when I was saved from
       the thicket picketed with thorns
               and soon the sun receded behind
                      the triple peaks of then, now, and yet to be
                               you howled into the glowing period
                                     vast, sparkling and combing the lands
                                            could I have grabbed your hand,
                                                 where the warmth stays and hearts flutter
                                                        and feet walk in sync past, now, and yet

The flooding of golden light
The murmur of crisp blue
Glinting like those marvelous
Icebergs chilling in the sights
Soon the light ceases to glint
And the hues deepens so that
Only the tree tops in brisk evenings
And towering sloping peaks
Reach out to chance a dancing feat
With the fleeting gazes of mourning  blue

a cynical eye glimpses
down into the barrel
terrified at first
what to find at the bottom
there was a great quake
a thundering shudder
of such mighty shakes
hands slips on the rusted rims
leaving traces of red imprints
where fingers ran
up and down sharp cheeks
and across the forehead
dusted with coat of hope
this barrel since looked down into
speaks without wanting to
a barrel full of water
left forgotten amidst trees and garden
lush greens and rainy skies
leaving paths muddy to tread
yet stumble on, keep the hood up
a jacket zipped too, to keep the warmth in
the barrel of water, glimpse down
down and down
a mirror, water so still
the raindrops can't even ripple
the face set in stone

I close my eyes
And the ache recedes through
These words lop-side, so distantly, unknowingly
Into increasing, massive
Space

My mind reverberates
With the echoes of memories
And with every blink through time
All is lost in increasing, massive
Space

The curves of this pen
And the ink left behind
My conscience pruned into lost corners,
My presence grows faint

And I am left staring through
The remnants of my artifacts
And all that is left is increasing, massive
Space

a blazing red ****
and flaming red hair
the music bashed
bones rattled and lips preyed in chances
we sang in the electrified night
tonight, our chorus belongs
to our sights
reflected by the drops
we call classified rejects

feet stampede
hands praised in air
a tangible element
a tangible chorus
the melodies arctic
as voices run coarse

a sea of fists saluting
the red **** a humble ferocity
a single note prances
washes over a thousand eardrums
as that chorus, a thunderous clash

the heart of sound
thumps against the cage in our chests  
wanting to break
claw out of cynical throats
and as sweat trickles down our bodies
sound plasters to our skin

lights flash
a mesmerizing aurora gone rogue
like cameras of new and few
capturing the moment
of raw ethnicity
of our younger generation
in all of its rebellious reasoning

an isle of blinded birds
walked before the red ****
searching for that truce
that happy medium
away from skeptics of wrinkled faces
vessels carrying our souls
without capacity written in stone

and as that red **** thrashed
a marvelous sight of beauty
for once the generation
a thousand demographics
a thousand thoughts and dreams
tonight, we come as one
unified as winds carry us on
we will sing, we will purge
we are the younger generation

and we will remain as we are

Maybird, today you thought
Today you thought
But I think not
On whether you dwelt long on that thought

Maybird, a sublime spring
A sprinkle of blue
A shower of roses
Today you have thought

A clinking of ice in glass lemonade
A rush of waxy pollen
You thought, today, Maybird
And I thank you for that

the ceaseless snow fall
abundant delicacies
upon a butterfly's wings
moment's rippling events
cascading grey quarries
across ticking dimensions,
shuddering shoulders
upsetting laughter,
clasp that tiny blade
inside your makeshift
home thereafter,
beating winds
clashing swords
a draining bath
where you soaked
all those memories
like whiplash,
that turmoil substance
gushing out
a teetering notion
all this wordy banter
the music spawned the start
the one inaudible
on this rotating globe
just know better things
are soon to be

Cascading torrents of flower petals
Rose golds and melody pastels
Sending gazes utterly transfixed
To the touch of ivory memory
With my feet in the air
And a head no where to be found
Hands transcended into a ***
Of earth and dark cool soil
The base of the flower
I picked the petals off of

brisk, waning scent
of another scorching summer
fallen to an end
gallantly, it slips
behind the
farthest mountains
and the sky opens up
like a cracked egg
with the yellow yolk
deep-set orange
and swimming on the peaks,
light rain which drizzles
and softly kisses the pavement
leaving steam to roll through
the campus grounds,
another ordinary night
of a summer gone,
a burnt out light
cracked open,
like the way lips
can suddenly spill
with brilliant night

sleeping snugged in the crook
where sunlight beams without retrospect
a promise chafing while the tempest surges
scouring the hillside where mountains climb nigh

a moments breath held askew
salmon pink and beading mildew
meeting to cool the burning wound
as howl made flesh and skin crawl

just promised, a promise chastened
in a wooden oak chocolate box
buried in the steep ribcage of the earth
where the mind begins to lurk

feel the hand tremble to life
the awesome power, impeccable brilliance
sloping figures roughed into the earth
giving into the imagination of another night

and here, come along here
where the brain is turned ripe
and light gives way to blooming forage
never to be left alone

come along here

to feel the pressure
building in your ears
like that thud contemplating
between two chords of hollow
resounding wood,
a twisting root manifesting
wiring squeezing skittering
across the surface we all fall~
there is naught in retrospect  
upon reflected conflicts and
toppling restrictions
hearts in chains like tail fins,
caught in a net cast deep into
frothy salty seas
hoping to trap what is not ours,
thinking what it was
thinking to grasp
gouging for a grip
into this vulnerable scare
slippery slip

Never again will I change for anybody.

Pale, smooth skin a moonlight kin
Pale luminescent sheer subtle like pearls
Crackling laughter like pebbles
Skipping over rippling lake shore
Big round, cerulean eyes
Boundless leagues sea scape horizon
Drinking in the sight of the heavens
Cheeks soft and cool salmon pink
Lone stretched shadow rippling
Over blades of glass soft to the touch
His lips upturned crescent soft spoken
Laden with a story waiting to unfold
Trembling yet still to the marrow
Thinking about nothing at all

sitting in place very, very still,
underneath the glimmer of the sky,
the liberals have arrived so don’t try to think,
I keep the strum of ruined heartstrings and pluck to a gateway bliss,
we all live and swim through sickness of strife as misfits,
pursue the gawking geese careening in the big blue sky,
look there, there we all point to the everlasting feast
the sheer of pretty pink and dripping orange marmalade skips a beat
I squeeze my knuckles so they go white, spending hours in the bright light,
oh how my lungs yearn for the touch of cold, cold sky breath,
caress the dazzling light which pierces through a curtain of death,
yet everyday spinal chords whistle out of tune
and painted carriers go out and dig out those buried runes,
so before falling, I look into irises and their missed faces
Yet, I only end up scratching the slippery opaque surfaces,
and those heartstrings render and contort, visions passing over the horizon
and those smudges of graphite I use to write are frightened,
leaving traces in the music I must have mistaken
as my own

as we drown before the florescent glow
of the lampshade sticky ****
and the ache washes over
the back of our heads
the soreness in our eye socket

books are propped and buried
deep in our faces
in the adolescent curve of noses
the smell of intelligence is supposed to waft
the scent of future and brightness,
the scent of bigger ambition

yet instead stench of synthetic obligations
tingle through the tunnel of our nostrils
and lingers in the back of our skulls
cloudy, sharp, confusing and mean
it bites my friend, it bites

the sound of pencil scratching on paper
keyboards clicking away
and mouths whitened from strenuous furrow
feel the bag underneath the eye
sag and droop, weakened and drained

feel the emptiness
the emptiness in purpose
shoved to drive us on
the dollar bills will not shaft well, my friend
if you don't meet our obligations,
and so they say

yet let me tell you
let me speak for you
the creamy glance of yellow light
which shafts across the wall of brick
the isles of easels mounted with canvases
pulled taught and hiding its willowy smile

let me tell you
how my heart flutters at the creak of floorboard
how my fingers handle the spine of brushes
and how paper speaks for itself
the studio plastered with splatters of whirling colors
the dusty smell of vast, open space
the echo of imagination reverberating into
seeds of exploration

let me tell you
how my eyes wander across the soft succulent surfaces
the worn golden door handle
the prickly screech of a hinge
the chalky scratch of charcoal
and the rows of inking presses
waiting to compress the next
monograph etches and linoleum spur

let me tell you,
to those who frown
to those who squint their ugly faces
to those who denied
let me tell you,
I would belong
than rather be replaced

come home to a room
scattered elements and leaning towers
a pile of ******* wrought askew
as the linen bunches waves of the hour

dusty sunlight filtered through curtains
an artist breathing of thoughts gone vivid
papers pencils books and parcels nothing retains
as the artist pours over the jar of living thoughts so livid

time etches timeless, unguided and unforeseen
pastels and paint, words and typewriters
they all glitter in the eyes never to cease
like stars afar in galaxies aflame and brighter  

the world shuffles by, smacking their lips
as the artist pours over the jar of living thoughts
they may even close their eyes and fall in a ditch
no worries, this artist would rather not

the scattered papers smudges of visions
coffee cup stains and food wrappers remain
a reason there's an invisible division
between the ******* who don't

and the ones who do, unconstrained  
*sit tight

note to self

avoid laying down
my eyes begin to tire
head hang heavy
thoughts run empty
before I get
*any work done

the brushes lay flat
scattered across the yawning table
my canvases scattered, paint incomplete
like the thoughts which fall
from my head in repeat,
I pace the studio
the beloved safe haven
the place where I can be my own
the place where I can cry alone
the paints just glimmer
my fingers cringe at their shimmer
I sit in my studio,
staring at the blank scenes
knotting my hands, twisting my fingers
my heart has lost the appetite
of such delicate vigor
the rain glints in the darkening sky
the windows plastered with darkness
I can't see anything for the being
yet I sit and try
something is not right
it must be a new night
--a new flight--
that must be why

For once, try to live a little
They say, their sly slithering faces
Their rejection to an another intuition
Their fists pounding in faces

Try to live a little
I drink coffee at morning break
I drink tea at settling dusk
Yet I sit in glassed encased circle

I see everything in sight
Saturated with meaning and rich despite
Yet never can I touch the things wanted the most
Sitting in the middle of a relapsing circle

The glass doesn’t chip
My fingerprints fog the surface
I pound my fists
Yet leave an ocean of smudges

Blinded to the world
There is nothing I can do
Sometimes I feel like
My mind has diluted to mush

We all learn
Not to be certain way
Yet there are precious moments
In my day
I just want to clasp
With all my strength
And not give a ****
But u learned right
They all jeer
Not to do that
And that moment passes
And I am left clutching the air
So I nod like I always do
And go about my day

I cannot guarantee anything.*  
the warmth of breathing human being
ruffle the cool strands of my hair,
untidy yet shimmering softly
gentle beams of moonlight
Stars glisten in the dark navy sky,
the moon floating like a pearl orb of silver sunlight
To have our feet tired from walking the daily bouts of life,
to feel the comfortable weight of life lifted even for a moment.
To have the stereo humming with low,
swaying beats of brilliant acoustic,
guitar and a ringing voice buttered
with the soothing strum of an ocean’s breeze.
To have our backs nestled on the hood of the car,
the head lights trailing two perfect beams
which stretch far into the dark night,
The headlights catch the swaying stalks of golden hay,
the flutter of moths swinging about in the fray
As the night wanes and the early morning precede,
the car will be turned off, the headlights no more,
so that all that can be heard is our silence
The morning is beautiful,
the silence a comfortable melody,
One whispers a syllable or so,
soon a train of laughter is followed,
it is broken with the voice of loss and defiance,
of confusion and youth,
the air is sweet and lingers with
the hard knock of trees, presumably pine.
The horizon glows with the faintest sheer blue,
the pine trees stand in the distance
Soothing, cool breeze flutters across the field,
Like the way I feel
When my life feels right
In short glimpses as such
Yet,
I cannot guarantee anything.
My memory taunted me