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 saddest game we play
is saying that i love you
than walking the other way.

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".

just as a painted landscape, dimension and depth disappear
before my eyes, and like the slide of turpentine,
movement slowly ceases 'till the fragrant bead dissolves
into the tightly woven weaves. visible no more,
the aroma remains profound, as though there shall be no end.

i can't seem to find the mark where preservation placed its hold,
a naive attempt at keeping age so young.
a barrier between the world of quickly passing glances
with ever changing tastes, and eyes of failing foresight
which cannot find their pace.

composed of sacred balance, aesthetics defined
by what we can not know, sable and squirrel,
or some other mammalian hair, delicately define the strokes
that hold impossibly stable forms. they remain nothing more
than the anticipation of change.

i hold dearly their ideals set before me.  
worlds not yet conceived, sonnets of they eye.
immaculate conception of material, geographies of a mind;
i know to kneel and weep. i know their end is near,
while framed and draped in hammered sheets of gold.

unfurling cracks appear, sounding cries for renewed youth.
howling dearly to hide their hidden truths.
i listen within earshot, the call of dying lies
and feel no remorse. no guilt. no sympathy. their backgrounds protrude abruptly, like mountains from the sea.

although, their time is not like mountains or
the falling and rising seas. they remain only for our pleasure
and contemplation, when money and interest build into cacophony. confusing onlookers to believe a misplaced value, not an artists intention, to become only what man makes their purpose.

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

fury, winds raged the treetops
threshing branches, approaching brush.
but from a distance, natural destruction,
looked like beauty in the forest.

and this was just a piece.
this is not the whole.

inhale, exhale,
increasing repetitions
repeat, repeat.
decrease and deepen.

pause in awe of the machine you're given
watch the forest faint, beatific ruin.

feel the fibers tear in effort
feel the area inside you swell
this is just a piece
this is not the whole.

process unto another day
with brighter light and seasoned winds
as repeated swells exhale an ending breath
gawk, inhale, hold, process, yawp; repeat.

understand this thing, know it truly
die through effort, repeat, repeat.

beaks with feathered wings swarmed in silence
Persephone cheers with distance, "defy their gravity"
here; pause; absorb the leaded revolution
weigh inside this mockery of death

"this is just a piece,
this is not the whole."

abandon seated distance, chase with fire
the unknown of the unfolding.
ravenously consume  the untouchable time
feed, inhale, pause, process, exhale, deepen

repeat, repeat;
endlessly repeat.
this is just a piece,
this is not the whole.

windy compared to lull,
i sit outside the passing squall
of changing northern shapes.
but in a beautiful breath
that feels exhaled for me.

threads, they fall and brush
with intimate intention,
against my arm of chicken skin.
they leave a tender tickle
of pure chaotic invention.

i take comfort in their productive touch,
efforts made with ease;
they steal my mind from chaos
as they dance with interlude.
i glance their glorious wonder.

i'm touched inside by these,
because they needn't dance for me.
they leave behind a taste,
i know, can not stay.
so i sit, grasping, sifting,

as they slip away.
calling, dancing, preaching,
"interlude!"...."interlude"

being and not being,
siting and laying there in front of me
the reflection which jumps into my eyes
with a matted finish portraying its age
of being and not being.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i knew but once the colored call
that covers all an orange.
we called it citrus fruit.
i knew but once the taste we say
is of muddled musk.
we called it hairy snapdgron.  
i knew but once the unphysical touch
of words we leave unsaid.
we called this far too much.
and once was more than enough.

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

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.

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.

Until the quiet comes, I wait beneath the tide
Before the rising sun, I'll watch your empty stride
The bay will slowly chase, pushing you for higher ground
I'll return from being swallowed and eat your viscous frown

after your colors show, i'll smear them into black
you'll no longer be primary on my brush
i'll use you for the shadows hidden from the sun
ill use you for the highlights under the little of my thumb

when the quiet comes, i'll swim inside the sea
throughout the morning glow, they'll be no dark in me
the wind will dry my skin and the color of salt will stain my face
you'll be gone, and i'll be free, blessed from saving grace

if your reading this and see my point.







learn to break from tradition when it no longer serves.

show me behind the curtain
of velvet and sheer
so the obvious can be made so

i see through a prism filled of light
while the colors you carry
stain my eyes in hues

i can't make out whats green or blue
and cats continue to fear me
but my body is tired so i will rest

and hope this is only a dream.

we destroyed the forest to trade for a cleaner field
and saw the sunshine crash without protection
I've been dreaming deeply,
with vivid, mind-altering recollection

and wonder if you know.

the seeds took soon after being sowed
and the creek watered each well placed plow.
there are thoughts I have through out each day
and you remain primary and proud.

but you're not that seed within my garden
I can't protect you from the sun
or ensure your roots from coming undone
but I am a farmer that loves this land

and the wild it can bring.

i found myself doing laundry
filling the revolving well of ***** linens
shutting the door and adding detergent
when suddenly,
as i was completing this task,

a bell rung.
naturally.
and i felt complete.
for i knew we no longer share the same fishbowl
even though i sometimes wish you were here.

i heard those raindrops fall so silently
atop the colorfully striped canvas
that stands above my foolish head
but there in the dark corner
where green and violet cannot exist
a breeze blew to shake the way things were

so simple it seems to sway in the wind
to feel air flow betwixt the leaves
and the sky to glow a color unseen in day

my eyes continue to tear but
not from the thoughts i have or
the emotions i truly feel
spring has arrived in full force
with beauty, serenity, and visions unknown
i tear for yellow green and all that can be

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

a women empowered
will only need her own.

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

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

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.

brick and clouds remain
in view on the path
between the street

the bag is full and
gears shriek of rusted time
the wheels fight to turn

dew rises as the sun begins to fall
the water sits and ripples in the wind

she lifts and pours
sliding an unwanted landscape of lakes
to form a flowing river
unseen before this moment,
unnamed by any man,
it shall remain so

yet this flowing force has always been.
touched by time and those who came before
this fact remains
the truth, which is carried and passed

solid in its fluidity
time cannot dry or change this truth

this truth now falls from another
through the pages of blue and script
atop the table
the water sits

the trees have returned to us
their greatest shadows
so we may lie beneath their limbs
and hold each other close

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.

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.

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

when the sun rose with me
the sky appeared and provided
a certain kind of light
illuminating in my mind
those tender moments
i hold so dearly

you.

you wish to sell me roses
my pocket tells me queen annes lace

you dream for something delicate
my hands accustomed for rough

you ache with quiet longing
but i hear your untold groans

your desires are not unique
not a rose within the weeds

your plight is universal
unwanted in our garden

be gentle with our hearts
that attempt to ease your woes

flowers and weeds both grow by the roadside
each bloom in spring from sun

you are not unique within this life
roots, stems, pollen, pedals, blossoms.

I made it home before the sunset
and I saw you sitting.
beyond beauty are the words that came
blonde and brilliant are the songs that sang.

I can't believe in chirps of birds
or the light on bark between the haze.
I can, however, believe in your loving grasp
and the way you speak in words unknown.

we've yet to pick a plot
where donkey's "hee-haw" and chickens "bok bagok",
and where the grass grows green and tall;
where kids may learn to walk.

you've not read these words
or known of their existence
but in time you will;
know my loving grasp

and words you knew to know.

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.

walking between, along sights of seasonally scenic timber,
bare but budding tree tops shimmer and
divide my eyes from falling blind to springs sights,
filled full of advancing dawning light.
orbs glow of reds and blues, around and inside, the
internal and external rims
of successively smaller and larger orbs of golden rings;
appearing before my spectral vision
of delightful astral projections.
water slowly passes beneath my feet, connecting
sides dissected by light and
i know that you will see me
but just without your eyes.

birds flutter and clean their crested chests
of crawling, clinging life. feathers ruffle as
the breeze of dewey blue flanks my rose flesh
faced and white knuckled winter hands;
like a cluster of early, much too early, plucked but
ripening chardonnay grapes.
the smell of thaw emanates through drying bones
and decaying leaves and sprouting blades of grass.
the green breaks through the thawing brown
where ice and frost becomes the running force of life
and there, just there,
i know that you will see me,
but without your eyes.

it's not that i think of you.
it's not that you think of me
it's that i can feel the impressions i've made;
because i can feel your impression too.

when you wake up from tomorrow
and see a glowing sky
will you remember it the way it was
when you wake up from tomorrow