the citrus of grapefruit stings the air
layering into the smell of shaving cream and cold morning love.
why can’t the sweetness of hindsight land on the tongue
in rhythm with the firm loving hand
brushed away while frozen by ignorance?

And if your meticulously mixed colors
and carefully articulated strokes of the brush
happen to disintegrate in the charring of a fire

what then?

Was the time spent crafting your rolling mountains of somber lunar blue
or prickly fields of mouse-housing wheat
or soaring, rumbling majesty of an unset sky
for naught?

Does one create for the
eyes or the
currency or the
back pats?

or

Is passion crafted
simply to create
in a world of destruction?

Is it true
that the poison
which drinks life away
can smell
like cheese and honey?

See,
I’m pretty deeply rooted on this small rock,
this minor island.
I can’t move.
Sure
I can gain fleeting satisfaction from docking
ships which need a repair
or wish to experience the depth of isolation.
But like the clouds
those ships pass.
And I can only wait for when
the storm or tsunami
will absorb and erase me
with hardly more than a flinch.


When that time comes
I will have been
nothing more than nothing (+x).

And here’s another religious theory:
craving the sweetness of fruitless purpose,
we hunch with our loads under the big above eye
and scurry a little faster.
Looking only up or down
-at the sky or on the ground-
and deriving no drive from our surroundings
(the universe erupting in the beauty of our limited spectrum rainbow)

funny how
even at a grinded pace
we forget about the
fingers of air that brush past our face
as we walk onward into our far-too-long lives
that end abruptly and without trace

breath in that air which,
beneath it’s sandpaper package,
fills your body with warm fumes
(which mean something).
Close your eyes and hold that image,
capture and engrave those blues in the shadow
into the folds of your soul
(no pixels needed).

stop.

in the name of filling the loose
rice paper skin of your existence,
forget the scars as well as the telescope
and savor the feeling in between the ticks of time.

When pain takes you by your collar
and drags you for a ride
you didn’t bargain for,

Remember
how stunning it is that you have a collar to be grabbed
and consider
the fact that pain picked
YOU.

The feel of anything is beauty-
and feeling anything
and everything (drag of pain too)

= proof.

Now how much better does that sandwich taste
after a little starvation?

It's hurting me bad.
I want to tell ya'll, know that I love you,
I'm going home. I'll be all right, don't worry.
Ya'll do understand that I came here a sinner and leaving a saint.
I wish ya'll well.
To my wife, I love you
There is no reason to cry, everybody dies.
Everybody has their time, don't worry about me.
I'm strong.

I can feel it, taste it, not bad.
I will be waiting for you.
I love you so dearly.
We're all good.
I am ready to go.
I'm ready.
I'm ready.
I'm ready.

Once,
after twenty years of fruitless scribblings,
a composer finally crafted his magnum opus.
Then a gas line sparked and exploded
killing the man and his work.

Once,
a sculptor knelt on a beach
to mold an intricate scale model of ancient Greece fifty feet long.
But no one saw it,
save the moonlit tide as it soaked it’s way through the replicated sand pillars.

Once,
a lone mountaineer gathered up his courage
and embarked on a climb never conquered.
He summited
just before freezing in a snowdrift.

Life is a thin rice paper.
It can burn.
It can tear.
It can decay.
It will expire.

However,
it can also be painted on with colors
more vibrant
more stunning
than the shades of the soul.

Once,
there was a universe
that held a floating rock with water and heat and air.
Then a life formed
and the universe observed itself…

…If only for a while.

the world is too large to be swallowed whole,
too nasty to be chewed.

however,
if you bake up some red velvet cake
and insert a symphony or two
then ice a picture of a heart a hand and a sun on the side,

you can sprinkle the nastiness lightly on top and
my oh my,
how it will sit warm
and happy in your body
which paces onward.

I have what I want, when I want it.
-but it's never quite soon enough.
-but it's never quite big enough.
the world is Mine
and it lies in front of Me.
-behind the blank white
-behind the blinking black
however, My time is best spent
watching the girls who are just itching to rip their clothes off.
I pay no attention to My people in need.
why would I?
when I get the approval from those nearest Me, those with the influence in My world.
yes, I let the dragons live (and throw them some lamb chops from time to time)
-and as I change
-and as I grow,
My wants get bigger and hungrier.
see,
-only he that sports the crown can wrinkle his nose at the plate of bounty laced with perfection.
-only he who is trapped inside a blank room can find the time to tear its contents into pieces.
My eyes are too young for binoculars
-I let the dragons live
-I let the girls stand bare
-I let my people tie their nooses
-I let the sun run dry
cause it'll keep burning
at least until i'm
thrown off throne.

--cloud head will
deter homeostatic clutter.

--binocular- peering while walking will cause a
trip a fall and a faceplant.

--making cookies without molds will result in
messes.

--writing will invoke
insanity.

is this a fad,
or newfound freedom?
passions pass
and reoccur (occasionally).
but this seems solid,
something to heave in the heart
and sit as a warm stone in the stomach.
hope this owl sticks around. his feather pattern still relatively unknown.
hope he remains on his perch
until i, too, can fly.

you know what's amazing?

we are just a tiny rock which is one of many
rocks orbiting around
a ball of gas which is
one of many ***** of gas in a
galaxy which is one of many
galaxies in a
cluster of galaxies of many
clusters of galaxies in a
universe which may be one of
many universes...

and we have only made it as far as our humble moon...

...

you know what's amazing?

we've evolved from tiny
bacteria to tiny
human beings comprised of
trillions of cells comprised of
trillions of atoms.
we are quite simply,
bluntly,
truthfully,
magical.

And with all this magic, we've managed to
make it to the moon.
viewing,
not atoms or
cells or even
individuals,
but our perfect,
piece of rock...

our heavenly Earth.

maybe life is measured in something bigger than size.

through the snow
through the sleet
the hail the fog the wind,
outpours the stack
of choke- worthy smoke.
beneath,
the tug boat
with nothing to haul.
forcing and
chugging with it's head down
through the black
syrupy waters.
using only the friendly stars
as a guide
(when they're not covered by the passing hurricane)
the boat
or small ship
pushes north

toward something

the game is in the trenches.
bullets wizz by
making us afraid to stand and
walk out of our mud-hole
our filth hole.

... to stand

we might get torn to bits.
or, upon our walk across the green of the battlefield,
we might find the true happiness.
we might look the shooter in in the eye
and he will elect not to fire.
we might be the ender of the war,
the influential tinkerer of history.

... or, we might get torn to bits...

so in the name of fear,
we stay in our hovel.
and the blood and mud
and stench
stay with us.

lay on back
in mountain meadow.
crisp air embraces.
milky way
spills overhead.
wind through fur trees
calms.
magic courses through veins.
life shakes off it's mask.
gears in clocks ice over.
the last cover closes.
new story begins.
darkness is cut.
piercing light
warms.
one
almost
feels
the
world
rumble
underneath.

lounges

on the
lawn.

as i
run

my fingers
through

jet- black
curls

on an
old belly,

i know
the warmth

comes not
from

soaked up
sunlight

but from
love.

lots of
love.

i want to be a black dog when i grow up.

the lone grain of rice
it lays alone
cold in the bowl
absorbing all the glory and attention.
but is it better warm
in a ball of steamy rice, swarmed
surrounded
perhaps cramped and crushed
but
consequently
one of many?

I find myself in love
with the way the world churns.

don’t interupt the cello
as it sings harmony.
just sit back in your chair and let the notes ring.

the violin in your hand?
let it rest on your knee.

but the question which is always a question for me:
when does one gain the confidence
to weave a melody?

*if we were meant to stay silent,
then why do we have strings?

the sun always shines
even if it’s on
the other side
run or skip
or jump and fly
‘cause life’s an opportunity
which has already gone by

a bubble of sound
in the vacuum of space.

man and moon
don't know my name.

a blue wall is all,
‘cause i hide in my place.

I can feel it (the mask)
as it melts from my face.

we wear the big shoes;
daddies shoes. leather. well polished.

in them we tread over
broken vases and hot coals.

over crumbling bridges
and into dark places we’re told not to be.

over the freshly buried dead
and atop cranky ol’ mr. adams’ grass.

only those with the best shoes
can venture the farthest.

we stay away from the boys
with bare feet. they can’t keep up.

besides,
all they do is walk and work.

cutting lawns
and digging their graves.

we’d give them daddies shoes,
but we’re busy playing

under the 50 watt sun.

There is no health
If there is no sick
The clock can’t go ‘tock’
If it never went ‘tick’
The world can’t be happy
When nothing is sad
Peace is war
and
Good is bad.

But still…
I will not lose sight
or hope for that day
When things will not simply be
Black and white,
But gray.

so let the words bubble.
so let the words churn.
precipitants always settle,
unless they're stirred or burn.

eyeballs bigger all the time,
seeing veins of tulip leaf no more.
only balloons will satisfy.
apples have too much core.

swimming: is emersion, is not to float.
dive on in, dive on in, dive on in!
the world sees the world through a glass- bottom boat,
though we’re each and all born with a
fin.

standing quietly alone,
the warped carnival mirror
sagged as people giggled through it’s reflection.

however,
the illusion and allure were quickly lost when,
distracted by the humid scent of funnel cake,
desire switched to
the flashing lights
and the taste of love
and the Ferris wheel around the bend.

but the mirror stayed still like a train station.
it let the roller coaster roll.
it let the symphony play.

until
a crack grew and grew and

the beautiful curves of the mirror
shattered.

not from the strain or the weight,
but the absence,
the lack.

and the funnel cake lost it’s taste
and the Ferris wheel it’s allure
as the clown

swept away the
liberated shards of glass,
which sparkled like
new stars
as they fell into the
rust- rimmed
can.

Love is so overused
isn’t it?
the over expressive teens
eating each others faces
in dim high school hallways
(though they’ll have an appetite for someone else next week),
the velvet chocolate
which gives so much
temporary
enjoyment that the feeder  
professes her adoration
to it’s milky swirls,
the flimsy hallmark
cards which are bought to accompany
over- priced roses on
february 14th cause
the commercials are persuasive.

and yet,
that man over there,
on the park bench,
he sits empty and alone.
his finger tracing the spot beside him
that no one cares to fill.

and yet,
that girl,
so young,
she puts the gun in her mouth.
she thinks of the looks
and the words
and also the lack of words.

walls are built high,
plenty of artillery holes;
no door.

Love is so rare

isn’t it?