mind,
Silent,
As it retreats,
Silent,
Like the breath you hold,
Silent,
As you await my kiss,
Silent,
As your questions loom,
Silent,
As you press your fingers against my lips,
Silent.
Answers don't come,
Silence.

Cosmic created verse,
A paradox of inversion and introspection,
I am I am...
Less elastic time separating from space,
Snapping back like a rubber-band,
Releasing the ether to expand,
Without keen observation,
All happening at once,
Entanglements preserved,
Lightning strikes not once,
Myriads cluster into singularity,
Birthing God again,
In minds of Hadrons measurements,
Collectors dis-uniting matter,
And matters of self,
Empty is the chamber,
That records such things.

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.

Climbing the stairs,
Til the water reaches me,
To the attic I retreat,
Til the water reaches me,
clinging tightly to prized possessions,
Til the water reaches me,
unheeded warnings,
Til the water reaches me,
following the surge,
Til the water reaches me,
listening but not hearing,
Til the water reaches me,
Holding tight until the end,
Til the water reaches me,
gulping loud slurps,
When the water reaches me.

Morning sun,
Blinding me as I head east,
Though I squint,
Too early for shades,
Just way too **** cold,
And dark.
The desert paint alight with purple and subdued hues of mystery and roads belonging to no one and leading no-place,
I could exit here and be lost forever,
I wish for that sometimes,
Coz lonesome mood brings me down,
travel expects destinations,
Following broken paths is for the young,
For them reaching a place where meaning should whisper a bit in the ear,
Is more about the return than the journey,
Getting back to that place where they started is the goal,
I haven't that desire anymore,
Disappearing is a dream,
Unfulfilled,
Like saying goodbye to that early morning light.
Following still and quiet voices,
And choirs of mind.

The finish line,
Within reach,
Running for my life,
Then running for my life.

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.

Brought to me by you,
Was the word 'love',
Brought to you by me was 'Love is not enough',
You approached me with 'respect',
Then 'adoration',
Then a lot of other words.
Then gestures.
Then things I don't even wanna think about,
All to make my weakened mind and heart,
Yours,

We sat there,
Staring at each other,
Eyes fixed,
Knowing the others soul,
Turmoil turned to silence,
Waiting for what's next,
And for a very long time,
We waited,
Then you took my hand,
And said 'let's go',
I held your hand and asked 'where?',
'that way' you replied,
I was out of breath,
And followed,
Hands clasped,
Lulled into sleep,
Into a moment of dreams,
Dragged toward other stars,
Surrendered.

A dream is only a dream while you're sleeping,
Awakened by the call of dawn and beautiful sunrise,
It quietly disappears,
Faded into distant and unimportant memory,
Hope is a dream while awake,
It too often passes away,
Like an old friend,
Gone with shocking abruptness,
And fading away are the memories of each,
Old friends and hopes and dreams,
A part of us is taken away with them,
Leaving us to wonder,
If anything truly matters?