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.

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.

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.

i've played my cards with the hand i was dealt
and it always comes up short in the end.
but i don't care too much about winning or loosing
i've grown to love watching how others play
and reminding them while i deal their fresh hand
that this is a very stupid ******* game we're playing.

keep your poker face.
i don't need to know your tell
to know the lie you live.

The Cowards Lie; A life lived.

You glowed; I was the moth.

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.

While gazing wintery white
The only thought that came to me was,
"It's summer in Argentina,
but I don't speak Spanish"

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

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.

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.

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.

it's only three feet and two inches from falling,
crashing into a million bleeding pieces,
holding momentary glimmers of tungsten
and shimmers of electric wealth.

it lay there, placed just hours ago,
maybe by the hands of a mind
with these thoughts contained therein.

or maybe it lay placed by the hands
of a mind that could not restrain itself from
flying away with that fluttering cardinal, outside
the window, bouncing from tree to tree.

with either if-so, omnipresent is the hand
and the crystal that lay still, just on the edge,
three feet from whole and no longer still.

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.

I no longer have words
for a while, It felt as though words passed through me,
acting as a filter between

the ether and the real.
like electricity through a wire,
water through leaded pipes.

now I feel like an empty vessel.
a dead wire
a dry well.

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

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.

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

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 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

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 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.

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 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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

I said," do you remember when we smelled the sweetest rain before it fell?"

You said, "you told me it smelled like a New England Forrest full of flowing creeks", while looking up at the sky, then turning to catch my eyes.

I said, " the smell transports me to my childhood, where life was merely a string of seconds that somehow knitted a web", while the rain we smelled began to fall

You said, as the days first raindrops spilled down your face and toward your lips, " it tastes like mothers milk"

I said, as I stared in your eyes " I love that we have language more than English. Your definitions are more vivid than most, and your imagery turns my mind towards more"

You said noting, but you smiled. And that was all I needed.

I can smell the walnut dust blooming through my toes
I can taste the wormwood tea long past my final sip
but the thought of you can't seem to find an exit

we are spiders weaving webs between the same two trees
hoping to ensnare the other while losing sight of our own webs;
lay down your silk and rest with me a while

time has not offered itself as the tool for our creation
we are born on opposite ends, east and west,
sunrise and sunset, in between there is sunshine and peace

the looks you give me and gazes that you hold
drifts bodies further than the drowning in rip tide
darling i can swim so please don't be shy

you've stolen my mind
and I've given you my soul
so pull our bodies closer and deny this distance that we keep

i am the romantic and you will be the realist
forever contradicting,
until the day we choose another.

the cry of blue siam
bit like houndstooth
through my irish skin
and when my ears
heard it true
i jumped
out from within
the blue i knew too well
but the cry was foreign to me
and my skin bled some color
i knew
as houndstooth broke my skin

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

i told you
the memories of moments
i have of you.

but today i say

i want more.
moments to make memories
that i'll tenderly keep of you.

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

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.

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.

this electric line of some green and glowing thing
divided the dark limits of forever and the physical now
while i tried to sleep beneath the night
and dream you were somewhere between these places
waiting for me to find my way to where you were

but that's just a romantic thought
which means naught  
until our eyes meet
and your presence is skin on skin