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

watermelon patch of bedlam
gourds of organic mess
vines in search for foundation
with flowers in full bloom

green with bristles of transparent shivs  
dirt that's aged from years of acidic drift
humid rainfall drums above this night
pooling inside my garden of life

the fallen rot, inside to out
but birds and bugs will gorge
and feed upon this ever restful seed
to clean this rotten pool inside my garden

the tap turns towards free flow
spewing sounds of fluorinated spit
aerated aqua, so far from Caribbean blue.

baking soda toothpaste holds high aims to hammer
ergonomic plastic lays plush within my grasp
upper left molars first, always upper left molars

gyroscopic suds bubble and sludge
as the image of I projects into my eyes
but it has been too long and now i see you too

astral projection misplaced my mind and body
my soul was now with you as we cleaned our teeth
i see your titled head reflected in the mirror

and my eyes cannot believe
that it has been so long.

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

with time accounted for, passing
through the first quarter of
seasonal traditions, vernal equinox,
charming wind chimes hanging bells.
my ears tickle from resonant drips
of auditory opiates. i let go.
calm crawls slowly to completely cover,
beginning at my toes,
my Sunday body of steeper sickening sloughs.
i only warm like reptiles in the southern winter.
basking only for necessity.
basking but not for reasons of my vanity.

i'm unaware of greater peace
when encompassed in ultraviolet and
charming bells of ****** drips.

i see sky. i see afternoon-ish blue.
empty voids. calming unquiet.
here; there is no thought of you.
nothing. it feels like
sounds i hear and looks like
sights i see;
seductive flowers on top of endless nothing;
perfect from its sacred *****.
i slip with drips and ringing bells
and let go. desire fades.
i feel an overflowing spew,
everlasting warmth of an untouchable
moving mass.  

you did not warm me this much.
there are parts of me you will never get to touch.

she was of another world
far outside my reach
a flamingo in the mountains
with color that doesn't quite fit in
but without, would leave my world so dull.

she was of another world
but greeted as if we'd met
like black rhino's in the bush
so careful with her bowing horns
as she placed her cheeks on mine
with tenderness only she could show.

she was of another world
a greener more humid place
lush of unfurled ferns and pollen covered leaves
where foraging for fruit is foreshortened,
and bounty builds with ease  

she was of another world
a place i never knew
showing me the world at large
showing me her world too

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.

i cut a habanero for my lunch
and forgot to clean my hands
i picked my nose
and was quickly drawn
back to reality
it burned but
i grew to like its affect
because i stopped thinking
and worried about my nose

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

If everything was as delicate as a raspberry, the world would be a better place

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.

Alligator's eyes surface.
Nostrils exhaling mist.
Even predators breathe
Before they feast.

if your reading this and see my point.







learn to break from tradition when it no longer serves.

the sun rose, days before September and
colored the sky in pure pastels,
shaded smooth, clean of imperfection.

i dreamed these colors with you in my arms
while the mist of crashing waves
slightly glistened our sun kissed skin.

i don't mind to dream these things
i enjoy their thoughts
but i don't want you to be a dream for me

no apparent fear while above the fragrant trumpets
focused leaps transpose a twitching tail,
"i need to be here....no there...wait, here!"
at least that's what seems apparent to me.

realistically, there is no above while here
there is no fear in focused leaps or nervous movements,
"i am home, it is spring, there is food!"
at least thats what i would think if i were a squirrel today.

instead, i am me. thinking about why Pepsi would
try to appropriate a social movement to enhance their public image.
why they would waste money on advertising at all,
because everyone knows what Pepsi is and how it tastes.

Instead, I'm trying to understand why there was more public outrage
over a stupid commercial while toxic nerve gas is being used against our foreign families. Why anyone was subjected to unspeakable crimes against humanity. Why has there been such little outcry about that?

Why couldn't Pepsi use their advertising budget towards securing a better world so people could enjoy their product? Why can't a corporation influence political world leaders. I mean some business' already do. Most Nations are just corporations anyways.

I think about these things and wonder who is better off: the squirrel that leaps fearlessly from branch to branch, the dead that suffered needlessly, or an American that thinks too much about these things.
I think I'd rather be the squirrel. Instead, I am me.

you looked at my basket of plums
and mentioned how much you love

juicy fruit.

you looked at my lips,
then looked at my eyes, with increasing repetition.

juicy fruit.

there's a field i long to sow
and a sun i need to praise.
where the clouds,
the sky,
and grass,
belong to me.
while there,
i know that all i have and all i am is free.

that is all.
that's it.
that's all i'll ever need.

The Cowards Lie; A life lived.

my love lined in a windrow
swept aside for harvest,
lays still and full of bounty

use your hands in my collection
be gentle with my yield
my crop of seasoned fields

i am at your will
a subject of your disposal
eat and be full; waste not.

for my life and love remains your meal.

there was a cool and damp electric hum
i heard outside my ear
and in the sky, hung high above my mind,
a pulsing breathing thing

in quick repetition and in pace with the sounds
of an uncharacteristically chilled evening
i could see the stars as they were
i could see myself as i am

and the world was right
but only in that moment.
i turned away, but for a blink,
and the earth had turned, hiding away,

our moment shared in time

Say Florida in the cellar
speak flowers where cool and dark
close your eyes, wander through the library
smell the age of knowledge
touch the fading thoughts

Say Florida in the morning
speak soft for sake of caution
walk toward sound of flutes and fury
dance to unheard anger
die for woodwind rhythms

Looked pretty smug,
like a teenage boy
that coerced his parents
to give him exactly
what he wanted for christmas.

Morning light, wrinkles sinewy ginger skin as distant bells
Ring of temperate ice and softer shapes. it overdoes the
Oculi, receding from the ostracized mirror.

Sprawling fronds of living illuminated wax, sweats
As hummingbirds flutter, licking clean any sagging
Nectar; molasses colored like sunset cornsilk.

The shades were drawn but i could see.
Spanish moss hung and swayed from your limbs,
Life collecting life, swarmed full with inviting creases.

Steam would not rise here; moisture surrounded moisture.
Dew after rain, dew after night. there would never
Be a season of drought. ginger would wrinkle in the sun

And the bells would muffle as the ice thawed into pools beneath
Our bodies as we slept; as we dreamt. we flooded ourselves
In puddles of imperfect cubes. our tea now, would only be warm.

Taken just like the Queen.

i was sitting on some wood
organized as a dock
with my feet teasing
the liquid below,
watching afternoon light
dance on top of
windswept water.
the breeze was cool and
the air smelled of thaw.
my eyes fed my starved soul.
the not so distant tree line
beyond this shallow lake
glowed of gold and green,
between two shades of blue.
i watched some birds above
fly in unfinished shapes
toward a burning orb
that controls, to an extent,
this thing called life.
as i gazed in wonder
of everything before me,
i saw a different ball, of another hue,
moving with the current,
atop the bottom blue.
a balloon.
kind of sad as it were.
inflated, formed in its shape
but afloat and not flying
as its formal name implies.
however, it remained afloat.
but then i thought how the balloon
never can decide
where it wants to go.
never.
not even when doing what its meant to do.
but then i thought how this balloon,
blue between two blues,
gave me all of this.
even when denied of what its "meant" to do.
it reminded me how simple it is
to appreciate everything
just as it is.
as its meant to be.
not to fight but stay afloat
and remain between two blues.

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.

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

there were colorful rag rugs stitched
together with wool, spun sturdily to paint
the largest impression upon the floor.

there laid flattened pillows, stuffed of hope from
our compressing bodies; which fought
to protect us from the holding hardwood.

there grew basil on the windowsill. where
we were free to pluck and pair it with our cheese,
then sip our wine as we walked along the river.

where we were, there; that was something.

***** 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.

my first sight this morning was a thing I've never seen,
a resting squirrel.
and my thought was,
"peace exists"

whence you rested neatly,
betwixt mine arms so dearly.
no longer; farewell, forevermore.

seriously, where the **** did you go?

hey harpist with the stringy fingers
pluck me some melody made of daydreams
serenade my sleepless soul into
an ethereal pool where bodies are not needed
let each note pronounce as though to
declare the highest of high with sunshine
emanating through the vibrations of blissful contact
ripple love my way as though it could be shaped
so that I may know rest in peace

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.

round and hot to the touch
a distant color
ribbed with texture
rich in tongues

the seeds abundant and pronounced
safety stored within
the mushy membrane
hollowed from beyond

discarded for fun
the columbian pumpkin comes undone

There’s effort in your exhale.
It intensely speaks for you,
as if you cannot express in words
what it is you feel.
It’s shameful. It’s childish.
its wasted energy.
The effort behind the steam released
coming from your lungs
is as energetic as the words
that are tumbling around inside of you.
Why would you choose to confuse
through passive expression?
when the same amount of energy
would clear the skies like
a heavy summer rain.

If it is all energy created from within
and you are shameful for
the words your vessel contains,
could you not alter
the shape of and direction
to better influence the emotions exchanged?

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.

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.

we've acquired an army of elephants
and this room we've built
remains entirely too small.

i'm tired of living in this zoo with you,
cause it smells like domesticated ****
and i need the open air and space.

i smell your breathe exhale.
i inhale the mixture of airs.
yours and mine;
and hold this breathe as a memory.

i feel your lips mark this statement
with a clearly perfect cadence,
one which i adore,
as if god and time were in cahoots.

"no more", "that's enough"

i felt your lips speak words, without movement,
which remain so foreign from your tongue.
i smelled your precious air
which has superseded my memory of memories.

your eyes have become my ocean.
your kiss has become my folly in water.
i swim well and fear our earth but
i say now, "more; always. never enough"

i met this man once on a train in Vietnam.
We were going south through the night to Hue.
the car was full and lively.
not to be egocentric but it felt directed at me.
close to a dozen cars filled with traveling souls and i was the only american.
this man across the aisle was very fair and kind.
i learned about his family, three kids and wife, and his job; working for the military.
he seemed to be doing quite well for himself in a country still discovering some things about the world.
I played some sub-genres of music off my i-pod to see how he would react to the odd and unique.
He was a poker player for sure.
His emotions and reactions were held in.
we talked all night but it wasn't conversational.
he asked me every question imaginable each phrased with the classic w's:
who,
what,
when,
where,
and why.
sometimes lead with do, or how.
i answered them all until the sun rose over the land where the single star flies.
He was headed to Saigon and we never spoke again.

the home next to your families
looks just like my grandmothers

the sound of crashing waves
the breeze of a cool atlantic
and the sun kissing your skin

it's easy to sleep with the sand at your feet
and not be sure
if this is just a dream

These three little spoons that
Rest wet in a bowl of soap
remind me of simple beauty
And the things I too often forget.

50 minutes of moonlight fills me
with fragrance of cinnamon and spores.
shadows and decaying tree tops
fall on an illuminated floor.

my breath will remain full
as the night falls to end,
while the fear behind each tree trunk
grows with moans and croaks and woes.

my sounds, they echo, as if to live another life and
my heat expels as if to warm the earth.
i may die unknown, dark and cold within the forrest
but at least i knew the forrest

and the forrest knew my woes.

when someone hands you a rose
it is beautiful in front of your eyes
but place that rose behind your back
to see the beauty you cannot see.

the beauty your heart knows
the beauty your mind desires.

the beauty of that rose handed to you
is a sincere emotional transaction between two people.