when i let go of the idea of myself
i make room to hold onto others.

when i hold onto others and they let go of me
i find myself reaching out into nothing.

searching, grasping, reaching.

booms of color
flashes of chemical light
thumps of battling thunder
with red and white and blue.

freedom comes at a cost
and we remind ourselves on the 4th
of the seventh month of the Gregorian
what shells of flashing death can do.

if i can't feel the compressing flame in my chest
or hear the shells combust in earshot
i ask that you stay quiet
and keep on with your way of life.

we're taught to love this day
to be proud of our stars and stripes
to support the troops
and honor those that served.

i do love them.
i do support them.
but if we are adults within an adult world
we are only reinforcing the idea of war.

i know that we wouldn't be the nation we are without unjustly ******
i know that we wouldn't be the nation we are without justly ******
i know that we wouldn't be the nation we are if millions had not died
fighting to believe this world is fair and just and can be influenced to into right.

i know we are confused; a home, a state, a nation, a world
i know we have done wrong; oh so much wrong.
but i know that we also do right
i just can't see if time has allowed the scales to balance

great powers must fall, that is the cycle of all life
great deeds do not go unrewarded. material or immaterial.
i don't know where to stand in the sand, or where to draw the line
i do know i love the lights and laughs in the first week of July.

charcoal lines define her face,
personal oils upon finger's tips
guide and blend her shape.
her highlights remain untouched
pure as paper, so smooth yet so rough.
she pulls away what she desires.
braised, there is no escape from her textured weight.
chiaroscuro female formations,
she hides her parts within the light.
solid, flakey, waiting for her fixative
tiny pieces may slip away
as broken memories of dark,
but chiaroscuro she was.

yankee cherry skin hides seeds of cyanide
pillow talk of poison, Hamlets Hebenon
sleeping eternity, persimmon.

persimmon.

A fire in the fall
A sunset in the summer
A sweater during winter

A vine that grew but never flowered
A tree that died but carried on
A seed that took just before the frost

the green of stone inside the earth
the white of bone beneath moist dirt
the blue that dyes the skin of a religion

their taste for seed toasted in the sun
their taste of herb bursting undone
their taste rests just there, on the tip of my tongue

your words were both, butter and the knife
your touch was like heat directly abutting ice
your love was like chaise lounge nirvana, lazy in the afternoon

enlightenment of some deeper kind
desires extending beyond all my given time
knowledge i knew but since long forgot

a fire in the fall
like butter abutting my blade
like ice before the melt

hello lovers
*******
go die

***** hair inside my soup
is like hate spewing from inside your mouth;
unwanted and undesired.

not many chefs will dedicate
a pluck or pry of private hair to design your meal;
painful and precise.

shut the **** up.
your opinions, like mine, are smelly and disintegrating.
stay silent and sensual.

if you have something to say
eat the weight of my ***** fuzz
to **** yourself in words.

right now,
i'm *******.
and i get to share that with you.
my words won't pass on the scent
or texture of **** as it passes out my ***,
but you'll know my bowels are at work
and my being
is alive
and that my words are fresh
like the smell of ****
inside the toilet
that you won't ever smell
or ever get see.
god bless technology.

yasaman johari, i love you my dear.

i do not know you or the life you lead,

but i love you my dear.

i have been stressed like many in this life

death was my friend, beyond an entertaining idea

and you were an angel of godly intention,

you were an intimate poetic connection.

I do not live in a war torn nation;

not one of bombs of high flying creations.

i was stressed, of human emotion.

i was stressed, of inhuman devotion.

you became my kite in a windless city

you became my dream of a world within me.

i cannot express in words

what your words did for me.

i can only share what i write now,

if only because of you.

craigslist posting said
"ill eat your ***"
and i passed over

thirty years old

lonely as ****
society of social media
filled of disinterested persons of interest

not gay but looking

desperation fills each page
***** pics of distant rage
and empty inboxes declare

"**** me, i"m worth it"

woman are no better
more seductive, entirely more pleasant
yet from my perspective

each picture cries a natural hunger

for someone to hold the chains
for someone to pass the blame
for someone to entertain her games

and my ******* falls past Niagara.

because she dies inside
because she seems to have no hope
because we've been secluded to the dark corners

of the ******* internet

cartoon confessional
*******, comical profession
my honesty is not your priority
my honesty is not worldly morality
you won't read this and feel anything.
you won't know me and change your life.
you'll hallucinate belonging,
you'll produce surreal existence of coded transponding

******* for real.

im drunk af and don't give af
continue to spoon yourself the morning grain
and laugh a mouthful of motherly milk
spill abreast your leather cushion
spill abreast your taste for plastic ****.
i could confess my most intimate secrets
and you'd declare fake news abound.
so *******, *******.

i'll spill my guts
sober as a bird
or
drunk as dirt is *****.
ill create cartoons cohesive to my creation
and **** the karma of cautionary tales
and scream ******* till i die.
because regardless of what i say
or how honestly i say it,
you will continue to **** yourself
and enjoy ******* those around you.

this is not a joke.
*******.
language is so much more than words.
don't read me with hopes for inspiration
don't read me for a glance of transpiration.
words are merely symbols of existence and understanding.
read what is written and you will understand
that we've been ****** since the first translation.

i can't translate my emotions into words.
i can try. but you will never know.
i can tell you why
but you will never grow.

love is lost and life is futile
but we'll argue over value
and we'll exit with arguments in our blood.
we are ****** and god is gone
gone with a capital G.
god is just the next best thing since apple sauce
and wonder bread in the morning.

mista marley be in da background wailin while
miss robin between dem treetops declarin
"why dem beasts be destroyin?
mi can't imagine wat dem be thinkin"

me fingas dig da dirt in mi garden
and mi knoa dat dis be mi own
mi plate stay full from dem humble growns
and mi knoa dat dis be mi home

Until the quiet comes, I wait beneath the tide
Before the rising sun, I'll watch your empty stride
The bay will slowly chase, pushing you for higher ground
I'll return from being swallowed and eat your viscous frown

after your colors show, i'll smear them into black
you'll no longer be primary on my brush
i'll use you for the shadows hidden from the sun
ill use you for the highlights under the little of my thumb

when the quiet comes, i'll swim inside the sea
throughout the morning glow, they'll be no dark in me
the wind will dry my skin and the color of salt will stain my face
you'll be gone, and i'll be free, blessed from saving grace

frog skin pickle with my
82% milk fat french croissant
"ribbit ribbit, mon croissant flakey?"
"Oui, et ma peau est en cuir du marais,
Et mes jambes ont le goût de poulet".

"le vert de mon visage cache bien dans l'herbe"
"Oui, Oui, parce que vous êtes un amphibie"
"What are you with such a souple, épluchée dorée?"
"Moi? Je suis le travail de mains amoureuses
I tear apart to feed your taste for metamorphosis."

seconds before the fireflies
separate our field and sky,
between aluminum pillars of
sagging electric distance,
watercolors of the softest kind
settled beneath the line beyond my eyes.
a surrounding buzz of misplaced
effort, trickled a native sound
so gently into my ear.
bats dove deep, deeper,
disguised by nighttime tree line,
invading this field with me.
i paused, absorbed deep
the air of wonder.
so settled beneath the line beyond
were the colors i had forgot.
so filled with electric wonder.
we fell together as color unto the night
bats unto the deepest field,
so lost of all control,
inside the fading tree formed shapes,
where we lost our breath and pause
and forgot our wonder of
where our time had gone.

Footsteps through some Atlantic sea foam
Backstrokes beyond the loudness of your megaphone
Saline eyes, salty borrowed lens
So cloudless above, appearing to me as some other days cosmic swim
Today, now, I'm in my water, of our cosmic body.

"Oh
It's mine;
The water.
It's yours too; if you want it to be."

Searching barefoot in my forest of flaking birch
Soles in touch with my detritus, dying seasons Earth
My ears awaken my reptilian mind
So alive, in tune with Gaia's frequency
Today, now, I'm in my land, of our cosmic body.

"Oh
It's mine;
The forest.
It's yours too; if you want it to be."

Draped in cloth with rubbered feet
Footsteps disappear under the noisy city
Puddles of an unknown origin
Sit for days, evaporate from tall reflective glass
Today, now, I do not see my land within this cosmic body.

"Oh
This is yours;
This concrete jungle.
You can keep it. I'll never want this for my own."

There's a slab of cracked concrete
Outside a doughnut shop on the corner where I stand
Something green has emerged from the break
And I know that she will win.
Eventually, she will truly win.

"Oh
This is not yours; Nothing here is.
I allowed your life, and I provide for all;
But I will take your life when I'm ready.
Regardless how you choose to have it."

bolo.
bolo bolo.
be on the look out be on the look out.
be on; the look out. be on; the look out.
beyond the; look out beyond the look out.
beyonde. look out beyonde; look out.
bolo bolo.
bolo.

olob.
olob olob.
out look the on be out look the on be.
out look the on; be. out look, the on; be.
outlook; the on be. outlook; the on be.
out. look the on; be. out. look the on; be.
olob olob.
olob.

weathered weave, simple overlap
ripped of age, tattered end seams
scattered dead dreams
the crow calls before the downbeat.

you had plenty of needles
to stitch my skin together.
you had so much thread
to keep my world cohesive.

i was work between your nimble fingers
i was work to wear away your thimble.
you draped our sleeping napes
inside a duvet of muslin  and washed flax grainsack.

there were 9 buttons at the bottom
no two were the same,
wood, shell, exotic nuts,
to keep it all together.

your work kept us warm on winter nights
your work kept us plush on lazy afternoons
you no longer join me inside this sheet of softened slumber
you no longer repair those threads retaining these buttons snug

i worked your thimble bare
i dulled your needles beyond repair
i have become a cloth of patches
with shredded seams, tattered dreams

at night i now shiver under a sheet of my own kind
my lazy afternoons are now dull within my mind

Deep in Mangroves of Calusa
Your eyes became arrows of the natives
We made whirlpools with the wind
Chasing sea cows for their breath.

Your thighs felt like my bounty
The curve of your spine was ethereal
In cut off jean shorts, wet from dripping paddles,
Each drop teased in me a feast for carnal cravings.

Your memory wears a dress of palms,
Resting beneath your delicate waist
Your face looks like porcelain beneath
My gifted crown of magnolia and jasmine

I can feel the rain that's filled with sunshine
When you speak, I hear सौन्दर्यलहरी.
Slowly, surely, your words and eyes
Send vibrations like पार्वती*.

I surrendered to your storm
I laid **** and prayed to be spared
I could not contain your tremendous terror
I could only surrender and offer my obsessive praise

There's an island in Calusa that rests beneath our stars
Where your quiver remains full with the bluest of arrows
I still can feel your words as Waves of Beauty
I still can taste your skin of Praline and Coconut

My hunger for your thighs and spine of sweeping curves
Did not die when your tropical storm had passed
Or when your native arrows dissolved within my chest,
I am starving, a castaway, without your love storm near.

there is a cardinal in the twilight
on a branch in between
an evenings blue and me
it's quiet in the eve
it's still beneath his claws
but i can't know his color
or his call
but i know the blue
between his red and me.

i knew the road and the rain
that bleed with ease into the ditch
i knew the wind and the sun
that blistered my unclothed skin

i knew these things well
and they didn't lead to you

i could read a map and compass
and find all points facing north
i could read the sloping landscape
and find a landmark to lead my way

i knew these things well
and they didn't lead to you

i have searched with longing
i have ached from wonder
the roads felt endless
the grass grew tall

i knew these things well
but i'd rather know your embrace

i'm a 30 year old male
that can't watch Forest Gump
without crying at least a dozen times.

i'm a sibling of 5
that only sees or speaks to
my siblings on holidays or family events.

i have no formal secondary degree
with stamp of approval
or specification in a field of study.

i know that cigarettes will **** me
the sun will do the same
but i enjoy those things.

i'm a 30 year old male
with no prospects of a life
or any idea of how to create one.

i only know, i am alive.

i can't stand the behavior of most people
but i love everyone, and try to forgive
because i know not their demons

i hate that i hate.
i hate that i am not as forgiving
with myself with the life that i've lived.

i think of what my life could be
outside of my life that is
and i lift away in dreams

i think of killing myself while addressing
daily responsibilities.  
moving one load of laundry to the dryer
becomes "this belt feels stressful and the buckle is harsh
upon my adams apple"

but cold nickel and leather remind me of such contrast
so cold. so warm.

i'm a 30 year old man, and i realize that age is only
significant to those that have not done so.
but i still cry at odd moments.

i'm a sibling of 5 that feels no love.
at christmas, buys the best most poignant gifts
but still forgets birthdays

i'm educated in what matters
which means it doesn't pay
and i love how poor i am.

i'm a 30 year old man.
broke. single. nearly homeless.
and i have nothing but love.

i only know, that i'm alive.

there once was a boy
that was stung by a bee
and cried until the throbbing ceased

there once was a boy
that stole a resting robins egg
from mothers nest within his fort

there once was a boy
that trekked through the forest
and wandered into woven webs

there once was a boy
that had blueberry fingers
and tastes for wild things

there once was a boy
but a boy but once
and these things remained with him

there is a boy within this man
filled with questions about this life
and they argue everyday

this form is tiresome
i want to be food
maybe bread
grow moldy
feed the birds
become mixed amongst
the seeds and dirt
only to return
as some weeds
between those flowers
against the rivers bend.

she was velvet in a field of velvet
sage blue before the sunrise

she was satin in a sea of skin
sage green when the sun hangs high

there is thunder in the distance
heavy with salt, taste like your lips

it faintly rumbles remembrance  
sorrowful rolling sound

plums of Java crash onto our roof
knocking, then rolling to arrêt

was their taste so sour?
can you remember such bitter things?

did their sound disturb your sleep?
honey, dear, forgive the fruit without wings

do you remember how full our garden was?
how tall our dill did grow?

the palms we wrapped with christmas lights
to share our tropical glow?

is my name no longer spoken?
are there letters you refuse to read?

be sage before the sunrise
become sage blue again

i hear the thunder calling
it brings back tears instead.

i first considered suicide when i was 12
life didn't really get better afterwards
i fell asleep crying years before as a young child
because i couldn't be convinced
that my parents loved me.
literally, i said to their faces, sobbing,
that they didn't love me.
and their response was not sugar for an ant
i didn't believe their words
i spoke with certainty
i cried with surety.
so that emotion is ****** from the beginning.

for a few years, the idea of death didn't exist.
life was too terrible,
confusing,
abusive.
verbally, physically, sexually,
i couldn't entertain the thought.
my life got worse
until it felt better
a mask had formed.
some kind of shell.
hollow, but still of some substance.

before turning twenty, death returned.
i didn't want to **** myself
i just wish i had never existed.
i found that distinction intriguing
although impossible, it relaxed my nervous mind.
then it happened,
i thought i found love.
i felt welcomed.
i felt accepted.
i felt appreciated.
but i never knew love
so what i thought i found
was actually just a person being a person
to another person.

my mind twisted into improbable knots
my heart was attempting to untie them.

life went on.
up and down.
lows got lower, until the valley raised
sunshine glowed brighter, until the clouds came.
i drank, alone.
even at parties
i drank alone.
somehow, loosing control felt right
it felt like chaos
if felt like the theme of my life
it felt like natural order
and i loved it.

i traveled
i drank
i worked
i drank
i studied
i drank.

at some point,
death became appealing again
i was on the other side of the world
riding a motorcycle through a distant countryside
one morning in December i said to myself
"i could die today, and that would be ok"
wouldn't you know it, just a few hours later
two bloodied gashes needing a number of stitches
fractured face in multiple places, a broken wrist.
i didn't die.
i just ended my expanding experience.
i don't remember what happened.
truly
the last thing i remember was seeing a tree
lost in the middle of a lake, a reservoir.
theres some significant symbolism, i think.
the doctors said there weren't signs trauma
no serious or minor concussion
my friends told me it looked like i was seizing
or that i had fainted
i just find it really odd that those would all come together
so conveniently.

time continued, life did too, even though i was uninvolved.
a conscientious objector.
life got better, or at least felt better
then it got worse
and the cycle continued.
i tried to love, i really tried,
my past was shared with a loving woman
and she held it against me
as if it was my fault.
so i drank,
i drank, found pills,
saw the morning rise covered in hot ash.
and knew i should be dead.

it got better for a while after,
until once again

death and i were talking.
he told me he's set a place for me at his table
the food is warm and
his door is always open.
i just have to take off my shoes at the welcome mat.
i made sure to tell him how kind his offer was
but my soles aren't run down just yet
i still have a few more miles left
somehow, i don't think it matters
we're all killing ourselves by living
so why not die trying.

so typically expressed
so brilliantly bluebird blue
eight a.m. shadows drape
disguising delicate dew

veil of lifting light
expose her in due time
my Mexican petunia
my early morning bride

seamstress of the meadow
freeform drifting silk
dress of netting beauty
be gentle with your ****

wrap her with good measure
fix your eightfold eyes
dress her with your endless gift
your spindle, thread of ending life

pendulum of day
thine endless forceful swing
forget not my morning meadow
whence bluebird days do sing

accessibility.
everything is now an open door.
there are no more mountains to climb.
only doors to enter through to the summit.
effort has lost itself to the sale of experience.
character no longer grows.
there is no guiding truth that leads us with honor.
nobility.
humble is just a word. it too has lost its meaning.
consume, consume, consume.
everything has become a story,
available for purchase,
that before would rely on the most revered
characteristics an individual can posses.
they were in search of something.
they were not concerned of the destination.
they aimed to take the test of will.
at all cost.
money, reputation, life.
these mean nothing to the seekers.
they know the mainline to life.
and we, so trivial and banal in our empty definitions
believe we are amongst the greatest class.
have somehow earned through trial
the praise and regards of Gods and their Godly Friends.
we are peasants.
we are nothing, until we choose more.
more than human.
more than comfort.
more than familiar.
more than fearless.
more than me, me, me.
more than this biological soup.
more than purchased experience.

our greatest accomplishments have become
so much less than what they were before.
we killed them with a smile.
we are the filled and chanting seats within the Colosseum.
we are Brutus with the knife, behind the back of Caesar.
"give us blood for our desires".
we have killed all that i find meaningful.
here at HEPO, we too, are murderous peasants.

Do not be sold their means of control.
Revolt.
Seek the challenges which will **** you if you fail.
Pursue the opening in the forest, with no path to guide you fair.
Bruise and bleed for your trials, skin your knees until they are bare.
Starve from hunger, but not the physical kind.
The hunger of that peak which remains just out of reach
where if reached, will feed you with a feast of willful righteousness.
Godly effort.
Fail Unto Death.
Anything less will not suffice.

mild, so mild in the night
to travel with the earth
amongst an early starlit bloom,
muddy fields fill the air
with pubescent June.

goslings waddle, fuzzy scurries.
mother, father,
enlarge and hiss
protecting their long months work,
now free from pipping shells.

so cool is the night while
laying hidden in uncut fields.
chilling winds dance atop feral growth.
sanctuary for outward gazing,
through to unknown worlds.

there is no envy from a distance.
breath feeds wonder, spilling over
into this vessel, so soon to be forgotten.
spoiled from within, the unborn,
rotten. a shell too hard to crack.

there is no nest for that sacred sibling.
forgotten by mother and father.
their failed incubation, rotting.
lost amongst the stars
but within the field of all.

Apollo sings to Pollux and Castor
stroking somber tones from Lyra.
"Greet the voiceless into forever;
attach to them their rightful wings",
"chirp, chirp, chirp"

i see dead fish walking
no i'm not on drugs
but that would make me feel better
about the people i see.

empty faces, beaten bodies
wandering for happiness
hoping to fill the hole
they will one day lay within.

i have nothing but i have everything
and that is all i'll ever need.
go ahead, rot away in nauseous saunters of distress
i choose to swim, until the day i am eaten.

you wish to sell me roses
my pocket tells me queen annes lace

you dream for something delicate
my hands accustomed for rough

you ache with quiet longing
but i hear your untold groans

your desires are not unique
not a rose within the weeds

your plight is universal
unwanted in our garden

be gentle with our hearts
that attempt to ease your woes

flowers and weeds both grow by the roadside
each bloom in spring from sun

you are not unique within this life
roots, stems, pollen, pedals, blossoms.

when the moon hangs high
and glows inside my eyes,
the sun, it also rises.

as clouds pass by
and rain upon my brow,
the sun, it also shines.

when winds blow through
and whisper inside itself,
the sun, it also rises.

when my mind tells lies
and fools me into belief,
the sun, it does not rise.

the sun, it does not shine.
at least not in my mind.

this coast has aged,
la reina esta muerta.
mi estatua ya no es de bronce.

this rain will tarnish
but only what you see.
mi alma brilla como el sol.

My bust will stand before you,
containing both known forms,
Y nunca conocerás la verdad.

Esta costa ha envejecido
time spares no soul.
But i will stand, forever.

it's spring and green around
but inside, writing feels a chore.
a block, within myself, for caring,
thinking, feeling, "THAT" cannot be written.
emotions without ties, no leads to follow.
a flavor all its own.
you won't feel me
when you read my words
you will have some feeling,
but it will not be me.

i'm stuck between to tell or not,
torn in two directions.
raw truth; flavor; repulses the "refined".
delicacy, balance, thoughtful discretion,
are not words i would use to
describe the way i cook.
natural, pure, unprocessed.
a punch inside your mouth,
a thrash inside your belly,
a burn on top your tongue.

skepticism revolves around each dish,
fear of the unknown. strong, fragrant flavor,
draws the noses near. mouthful mystery amuck.
unsure of utensils, unsure of this potted truth.
their is always a passive audience,
too afraid of the tastes i know.
should i write aloud?
should i write just as i cook?
this is where i sit,
afraid of my own dish.

the barrier between sound and silence,
a hum.
when lips refuse to move
but heavens harp must sing.

attentively inattentive.
a simple sway, an arcing breath.
she hums outside of prudence
an angel made of strings.

gracious loving hips.
portrayed by tender flesh.
auditory faculties,
flooded of her love.

filled with more than lust,
tread her blissful sea.
conserve this simple thought,
she sings with hums, filling me.

Perpetuate Perception, Deny my eyes, Lie.
Confuse Experience for the sake of Eden.

Shadows too, they Dance.
Size and shape transform,
Alive at dusk and dawn.

Belief dresses beneath a faithful veil
Organisms, dancing inside oneself.

Unaware of shadows and their truth;
Persistent, lively, barefaced.
Visions of forever, no scope to lead us there.

Unsupported bridge, leading to no path.
Outlines of intuition, retaining the all unseen.

Hammer out our reflection, define new lines to fill.
Perpetuate a new idea, deny mans evil will.
Perceive the Eden inside us all;

Fulfill our Godly ill.

fury, winds raged the treetops
threshing branches, approaching brush.
but from a distance, natural destruction,
looked like beauty in the forest.

and this was just a piece.
this is not the whole.

inhale, exhale,
increasing repetitions
repeat, repeat.
decrease and deepen.

pause in awe of the machine you're given
watch the forest faint, beatific ruin.

feel the fibers tear in effort
feel the area inside you swell
this is just a piece
this is not the whole.

process unto another day
with brighter light and seasoned winds
as repeated swells exhale an ending breath
gawk, inhale, hold, process, yawp; repeat.

understand this thing, know it truly
die through effort, repeat, repeat.

beaks with feathered wings swarmed in silence
Persephone cheers with distance, "defy their gravity"
here; pause; absorb the leaded revolution
weigh inside this mockery of death

"this is just a piece,
this is not the whole."

abandon seated distance, chase with fire
the unknown of the unfolding.
ravenously consume  the untouchable time
feed, inhale, pause, process, exhale, deepen

repeat, repeat;
endlessly repeat.
this is just a piece,
this is not the whole.

there are leaves within the river
and anger floats alongside them
headed for its delta
to settle in the sea.

there are limits to your love
a hallway filled with doors
some locked, some not.
and you refuse to make the keys

there is a ******* word for you
but it is ice on the ***** of a deadly hill
and my words are welcomingly warm
and foreign to spitting bitter things

there is a thorn between my toes
from the excursion i've embarked
but my barefoot needs to keep in contact
to know i'm not within a dream

so i will throb and bleed
and leave behind a path,
so red and wet atop the forrest floor
alongside these leaves within the river

just so that you know,
i can see your fear and insecurity.
when i do,
i lean in and whisper, "disagree".
because
you don't know yourself,
the way that i know me.

windy compared to lull,
i sit outside the passing squall
of changing northern shapes.
but in a beautiful breath
that feels exhaled for me.

threads, they fall and brush
with intimate intention,
against my arm of chicken skin.
they leave a tender tickle
of pure chaotic invention.

i take comfort in their productive touch,
efforts made with ease;
they steal my mind from chaos
as they dance with interlude.
i glance their glorious wonder.

i'm touched inside by these,
because they needn't dance for me.
they leave behind a taste,
i know, can not stay.
so i sit, grasping, sifting,

as they slip away.
calling, dancing, preaching,
"interlude!"...."interlude"

"Bah bah", said I.
"Chirp chirp", said you,
Perched on top my head.
"Chirp chirp", said all the others too.
Again I said, "Bah Bah."
This time, silence returned to me
As you lept away from your perch
and joined the murmur singing;
"chirp chirp, chirp chirp, chirp chirp."
Again, silence returned to me.
Bah.

my hands are stained with signs of turmeric, fading yellow orange
my nose is filled with tickles of aromatic roots, ***** fibrous tubes
but these don't represent anything, except some signs of life.

my skin is inked from colorful dyes, as symbols of my truth
my face is freckled from the summer sun, as symbols of my youth
but these don't represent anything, except some signs of life.

my bones and joints, at varying places, ache
my brain and mind, at varying times, pang
but these don't represent anything but, some signs of life.

my heart has known each side of our endless tragedy
my love has discovered our infinite acts in jest
and these things don't represent anything but, some signs of life.

i'm aware of my insignificance, in my limited existence
i'm aware that that can change, as easily as it cannot
but i don't represent anything, except my experience of life.

i've come close to knowing death, more times than i'd like to count
i've come close to knowing love, more times than i'd like to count
but these don't represent anything, except some signs of life.

i've met grace and kindness in the eyes of the forgotten
i've met hate and insecurities in the faces of those with influence
but i know they don't represent anything more, than some signs of life

i know that nothing is exclusive or ultimately controlled
i know that people are stones being smoothed until they reach  round
and i know this represents nothing more, than some signs of life

i wonder deeply about the state, of our humans being.
i wonder deeply how far we've secluded ourselves from each other
and i know, sadly, this represents nothing more, than some signs of life

but i know we are that so called stone, waiting to be round.
cut from sharp abstract forms, drifting down the riverbed,
washed over loquacious time, smoothed of our shearing sides

but as long as there are signs of life
imbalance will sway our ways, time will be like running water,
endlessly working to smooth our shearing sides.

and this, as i think i know it, are the signs of life.
and this, as i know it, will change. hopelessly smoothed.
and this represents nothing more, just experience. not life.

i'm starting to understand without knowing.
i'm starting to sense the presence of feeling.
i'm starting to see without light.
none of these things make sense,
nor does life.

the salt inside
slowed each drip of
my amniotic atlantic.
every pressing step
attached me to the
timeless shores of sin;
and the sun began to dry
this symbolic avant-garde collage.

my life began sticky wet,
outwards from the sea.
my ceaseless sins glued and dried
from the faulting sands of life.
but the distant patch of grass
beneath my smoothed and sticky feet
massaged more than that,
cleansing,
to walk through life anew.

We are the Colorado
Carving earth, weaving endless beauty,
Spilling Love into Coretz

walking between, along sights of seasonally scenic timber,
bare but budding tree tops shimmer and
divide my eyes from falling blind to springs sights,
filled full of advancing dawning light.
orbs glow of reds and blues, around and inside, the
internal and external rims
of successively smaller and larger orbs of golden rings;
appearing before my spectral vision
of delightful astral projections.
water slowly passes beneath my feet, connecting
sides dissected by light and
i know that you will see me
but just without your eyes.

birds flutter and clean their crested chests
of crawling, clinging life. feathers ruffle as
the breeze of dewey blue flanks my rose flesh
faced and white knuckled winter hands;
like a cluster of early, much too early, plucked but
ripening chardonnay grapes.
the smell of thaw emanates through drying bones
and decaying leaves and sprouting blades of grass.
the green breaks through the thawing brown
where ice and frost becomes the running force of life
and there, just there,
i know that you will see me,
but without your eyes.

it's not that i think of you.
it's not that you think of me
it's that i can feel the impressions i've made;
because i can feel your impression too.

unobstructed filter, distilling,
but to capture only the angels share;
on days when body and mind
peak at truth beyond this fleshy physicality.
leader of forgotten souls, mutter more clearly
those timeless chants of base translations.
circumnavigate the wanderer towards your young forgotten fields of sandy soils and fragrances of neglected worlds.
at times there is wonder, whether this brittle form of
organic life will dry from life's haboob.
at times there is wonder, whether
this insatiable sponge will find its endless rain.
for now it seems that puddles must suffice.
in desperate times, the mist of morning dew.
maybe, it is possible, it is much sweeter this way.
although cruel, it fuels hope for more of what it seeks.

what will you bring away with you
when these ribs remain eclipsed by
the cresting oblong bed of
the wildest purple snapdragon?
will you take the smell of hay that
remains above the sound of hungry gasoline teeth
and dripping dismembered sap?
will you bring away this empty field
so full of passing pollen?
will you bring away these chasing thought
so lost in maddening wonder?

bring me away with you, please,
as you lift above in feathered flutters
with eyes of earnest authority.
bring me away, with you, please.