is he homeless or on a mental health hunger strike?
is she homeless or addicted to feeling more than her existence?
is he homeless or a veteran that fought an unrequired war?
is she homeless or a forgotten child from a long line of abusers?
is he homeless or an item thrown away from within a pyramid scheme?
is she homeless or someone kicked out of her home because she
can't decide whose mouth she's going to feed?
is he homeless or looking for God amongst us?
is she homeless or trying to keep herself together?

we only know they're homeless
and that's good enough for most of us.

i could try to write and speak French like Wallace Stevens did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and live in Camden like Walt Whitman did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and beat my wife like Charles Bukowski did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and drink like Ernest Hemingway did, but it might not sound like me
i could write like anyone but i have to write for me
i can only write the things i feel
or experienced first hand
and if my written words sound like someone else you know
it might be because they felt it too
and wrote it down
because they had to
because i have to

Unquestionable, firmly examined facts hold on solid ground,
Confirmed from living fiction and knowing minds.
But this is the sea, doubtful trade-winds, frightful storms, doldrums rich Of inactivity, the water looks fine until you dive. Until you sink.

Tropical rotations, influential easterlies void of West African dust,
Stir the depths into unnavigable waters. the boldest stitches will rip, Possessive nests will fill of cawing crow's imagining uniformed horizons. Clouds will hallucinate above an unstable phthalo blue.

Depressions created by uneven poles, so coldly separate but,
These days are in the tropics. endlessly middle green, equatorial and lush In figuration, continuing as the great divide between such chilly distances.
It remains the equalizer, massively active without the thought of day.

Unquestionable. Doubtful of Naught on land. these depressions are not For our concern, they say. They are earth, compounded by the will of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Bow; pray. Weep from fear. sacrifice your Souls for his favor, his pity will spare his wrath; his pity will spare life.

Unquestionable, they say. They speak in certainties. Not knowing the
Days when our nature remained unquestioning. A time before my vision Heightened towards perfection. Before his plans unfolded into Nothingness; scribbling pious fool. Denied of will, accepting the ill of it.

Placed at sea, our sails may rip and crows may gather together.
Their cries of fortune remain the most familiar. On land too, their call is a Familiar caw. not fateful of Godly affairs, or willful of the willing.
He was not there when the storm approached; Nor present as it passed.

He did not show pity when enlightened of our truths. Apathetic
Towards He, that holds the anchor when standing in rising tides.  
Apathetic towards He, beaten man of unjustly men, frustrated with Ignorance and misleading truth. Practicing rage, passing on hate.

Clouds of deathly intentions flashed bright of color and sound, revolving Above the stirring deep where circumstance crescendoed into a coda of Rattling crows. Where sails ripped free from stitching in the passing squall And hope had lost itself amongst the wailing souls and rising seas.

Unquestionable,there were times when faith drifted alongside in the guise
Of cooing Sirens, supple in song and form. Alluding to lust and love, Tempestuously adrift. Giving aim away from direction, only leading Further into Bedlam. Where the mirage of paradise appears.

Tilted storms spitting rain, winds pushed our hull closer to the deep. We Were left to truths of weathering might. Water spilled from above and Rose from below in equal volumes, displaced from equal but opposing forces. Differentiated by the sting, not by circumstance.

In it all, we lost everything. the caws of gulls, the coos of Sirens, the Hopeful sails to catch a promising wind. All we had were the cresting Waves of a torrential sea. All we had were the forceful rains and winds From clouds intent on freeing us from our undeserving existence.

No longer just adrift, our vessel groaned groans only equal to the sound Saved for aging beasts of dying mythology. The sounds of a beast Cornered in an arena filled with hungry spectators, out to feed their taste Of whining blood. Eager to watch "weakness" be ruled by humanity.

We held onto ourselves like the aging beast anchored to the groaning hull. We drank the water without intention like we were lost amidst the sahara Sun. We watched as blue joined together from above and below, Attempting to squeeze out life just like sweet forbidden fruit.

There was nothing we could do. this was no different than on land. We
Knew this place, in-between. Where our blood was used as juice to quench The thirst of humanity. Whether earth or civilization, we remain pressed Between, afloat in the seas of misfortunate circumstance.

Where we hold onto all we can with apathy to circumstance because
That is all we have come to know. That is all we have been allowed by god, Mother earth, humanity. We look upon all things with a smile and good Will. We know no other way, but listen for the cawing crows.

It remains unquestionable, that this is the sea.
On land too, it is unquestionable still, that this is also the sea.

i hear your screams
and unsung songs
above the flying tide
and in the foam
frothing free
you'll feel my earthly touch

dont push away
from the shore
with hands of grassy sand
reach out to me
with shades of blue
and striping dissonance

and when they mix
to form anew
place alone in time
you'll wonder where
the colors went and
how we learned to fly

toes touch preening green
brushing bushing basil
smelled of sweetest scents
summer in the morning

sunshine in a teardrop
cicadas in the moon-glow
nicotine nights, tobacco tearing teeth
insects breeding ringing sound

picasso floats within the tall oaks
boring beetles breaching dead birch
death-strokes sounding like your voice
mirrors filled with portraits i do not know.

With gaps between each other, so slim that only essentials
Pass through unquestioned, dunes develop before the shoreline.
Scenic transformations containing apparitions of Gaia. An
Unaccompanied portrait. Ultraviolet, not claret or tangerine,
Actively grays the skeleton beneath salinized feet. All sizes and shapes
Continue on, north or south. Sometimes pausing in place to
View courting gulls, klee-ew klee-ew, initiating aeronautic affairs.
Ballets of gusting lust; then continue on, north, or south.

Our feet pay no mind to the calcified construction; we know
Without knowledge how delicate it remains. Seasons whisper
Motherly instincts, natural as Picasso's Spanish brush, tangibly
Colorful. Cerulean and further from known sensual perception, the Distant shoreline witnesses tides climb and fall with the moon. Carrying Foreign bodies, forgotten treasures, and newer apparitions, She stood
Naked between pillars of limestone and ash. Unwavering in her gaze,
Seductive with her emerging gait. Certain on death; certain on life.

Birthed Atlantic body, unabashedly **** and rightfully so. She held life, She held death, above the frothing coast, beneath the graying skeleton of Unquestioning gaps. Her eyes remained agreeably blue, contrasted by the Objective red, dripping from her left and right. Remaining motionless, her Outstretched hands offered the reddest rose with thorns and cleanest Blade of stainless steel, sharpened with her kiss. She had no words or
Need to use them. I reached for her ****** rose and sniffed its tempting
Scent, leaving our fates in her hand. Certain with life; certain with death.

Our fortunes sealed, her life or mine, gulls klee-ewed with defining Knowledge. They know her Atlantic, the tide, the current, the cresting Waves. She does not answer for her actions or apologize for what she is. She remains unpredictable and weaponized. I have scars as proof.
Beneath the greyest skeleton, aside the ****** shore, lies knowledge of
Delicate ends. Where lusting gusts blow apparitions and courting calls.
North or South, we continue on above the dunes. Splintering planks
Kiss our salinized souls, reminding us of our mother's whisper,

"these bones do not crack with ease".

pity feels pitiful.

compassion is not action
but reaction to feelings of misunderstanding
the cause of pain and
the depths traveled to survive

in a world of sympathetic kindness
and apathy to healing
wars are fought
but only with white teeth.

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

persimmon.

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

its still too cold around but,
the warmth of buttered toast
resting between my thenar space
and taste of raspberry jam,
allow me to forget this.
this wasn't always so.
butter repulsed my heart and
raspberries were meant for bleeding over.
toast would only burn and the trinity would never meet.
until the day i needed warmth i could hold,
until the day i needed warmth i could feel,
and have within my opposable apish grasp.

i want to hold that golden evening glow
that sits on shedding cornsilk
of budding cornstalks in a far off field
while we lay watching the sky
endlessly open our universe
and laugh until we die...

….I don't want that to happen soon,
I just want to do die with you forever.

I need a restart from the womb.
Fresh years to remember less awkward things.
I won't find my awareness when this happens
So I'm stuck here in this existence and need to find acceptance.
My past is on the other side and
I can be born each day, as long as I wake.

To tell you the truth i'm drowning,
Even though I was born in the sea.

I don't hear music like when I used to listen
It doesn't dance like wind on-top your skin
but when its toes begin to preen my mind becomes a hive
that speaks through communal action
where words find no ground to stand on
but float above the nest, patiently waiting to reside.

I ain't heavy but I carry weight
don't try to save me, i've learned to be alright in the  wake.

I can't ask sacrifice from the living;
Their duty to praise the passed.
Ask the dead to answer impossible prayers,
So why should the living aide the living?
Suffering is solely meant for those that suffer
Not thy loving neighbor, nor thy clan.

Watch me side step from the place you've set me
Now; try to meet me in my eyes, please.

Don't help me feel misused
Don't wash your fingers clean
As if I were unwanted and wasted glue
You said "I hope you know I'm stuck with you"
I promise I won't complain
I'll tell you how it is, but I swear to do it sweetly

Now watch me walk ahead
Praying to God you're not far behind.

he harped poetic
and
the birds chirped confused
as
the sun thawed a mossy field
for
our toes and heels to sink into.

the
wind of some other horizon swept
past
to clean my bones of flesh
so
i could know no more;
forever.

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."

i was talking with this man who told me,
"when i have a drink, i meet a man that wants another drink".
soon my room was filled with
thirsty men that looked like me,
because i pride myself on being
a good host.

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.

powerlines and dandelions point me toward
where the morning sun may rise.
the sky still glows a dawning blue
that reminds me of things i'd like to soon forget.

cosmic pinholes and the creators thumb nail
hang high but will soon be lost by breaking light.
clouds begin to take their shape but only
while they also radiate an entirely new shade and hue.

my bare-feet are smothered in September's dew
and my skin in contact with the earth begins to swell.
each step I take wets the tops of my toes and collects clippings
and critters that join me for my morning stroll.

i can't wait to see the sunrise.
like the first time i watched it rise over the ocean,
or that time i saw it peak over the distant mountains ridgeline.
that moment of knowing epiphanies do not exist.

you're loosing me at daybreak
and I'm learning to let go when all I want to do is squeeze
but I am as uncertain here as I am there
so I will let it be

as best i can, even when i don't know how.

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."

i know why i'm a drunk
i know why i drink
that first drink always equalizes
sets the world right
the next two, five, or eight
is the chase

towards feeling good.
towards feeling happy.
towards feeling high.

which is why i hate love;
it's like drinking every day; all day.
hoping to never feel the hangover.

it takes work
it's hard
it's evolution in real time.

but i know if i drink
i can just drink
and be fine.

love is not guaranteed.
especially not if you drink.

The field was cleared while sitting in remorseless fury,
Slaughter filled the air with fuzzy roars. Peaches rested in
Valleyed rows beneath the needless crumbled brush.
Kittens roamed tall grass like stalking Saharan Kings.
keening mice soon would Scurry as
Signs appeared proposing modern man.
Proposal's for expensive freedom, retired and
Slowly dying. No roars, No more.


Lies were baked through lustrum while lions no longer roared.
Seeds of stone fruit slipped from food
Towards hardened stone. Money grew again,
Providing ceaseless shade from an amaranthine sun.
The acred field cleared for lies concerned of man's
Modern ties. Squeezed velvet stone fruit,
Thriving free in field and sun, will remain the sweeter nectar;
More than your retired death where lions no longer roam.

the knowledge we know we refuse to acknowledge.
we all know these things and run the other way.

my bed rests in my sisters old room
and some pictures of her friends remain.
my duvet is stitched from hands and machine
of the woman i forgot to love.

i can't even begin to describe the truth.

the sheets underneath were bought by
the girl that ****** me best
but the lady i love is no where to be found.
complex on complex on complex.

i can't even begin to pretend i'ts not true.

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.

farewell to distance and foreign tongues
fuel spent and money burned
i have missed you dearly
but you are westward bound
i anticipate your arrival
and watch for you
as though you were my hurricane

i found myself in the kitchen
needing a *** for boiling.
my wallet flat and credit maxed.
it didn't need to be new or shiny
because i am not new or shiny.
it didn't need to be expensive
or promise "perfect rice",
because i'm not expensive
and do not promise perfect rice.

i found it in a store where used things
end up for sale again.
where they sit in anticipation
to live another life,
to pass along stories they've come to know.
it was brown and tarnished
with some dents and a flimsy handle.
it looked perfect
and promised to boil rice.
not perfectly, but it would feed my belly
and tell me stories while i ate.

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

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.

She, Rachel, was mentioned in passing,
In a letter addressed to his brother, Theo.
She was just a girl that he had maybe loved.
Maybe more than loved. he didn't really know her,
But we would later learn how far he would go.
What's more than loved? felt possessive towards?
Felt protective of? idolized? worshipped?
These all sound unbalanced.
Some people enjoy that passion.
The yellow house crumbled underneath of it.
That unbalance must be balanced.
Somehow, someway.
It can balance the world.
It can scare you to death.
It can push people away.
In time, it did all of these things.

He lived where tulips grow as rows of rainbows
And beards in winter kept his face warm and orange.
Where the water rests high above his head.
Where windmills turn to mill the fields of wheat.
Influenced by spirituality found in potatoes
Being consumed under dim light.
Influenced by the subtly curved right angles of elderly woman
Hunched over, farming the famished fields.
Repeatedly painting vases of turning souls, tournesol.
Influenced by color as we don't tend to notice,
Influenced by starlight behind a cypress night,
Influenced by the ideals of an eastern world and
Almond blossoms against a blue sky.
He was mad. a genius.
A man outside his time.
He gave her his ear; the whole thing,
Except for a partial earlobe.
He put it in a box for her
And delivered it personally.
Hoping she would listen.

At least thats what i like to think.
'Cause why the **** else would you cut
Your **** ear off and give it to someone
You only know from a distance?
Maybe it was just to hear he voice.

past summers sunset, before the witching hour
wheels beneath my feet spun forward
through this seasons ending blue
flashing lights of LED projected to and fro
dancing hues of white sent to indicate
another traveler along this path
from afar thats all you were
a light shaking to a fro, dancing in the blur

slowly we came within that distance on communal paths
that only frequent users come to know, that distance
where some form of greeting, some sign of acknowledgement,
i believe, is required for those in such a sharing peaceful place.

my gears were turning and my mouth opened to say "good evening to you"
just around that same time, the two of you said "hello" and "how are you"

suddenly, with the sound of the loving voices,
i was tremendously thrown into the memories of easier times
when i looked to you for love and affection
when i hoped to hear you with regularity
back when i was confused and disturbed with no compass to guide my sails and no wind but for what was in my lungs

i knew those voices once
i knew their faces too
they were gods to me
and now, just two voices i heard
while passing on a blue summers eve

the cast of morning light
pours like molten earth
forming polished sunshine bronze
inside the mold i am

firm and formed
resolute in solid stature
i cannot reach out to touch you
i cannot feel your skin

some parts of me are patina
weathered material in color
but some parts still shine
and those are the parts you touch

the sound was perfect until the pothole
and then you bolted shut your door
afraid of admiration, acknowledgement of beauty,
aside the anthill where the rubber stains
from strong aggressive ignorance
but when the details are finely captured
some kind of answer will appear.

when someone says, "happiness is a choice",
i become sick.
when someone says, "happiness is a choice",
i hear a lie.
when someone says, "happiness is a choice",
i hear indifference and apathy.
when someone says to me, "happiness is a choice",
i hear someone robbing me of emotion.
i hear someone spreading ignorance.
when i hear someone say, "happiness is a choice"
i see a wagging finger in my face,
scolding me for not choosing to see
the sacred choice through their eyes.
for not believing where they say happiness resides.
when i hear someone say, "happiness is a choice",
i hear some hollow hashtag, quoted by some tv celebrity or
some quote you'd read that is
attached to some nifty quasi transcendental graphic,
appropriated from an eastern philosophy
made for western eyes.
i feel no substance when someone says to me,
"happiness is a choice".
my mind becomes filled with judgement
of you and your life
when you say to me,
"happiness is a choice".

when someone says to me that "happiness is a choice",
i feel the need to write something like this.

happiness can be felt
but you will not feel it forever.
sadness can be felt,
but you will not feel it forever.
if you feel no regret in life,
i will call you pathetic
if you only choose to be happy,
i will call you mad.

but and however

if you choose to love,
you will be all things.
if you choose to love,
you will feel the world and all it has to offer.
sometimes you will be happy  because  love brought you there
sometimes you will be sad  but  love brought you there
sometimes you will be excited and  love brought you there
sometimes you will be angry but  love brought you there
whatever emotion you feel, consequently,
will be a product of and from love
every choice you make
will be from love

so

when you say to me, "happiness is a choice",
do not say those words in passing
or use them as a phrase
make sure to say them with your love
and be happy that you can

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.

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.

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.

do you need to relate with me and my words to feel something?
do you desire to feel something new?
something different?
or something of your choosing?
will you let yourself feel what is, "negative"?
will you cut the anchor free before you hypothetically sink?
poetry is meant to express
what many unfortunately keep unsaid,
not because they have to keep it, but because,
more unfortunately, it falls on deaf ears.
yet when our words are real
unwillingly, painfully, happily, exuberantly real
we choose to indulge only when
it pertains to us. when we pertain to it.
when our worlds overlap,
what i call the point of purple.
we pride ourselves on empathy
we pride ourselves on emotions of the deep
but skim the surface to create
just another platform for us to feel "good".
sit with me
sit with how real this is
sit with your unwillingness to read any further
evan past where you wanted to be
sit with your painful desire of scrolling past
sit with your motionless hands, with motionless fingers
sit with yourself in silence
sit with me in silence
and tell me how you feel
tell me you feel real
tell me, we're real.

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.

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

the flag proudly walks in the wind
with the unjustifiable justice
that it seems to portray
freedom no longer lives
within this symbol for me.

stars and stripes
became criminal power
and death for all
as the flag walks proudly in the wind;
but it does not walk for me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

There was this thing with parsley and lemon that i never knew,
Before jasmine bloomed below my moonless nights.

It came as a surprise when i learned the moistened bundles,
Green of scented lashings, took to whipping saintly flesh.

Holy was the root beneath the sacrificial lamb, white and rubbed of
Tasteless degraded dirt, growing in rows facing artificial south.

"Baaa-baaa", cried the appetite for its feeding in the field.
"Baaa-baaa", scorned the lemon lamb.

Seeds squeezed free as yellow screams dripped through divine ears.
Bitter acid, holy ghost, neutralize our sins.

"Nothing will be wasted, nor forgotten!" claimed
The shears. as hands of holy citrus, clip-clipped-buzzzzzzz.

Tremendous clouds of earthly fluff, not hung high as the
Gods do for fear, lay beside the feasted lamb of peasants parsley

Naked; purged; they gathered in stinging holy hands,
Around their false and bleeding christ , fictionalized death, fabricated life.

Lemon seeds i now spit for sport and leaves of parsley i keep pruned
From their rocky stalk. the roots i boil and use to fill a truffled stew.

the more you think you know,
the more you think, "i know".

i can taste the lasting linger
of my final pennies worth
and i can feel the blank desire
my tastebuds spin inside my head
there is morning dew on dangling leaves
and beads of that,
hang on webs of busy widows.
the grass is green but, not for long
and the pinkest flowers are in full bloom;
but only until their pedals fall.
there is an evening light
reserved for days like this,
held and used to mark the end of
more than just a day.
there is a seasoned silence,
we hold in high regard,
but i can't stand or sit
with what that silence is

i have this piece of art they say is worth a lot.
its hanging on my wall above my most valued piece.
a sprig of fern, dried between the pages of a book, glued to
plain paper, framed in an old thrift store picture frame.

i like the contradiction hanging on my wall.

the expensive piece is roughly
three feet by four feet,
colorful and bright. created
by some contemporary English artist,
which is code for pretentiously posh.
Too expensive and chic because it's British.
Made in a medium that allows anyone
with an idea to become slightly successful
as long as people buy into the con
and like what they are selling.

i guess i am the sucker that i describe.

But beneath it is this three inch piece of fern
picked from a field in Bethel, NY. where peace
and love passed itself around in freedom.
it's held onto paper by Mod-Podge and faded
from some sunlight. i think my mother bought
the frame 15 years ago for some childhood
photo she never framed. it looks like
a 4 year old crafted the fern in
pre-school and brought it home for Mom
to hang up on the fridge like some achievement.

so when i'm sitting on my couch with
sunlight on my back, Alice Coltrane's  Journey in Satchidananda
being played, coffee being sipped, enjoyment being had
and peace just out of reach...

...i find myself looking at the fern.