what was that sentence you gave me?
I woke and could recall;
but walk some steps down and I forget.
It had weight like those heavy dreams often do.

really though, it was just a sentence my mind spit out,
mere seconds before my eyes would open,
to see the world as it is;
not as I dreamed it would be.

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

there's a fire on the treetops
that burns a yearning glow
projecting sounds of tremendous whirls
as it passes through the windows we left open.

just ahead, beyond these sights and sounds,
sits a peak, between here and the horizon,
where birds curiously soar
above this thing i've come to love.

these middle thing reek of sights and sounds i've not yet seen.
they sit silent, hidden, beyond the peak;
In the ashes of the burning trees.
this i know too well.

But I want to know those things,
I want to hear the whistle of wet wood
and the wings above my mountains peak;
to know a new horizon and

and feel new ground beneath my feet.

i can hear the deep and low thunder
from the train passing by
a few thousand feet away
but as I look around and recognize my setting
I realize it is thousands of miles away

that horn we heard will remain with me forever
only to reappear in reality and memory
both are unreal
but the horn I know well.
and the thunder I feel will stay 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.

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 leaves rustle in the cold
and settle to a stillness
i do not know
the sounds afar carry throughout
the night with winds and light
while the leaves and stillness
settle above, still i do not know
above and through
i hear it still
the silence, i do not know

if i were a tree in winter
my bark would praise
the bright light and warmth of sunshine
and scold the treacherous and bitter wind

but my roots would shout from down below
beneath the blue and white earth,

"we are safe within the dirt
where our source of being remains;
drinking, growing, absorbing more of
what provides us for this life"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

when i have a child one day                              when i have a child one day
and they come crying with a bruise       and they come shouting full of joy
from falling down                                       with grass stains on their knee's  
                                        
                                           ill tell them with a smile,
                                                        th­at's life.

when i have a child one day                              when i have a child one day
and they look up in wonder                       and they look inside themselves
and point to a passing bird                    and find something scary and new
                        
                                            ill tell them with a smile,
                                                         that's life.

when i have a child one day                              when i have a child one day
and they smile brightly at                                 and they cringe in distaste at
their favorite slice of fruit                        the worldly food filling their plate

                                            ill tell them with a smile,
                                                         that's life.

when i have a child one day                              when i have a child one day
and they find their love                                            and they loose their love
in beautiful harmony and                                                to passing tides and
brighter skies                                                            ­                      fuller moons

                                            ill tell them with a smile,
                                                         that's life.

when i have a child one day                              when i have a child one day
and they have a child of their own         and they're saying goodbye to me

                                           ill tell them with a smile
                                     to remember what i taught you,
                                                         this is life.
                                                           ­  smile.

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.

our nature; nature,
mining its rivers
and agricultural cooperatives.
living from day to day,
moved on,
becoming refugees once more.

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.

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.

show me careful construction
and the time it takes
to shape these surely joints
of this thing we're building together.

i'll reveal the careless destruction
and the childish naiveté
of those that have not loved like this
and the lessons left for learning.

gravity presses upon all
regardless of mass or weight
but fluid dynamics applies a twisted spin
which keeps us turning and turning
only to find ourselves twisted
spinning out of control

burn me like sage so that
my airs be cleansed
smell me as mint so that
my memory remain refreshed

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.

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

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.

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.

arugula and watermelon
and the joy in pain
of sunscreen in my eyes
your eyes disappeared into the sky
and the car smelled of running feet

i remembered a dream from long ago
while you were tying your hair
and standing before me against the blue horizon
le tournesol de la beau rivage
was finally real and present

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.

Life Plan: Live, Love Again, Die.

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.

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

hello lovers
*******
go die

find me a cave that I can crawl into
so that I may not see the light on your face again.
take me into the dark where dew and dank
cover-all and seep between the rest.

won't you let me dream?
won't you let me sleep?
dear, this here, will not suffice.
show me those blues or I will become that hermit.

bearded and away in the mountains,
unaware of my appearance more than hair and stench.
distant, both in mind and body, purposefully so.
please dear, find me a cave or let me to crawl into you.

I am warmer than the fire I can make
I can feed you more than the meal placed on your plate
you know my heart is heavy with the weight of love for you
so make me that cave I may crawl into

I've often found
That love is bound
To illusion and misconception.
Of who I am,
And who you are,
Fulfilling our minds reflections.
This and that
Will not exist
Without our own involvement.
Our hearts will break
Tearing apart
From internal misalignment.
Find your north,
Tune your fork,
Towards truths frequency,
It may spin
And twist alike
Pointing back towards me.
Either way, gravity
Will fall tremendously,
Exposing all, in their truth
And frequency attuned.

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.

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

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

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.

i heard it say
"don't trust your thoughts
as the clouds too will disguise this horizon"

false paths for walking
a theoretical projection to a place unknown
unreachable in every way but obtainable through lies

I heard it said before, "don't believe your thoughts"
but never from within
never so loud and brimming with confidence I do not know

in that moment, Gaia labored for her breath,
as the treetops bent to bow with a colorful homage,
accented pink and pollen green

flowers bloomed, non-flowers too
and the earth felt right
even as it still feels wrong

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

baking with bananas brings me back.
when your love took form of a muffin,
when French was more than an ideal
but something our tongues practiced
with spitting vowels and lingering r's

we were married in French class
down the aisle of our hallway but
you're no longer a part of my life

but you'll remain a part of me
and when I bake banana bread
filled with chocolate chips
ill remember how warm you were
and how beautiful our love could be.

"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.

the morning sun does not rise
back between the marshes on the bay
where colors remain dividing lines of gravity
where the horizon never seems at hand

on land, at a distance,
i can clearly see your vision
features all your own
the blue of your eyes, the curve of your brow

but it's july and we are at a distance.
nothing unsurmountable
not of lengths saved for olympians
but i fear the phenomenon of a mirage

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.

look beyond, where lavandula wildly grows in fields of fonder
look beyond, where silk weaves between trees of deepened shade
look beyond, where electric snow coldly hums a muffled word
look beyond, where salted mists lift above a cresting swell
look beyond, where glass dances with mountainously airy leaps
look beyond, where green is all the eye can see
look beyond, where lamps light cannot reach
look beyond, where limits end
look beyond all of this to glimpse the hidden parts of me.

look beneath those beyonds
look beneath those glimpse's
look beneath those hidden parts
look beneath all of this to see a little more of me.

even after beyond those things
even after beneath those glimpse's
even after seeing all of this
you'll never see all of me.

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

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.

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've got you another name
but the moon is waxing towards new
and I won't have much light to see your shape
so have the chorus hum some softer sounds
while I lay my head on the overgrown ground
searching the skies for the letters I need.

it shouldn't take long, few hours at most,
but I need time to shed these invisible clothes;
to strip myself clean from these things I don't need.

I've found that other place
but I don't know if I can stay
your name was there, but something had changed
and you couldn't convince me there was any other way
this wouldn't be the first, shall not be the last,
but you gave me water and watched me grow

so ill find you anew
where i won't know your call
but my ears will, even if my mind cant

there are four grapefruits and three lemons
that gathered themselves neatly in my kitchen
and took their places comfortably in a bowl on my counter,

patiently waiting for the day i peel them.

there is a stack of plates with shallow slopes
that toppled on top of one another in my cabinet
and rest still like hardened clay does.

laying anxiously for juice from food to spill atop their finish.

there is a man with two arms and legs, 10 digits on both pairs,
that loves a woman of the same kind,
and he sits alone on a couch, far away from her,

wondering why he doesn't use his arms and legs
to grasp her in the hold of those 20 digits.

i awoke in the early afternoon
and was reminded of the need to bathe;
odors and oils of a slothful human.

i shaved with a dry old razor
so that i could feel each blade-like tug
and slice the shafts of time that grow from my freckled face

i ran the shower warm before entering
because lately i am a cold stone
and do not contain any independent means of heat

i laid myself beneath the running water like warming raindrops
and heard some loud but distant music
as my thoughts raced above their melancholy sound

my thoughts were noble and ignorant; dualistic.
concerned with the world and my impact upon it.
refusing to buy a car, refusing deodorant and plastic products

i found myself hopeful for once
warm and joyous
as the water wasted itself past my skin and down the drain.

then I remembered that each passing drop equals a single footstep
which builds to the distance required
for others to gather a quarter of my waste.

back to square one
slothful and smelly
needing so dearly to wake.