I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
You are too Paris to me, too Parisian. Far too French.
Much different from Français je sais.  
Your voice, when speaking what i know,
Remains elegantly mischievous; playfully mysterious.
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
The bags under your eyes, i know.
They're blue with longing wonder.
They are so French. I know because i've kissed
Their cheeks in greeting, both left and right.
I see them in my mirror and say "bonjour, comment ça va?"
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
I know your face too well.
It reminds me of the photos i've thrown away
Je ne sai quoi.
I cannot look at you,
Mme Marion Cotillard.

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.

it was warm and the wind was with me
but the rain on my bell dampened the ring
and you couldn't hear the smile on my face.

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.

scorning sun bursts into the aisles of graying curly waves,
punching yellow teeth and candied sweets with the
green of loving laughter that i've not heard in years.

you taught our fingers to bleed of bramble dew.
so sticky in our attempts to keep Genevieve's crystal filled but,
clear of improper pounds. collected ounces that rudely
overflow, are picked with mudded, forested feet.

consumed so clean and sweet, from thorns
between the brush, the aisles buzzed of summers paths
that only lead us where we knew.

through the scales and passed the cords
where drying life would heat our warmth,
nights would drop with echoing sounds like trains
slowly passing through our country's vacant crossing.

you voluminous sap of unaccounted ooze.
you sweet maple so never barren or dull.
you flame of northern light.

take me back to the path we passed
where cords are dried to burn
where frogs croak in Côté's creek
where my memories live and yearn

Our lampshades at midnight shine like amber moonlight,
like late august and amethyst; brief pulses of electric-cotton bliss.

They brand our bodies like ***** poppies
in the newest blue before the sunrise.

Dear, lay still as we shelter inside this warmth
Stay silent through the night, lest you need to speak.

If so, then whisper with your palms cupped 'round my skull
So i may feel your syllable kisses dance past the hair of my ear

To feel and know that this not be a dream

gimme your gap tooth and breath that i admire
darling please, allow my reverie to reconstruct
a world in which i needn't ask or plan for your presence,
but one where your body is certain
and words misrepresent the truths we hold dear.

simply stated, exist around me
so that we may stay one, together.

place your fingers tips above my brow
in the early morning light
and comb my furrows clean with that identity all your own
soothe my worried soul in ways no abused substance has
and show me the calm that rests deep within this chaos.

simply stated, press your skin against mine
with the weight you choose to carry.

lovely, remember what I whispered
before I kissed your forehead.
that my love for you will change,
but never did I say quite how.

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.

if i lived in a world where dinosaurs roamed
as beasts of enormous size,
i would be a fern.
and if you lived within this world
and drank from the purest springs,
we would never meet.

if i were a cake of velvet frosting
with many layers to make my shape,
filled with jelly of dark fruit
preserved beyond their days,
you would cringe at my appearance
and never know my taste.

if i remained myself,
and you remained as you,
we would be these things,
and know not what to do.

cauliflower balloons inflate from chemically altered exhaust.
upon deflation, they release clarification; they retain alterations.
cooked from breathing deep, bruised of industrial abuse,
cauliflower balloons are served to us with scents of rancid meat.

we are not unfamiliar to the machines of degradation.
appreciation is passed at the table alongside salt and gravy.
we are our makers and creators, not in need of names or forms.
we are not unfamiliar to ourselves but our ignorance blinds our lungs.

inflators of the inflated fill our plates to serve themselves,
forgetting somehow, who it is that will somehow serve their will.
deflators remain the servants, eventually becoming the served
remember to hold your breath because it is all you have.

i remember meeting you in the back of house, where your words were loose and wild. i was brining some guests plates in that needed to be cleaned after their meal. i got to talking with some coworker about some
******* coworkers talk about, probably complaining about some old lady who wanted truffle fries and only got regular fries. you had to chime in when there was a cadence with some ******* comment to display your manliness and status amongst your kitchen staff. that game always seemed counterproductive to me. you pinned me for someone i wasn't. i did the same to you. somehow along the way, between all your lewd remarks, we became friends. i believe it  began over our affinity for the Buffalo Bills. You said you liked them because they were the underdogs and you hated the Miami Dolphins. I told you they were my hometown team and you said "no ****. get the **** outa here. You're from Buffalo?" the way you said it lead me to assume you were from New York. You told me you were from upstate and missed it. I told you how much time my family spent up there in the summers, doing outdoorsy things. burning fires, drinking beer underage, walking barefoot through the forrest. we bonded. we learned a lot more about each other. you were divorced and knew that you could never love another woman as much as you loved your ex. she gave you two beautiful kids. she also took 3/4 of you paycheck and left you for broke. the rest you drank away with me when our shifts were over. you told me about your drug habits, and i told you about mine. i told you about my childhood and you said you were sorry. i helped you drive your kids to school when your ex wife was too busy. we got drunk and shot so much ****. there was a chip on your shoulder. there was a chip on mine too. i got to see you cry when i accused you of using again. i think you knew what i said was true. i came down on you hard because i had just lost two jobs, a girlfriend i thought would have my children, and someone that lived in your apartment complex crashed into my brand new car while i was waiting on you. we were on the way to get your kids from school. you knew i meant well but i could see the guilt in your eyes. i helped you with your kids a handful of times after that. we would get breakfast after and talk about work and women. after work we'd get ****** and eat at some small Mexican stand in 90 degree weather. i fell asleep at the wheel and totaled my car some time later. shortly after i left for tour and then you died. some secrets you take to the grave. thank you.

yeah, i'm drinking you in.
the moonlit sky of nighttime gradation,
atmospheric blue to reflected white,
I can't help but remember our time
and that drive we took through the countryside.
memories replay inside my head
like a lonely cinema, screening avant-garde films,
but still the bills get paid, even when things are quiet.

I said I love you but my knowledge was elementary
i do love you still but only because no one loves me like you

yeah, we lived in sin.
lazy Sunday mornings were for laying skin-to-skin
with no intention of changing that fact
no desire to part carnal bliss
our rest was wicked and yet so vivid
our sweat was sweet and so humid
our days were bright and bountiful
but our appetites were different

there's a light that shone within the forest
and somehow between that light and the moon above

i entered a cinema, and i'm the only one.

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.

Where does it go?
When we forget this rule we call a comma.
Does it appear in your mind as you're reading my words?
Does it appear in mine when hearing read aloud?
Where does it go?
They tell us in school it's intended to create pause.
That it resides in the knots of two ideas
It gives a boost to introduce new ideas
It allows the addition of unnecessary ideas.
And separates excessive adjectives.
But if my words are clear and the ideas are clearer
Why do we need this pretentious afterthought?
To prove that I am educated?
That I understand grammar and syntax?
That rules of punctuation rule?
That English is championed?
That two ideas are related?
I refuse that. I refute you.
If you are intelligent enough to know this thing called a comma
It's fair to assume you understand context
Its fair to assume you are well read

Do not send me to that place you have created for comrades in forgotten commas.
Do not stick your nose up in my direction when words ring clear but grammar and punctuation lack.
Or critique writing with your "useful knowledge"
I will use it when it's power is needed.

****, Off

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.

there were borders between you two,
arbitrarily defined, a line divides the marbled gods
of differentially existing praise. praises sung in Goidelic
and the Queens impeccably imposed prose.

beyond the rambling border,
our division from all else contracts.
secluded by the raging atlantic seas and
ancient cliffs of inhabited crumbling shale.

our tongues and words would lash each others backs,
compounding our need to gather for a day of rest.
when we decide to depart this divided space,
our wounded flesh transforms into a welcome mat.

away from woolen wear and greening rolling hills, we gather
together where borders and belongings melt on mornings toast.
divided tongues and limerick prose now rest from lashing licks  
because now we share bleeding blood and a boundless beating love.

in the puddle beneath the pear tree
I watched the galaxy weave its web
and my fingers could tug it's strings,
like a pianist at the keys,
tugging at infinite light and sound
pulling me closer to this eternal truth.
guiding me through the endless paths
and showing me the difference

between those
and rabbit holes,
folding into folds,
unfolding into new,

you whispered in the night, "i'm here".
but I couldn't find you in the sunrise
or in the field I cleared for you.

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"

it snowed overnight.
there were no indentations
or footsteps in sight.
i ran barefoot forever
through the yards and streets
so everyone would know
i lived.

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.

i was sitting on a swinging bench
listening to squawks and squeaks
and i saw a little spider
no bigger than the freckle on
the knuckle of my thumb.
i asked it, "what is your purpose? what is it that you do?"
the response i heard in short
echoed above the noise surrounding me
he said it was "to live"

over temporal oceans,
an early breathe arrives
as graceful beads of clarity,
carrying unconcerned appeal
for your price of star anise.
it has unwavering force
but does not impose a will.
it is aware of your awareness.
that, it knows;
and does not look away.
the reddest clay beneath our feet dusts in swirling heat
although at a deeper depth,
is moist and soft in slumber.

we dig to touch the difference
from where we walk
and where we will lie.
we dig to touch what remains pure;
where our touch remains at distance.
reserved for decaying dead.
when sensations of the body
forfeit to sensations of the soul.

cloudless, although not empty;
the sky stays blue until
the day does turn to end.
before it does,
we'll shout in ancient words
the values of my hunger.
our trade for meals of foreign taste
will subside to some nourished promise.
i will feel its arrival and
refused imposition of enacting will.
its breathe will clear
our dusted feet,
dry with bloodied clay.

we dig to place ourselves away at depths
where i will remain inside,
at distance, soft in slumber,
in an empty box from India.

she wants me for her wants
but needs me for nothing.

a women empowered
will only need her own.

so want her for those wants
and need her for nothing.

or you will find yourself
needing more than she can give.

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.

when your words intend to impart advice
or new direction towards a better day
tell me through your story

not some short collection of words
that ring pretty in my ears
or look as if they carry weight

when your words are short and sweet
and their poignancy implies reverence
i will struggle to understand

because i know that sugar can cause rot
and i know, time spent alone in the dark
is how we learn what shadows hide

please tell me more than one line
of some truth you came across
i will listen, if you sell me more than candy

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

i thought of ants and how they colonize
and remembered the importance of my breath.
offset the thinning path
were pink and purple blossoms.
blue jays appeared to
keep the cardinals mindful
while the thaw of spring dispelled
the white curse of winter.
i watched their dance on broken twigs
and their consciousness budding forefront,
i thought about the importance to their dance
and forgot about my breath.

masses of aluminum color
regarded my need for space.
offset the flattened tar,
my chains churned in earnest
while synthetics fought the earth and
purple blossoms danced in their own way.
i am guilty of fighting in that war,
guerrilla tribes of rubbered feet,
propelled by accepting neglect.
these bodies are filled with meters
to measure varying complications,
none of which are relevant in our time.
but still i continued to fight and dance
and remember my need for breath
while the jays and cardinals
danced amongst the pink and purple blossoms

budding full of consciousness,
disregarding our foolish guerrilla fight.

Mystery of the vanishing hills along the old silk routes.
near unused spirit houses i saw a church.
at my feet i noticed the minor compartments lie in
where the Spanish rancheros once lived and worked.

Golden fleece of dixie,
beyond wind shaped cypress trees of giants and dwarfs
aquamarine water gently washes, trapped by falling tide,
a herd of whales meets death ashore

bishops had thrown out all the devils,
man with ginger colored hair and chocolate skin,
decorated with intricate tattoos
from high in the air on the island
i crossed a channel to another part

oh yes, the spirit houses remain
but hiking trails lead to streams
valley in a winter mood; photograph
the wrinkled and gently contoured mountains

for four days we wandered
monks hope the disillusioned, skeleton of the ox.
somebody knew, i was coming.

symmetry is slothful beauty.
lazy in its leveled mirrors.
repetition is aesthetic fallacy.
untruthful in its attempted replication.
show me your truths and flawless imperfections.
over and over, again and again.
over and again, remind me of the fool i am.

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.

there's some change scattered on my dresser
i don't remember when i put it there.
their ***** faces just look up or down.
their voices muffled or aloud.
maybe they talk about me and how linted my pockets were
or how odd my room is decorated.
i wonder if the presidents talk about
the deeds they've done.
if they scoff at the world
and what it has become.
i think i can hear them asking if it's oak,
"yep, its oak fellas".
they're asking where Kennedy went
and if anyones seen Sacagawea,
or Eisenhower,
or Ms. Anthony recently.
"not since that toll booth on the parkway" says Washington.
they shouted in outrage to each other,
that Americans are tolled to use the roads they pay for.
i was tired of hearing their agreeable talk
so i put them back into my pocket,
where the lint of my ***** jeans
would quiet their truthful words.

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.

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.

be little with me
as the sun rises and sets
and seasons become
our way of keeping time

be little with me
as if our nights will never end
and dreams are seen
as interruptions to this existence

be little with me,
while the world turns
another day old,
seemingly unfamiliar to itself

be little with me,
like an ant marching toward the edge of a finger,
feeling its way to knowing
a world yet so unknown.

be little with me
while some earthly feature holds our lying bodies
and the sky above busts with colorful clouds
and the breeze sweeps clean our toes

lovely, be little with me
today, tomorrow, and the next thing
before time reminds us
we are little no more

you didn't want to swim, said the water was too cold.
so you dipped your toes in from the jetty.
you've spent too much time in the south
grew thin skin like those reptiles and warmed yourself in the sun.

I dove in knowing what this might mean
so I took off for the depths of emerald green
where I could barely make out your image
or see my feet treading beneath

symbolic in more ways than one
I didn't stay long for consideration of your chilling blood
you asked if I felt refreshed
even though you knew I was.

innuendos abound
we spoke strictly in subtext
until I asked for clarity
and that's when I found myself drowned

When one meets another one,
They talk about their two's.
If each one likes their two's,
Then one and one make three.

This Third, a living thing,
Cannot be touched like one and one.
the manifestation began when ones meet,
Falling in love with each others two's, as one.

This is how love works
When dealing with arithmetic.
It doesn't make sense, neither does love,
When one and one equals three.

to catch a drop of water
to change its chosen path
deflects where it was needed
altering how it lasts.

it will one day return
into the cycle it belongs
bringing with all the stories
that it has forgone.

it adjourns amongst its peers
sharing its life over the years
revealing the beauty and horror
of all our hopes and fears.

its seen the effort to maintain
just how things are
and also seen this effort
not getting very far.

its seen the disrespect
and lack of understanding
unwillingness to change
has killed us where we're standing.

it cannont change our choice
to do this to ourselves
it weeps of hope and fall tears
in attempts to break our spell.

it knows and sees its influence
and importance beyond our years
it lives within a system
it cannot change its gears.

to catch a drop of water
to hold it precious and true
will hopefully secure a place
meant for me and you.

Have you forgotten that the scent of rosemary helps you to remember the things you forgot to remember?