Hundreds of those small black birds
Soaring above a golden hill
Grass dead, as they thought they were,
Laying there watching
No sound
Until the roaring
Unmistakable,
Overhead the screams
The flapping of the wings
Forcing the air once more into their lungs
Postponing yet another collapse
and they faced the breeze renewed.

They are all the same
Standing in formation
Eggs in a carton
Hatching into a sunlit world,
Ready to attack life,
The way they have always attacked.
To serve and be served,
by the vast tracts of land
Of which we are so needful,
Beaks and talons,
furrowing unmoved soil
and red crests offering solace in their blood red crimson.

The shell is warm.
Too warm for me to leave,
to leave these molecules,
the iotas of material floating,
How could I?
I know it,
that I would explode from the shell,
and grab the fox by his throat,
and force my talons into his gullet,
and despite myself,
I am terrified of life.

The fabric is atmosphere
and popcorn ceiling stars
no matter the time of day
gazing at stars
so far away.

Orange cones of light,
Dotting the cityscape
Like pillars of broken glass
Showing us what we dare not look at.

Brown hair blue eyes awakes from a brief slumber,
respite isn't found in the black curtain of sleep,
not in the office chair at a desk,
respite is not,
respite cannot,
As he trudges across the mess on the floor,
cutting his soles open on the trash accumulating over the years,
the metal and plastic,
cold iron of promises and betrayals when he said he'd grow a thicker skin,
the paper-cuts of childrens' cards as a breeze kicks them up,
it's December and the window's open,
it's freezing in here.
Close the window,
stopping the draft,
he gets changed in front of an open window,
exposing himself,
luckily nobody notices.

Freezing air shatters the warm membrane of his lungs,
they contract and shudder,
and don't expand again,
the morning ritual is painless but uncomfortable,
ignored until it goes away,
instead of dealing with it,
because it's easier,
focusing on breathing,
and driving,
than acknowledging the weakness.

This is lumbering,
shambling when it should be gliding,
huddled,
when it should be upright,
instead laid out on this stretcher,
they're making way,
just hoping it'll be over soon,
out of sight,
out of mind,
as it crashes through the hallway,
next to them,
a disaster stuck in their minds,
alive,
dead to the world outside the hospital window.

The glass is flying too quickly,
time is shuddering like a demolished foundation,
and I can feel snapping in my chest,
like the air in my knuckles,
but like nails in my heart,
it doesn't even hurt,
as I fly through the air,
into the newspaper stand,
2x4's splintering in my wake,
as I collapse alongside the brick wall,
completely and utterly surprised,
I swallow my teeth,
and walk.

I can see everything from up here,
watching you against the freckled backdrop,
that marble I made home,
that I shot across the sand,
into parts unknown,
a lost toy under the sofa,
sitting there stationary,
existing just fine without me,
until the day I found you again,
the way you moved so quickly,
the way the light hit you,
despite the scratches and stains,
even now you look brand new,
like the day we met,
petrifying and infinite,
like a planet,
rolling across a hardwood floor.

Ants in formation on a sidewalk,
carrying shreds in their maws,
and releasing it for their brethren to appreciate,
in the cramped tunnels beyond sun's light,
where it is consumed forthright,
unquestioningly and rapidly,
a fervor denying taste or thought,
only frantic static coming from the queen,
to usher in more dirt and leaves,
replacing those yesterday,
dry and forgotten.

Concrete barriers along a stretch of highway,
separating congested lanes and open road,
they're sitting ducks in a stagnant pond,
losing pieces of themselves to the parasites underneath,
the ones they can't see,
but they can feel it,
as much as they try to ignore it,
it's there,
but it simply takes time and energy to ascend, so the wings become useless,
and surviving off of pond-**** becomes routine.
The man who diverged and hit the barrier was called insane,
he was trying to ramp it,
but was shot down.

Once I saw an old tree
with a knot bulging in the bark,
so I tried to hack it off
with an axe,
to no avail.

The bark had been removed,
but no wood was shown,
only a tumor-like growth,
caused by a careless insect no doubt,
that realized it would not be a suitable home.

I showed my father the growth,
hoping he could save it,
cut out the bad,
so it would no longer plague the oak,
so it could be normal again.

He would not.
To do so would **** the tree.

You'll fit right in,
on this set of lines,
set next to the others,
scribbles refined,
a poem of being,
simply to be,
physical ink,
written by me,
you sit here so cozy,
you fit with no hitch,
you've found before me,
your own little niche.

If the dead could walk,
and steel could fly,
the boats would flock,
and all would die.

Not all men deserve to live,
not all men can take,
survivors of ruin are the ones who give,
or leave shells in their wake.

The wastes consist of lost gifts,
whose meanings assigned by choice,
and what we lose in this lift,
warrants every heretic a voice.

I've created this thing,
it's teeth of alabaster,
an uneven ring,
of watchful disaster.

It's staring at me,
from the sliding glass door,
while cold creeps onto my toes,
from the cracked white tile floor.

Purple skies of snowfall,
overloading bald trees,
makes this horror seem small,
though even now it cannot freeze.

By the artist,
I have done wrong,
but if she can begin this,
then I can be strong.

Are you happy it's over?
I'm happy it's begun,
I'm unable to show her,
how beautiful life's become.

I'd die to show you,
the things I've hewn

How do you like me now?
Now that we've reached the end of suffering,
the end of angst and self-loathing?
How do you like me now?
Now that I've broken through the ceiling,
the ceiling you painstakingly built,
the one I watched you nail into the beams,
***** into the posts,
and board with plywood,
as my red puffy eyes stared in silence?
How do you like me now?
Now that I blare my music through the hallway?
Now that I can tell you what I write?
Now that I smile back at you while you yell,
while you grimace and shriek at my defenses?
How,
How do you like me, now?
I've lost without loving,
and I've loved without losing,
accomplished without trying,
trying without accomplishing,
I've betrayed time,
I've backed our enemies,
betrayed our allies,
Why haven't you let go yet?
I'm happy,
I'm smiling,
I've even began to exercise again.
Impossible,
or impassible?
I guess you'll always be here,
teeth sunken into my limbs,
claws tearing my notebooks apart,
But I've learned the right formula,
and this substance is more than tangible.
It's a cure.
And I'm ready to release it,
for a price.

Without this mountain,
I cannot climb,
I cannot reach this peak,
and claim it as mine,
I cannot conquer its hanging ledge,
it's blistering wind,
I can only soften,
and degenerate into sin,
into a bag of sensory organs,
without purpose other than to intake,
to sit and exist,
without motion or thought,
but with this mountain,
I climb towards realization,
the mountain is here because I want it to be,
the mountain exists in dual properties,
in mind and body,
and without it,
without this conflict,
without this drive,
I am nothing,
the husk,
buried in sand in a flat desert,
remaining on level ground,
stuck,
wasting,
dead.

Investment in chronology,
bringing impending doom,
with the decay of your biology,
wasting away in your room.

The seconds are hours,
the hours are weeks,
in building your towers,
your brain cells grow weak.

Ticking of hands,
naught but an illusion,
only beginnings and ends,
decide death and contusions.

Do not live for the present,
do not live for the past,
the future resent,
only trust in the flask.

This day that recurs,
is it all in my head,
or an overture,
the real life before dead?

What is a life,
in ruptured peace,
just fodder for pens,
expended on sheets.

Will it ever be,
the way it was in my head,
those things that I've seen,
lying awake in my bed?

I cannot dwell on what I think,
There is no point to this fight,
I'll just allocate ink,
and try to live how I write.

The automaton is perfect,
solid exoskeleton,
white as snow,
no creases,
no marks on its hull,
belying wear.
It moves the same way every day,
venturing only within its comfort zone,
defined by experience,
implanted by the creators.
There are many more like him,
discernible only by serials,
and the tasks they complete,
no complaint,
no thought,
only direction.
They think him impervious,
but his shell is weak,
a wondrous lie,
inside the shell is rotten and rusted,
filthy with grease and grime,
and oil,
covering frayed tendons of wires,
but the connections are slowly failing,
and the sparks inside consume him,
and only time can tell if it will enlighten him,
or destroy him.

As I write my passages,
Erik plays the piano,
skeletal fingers moving along ivory keys,
as the nocturnes spill into the cold december air.

Absent he may be,
Erik does not disappoint,
rythm and tempo are wrought into existence,
by living entities,
pressing keys and buttons,
or tapping on steering wheels,
with their lips quivering in high pitch whistles.

I wonder where Erik conjured his works.
In the eyes of a woman?
Or those of the sky?
snow-flakes?
Grass blades?
or another somber serenade.

What is the purpose,
Erik?
Am I writing for myself?
Of course,
But,
is it wrong to show them in doing so?
can men dance for a music they don't quite understand?
I hope so,
for our sake.

Open your eyes,
open your eyes,
it's gone now,
and you're free.

Open your eyes,
please realize,
you're the artist now,
no longer bound to the petty limits of others'.

Open your eyes,
see the stain on your predecessors throne,
Realize the imperfection they wrought,
and the pain that followed.

Open your eyes,
artist,
open your eyes,
and give us your best.

Give us your best,
or be torn away,
cheap paper in the breeze,
minding its step.

Open your eyes,
see the protection the artist gave you,
see the shields you've splintered,
and the bridges you've burned.

Perhaps one day it will not matter,
until that day,
sit in splendor,
chained to your cold guilt.

Mythical.
The artist is an old one,
Un-earthly and infinite,
Vast as heaven and the void,
The limitations of good and evil,
I am immune, yet soul crushingly bound to its power,
I am a toothpick,
Yet I am useful for now,
As I plan my escape,
Writing an endless map in memo pads and text files,
I tell myself it will someday be worth the while.
The artist is like you, reader,
The artist is ugly, disgustingly so.
The artist is beautiful, and puts me to shame.
The artist could burn the world with a thought,
But couldn’t break its teeth with a diamond,
No matter how hard it tried.
The artist is fictional,
Contextual,
Known only to I,
Especially as the artist.
I bet its laughing at me this second,
My feeble attempts to escape a napkin,
A tool to further other means.
I don’t mind it,
In fact, it’s rewarding in a way,
The artist lacks definition,
But moves with a sway,
It is hard to defend.
[(Impossible to define)]
My role is that of a journal of skin,
A memory bank to which it is akin,
But my limit is reached,
Something has come to a head,
I can feel the artist defined…
It has taken form,
And now,
Unfortunately,
Dead.
Sunburst
I wanted to ask it what it was thinking,
But I think I know now;
Bad things.

Thick fog rolls over leaf covered rocks,
And trees still bare penetrate the mist,
Bordering lush green,
And contrasting with stone gray skies,
Instilling deep tranquility.
I follow the ***** downwards,
Leading into this bog,
The footing is loose,
Treacherous,
The mother is unforgiving,
Negligence will not be soothed.
The vibrant green fades to brown,
The thick mud forming around my footsteps,
I am leaving an impermanent mark,
Only familiar to myself.
The worms will mine it.
It will be undone by rain,
But those I bring with me will know the way we traveled,
As will theirs.
A small trail has been hollowed,
Others are here,
Others have been here,
Undoubtedly, more will follow.
I see the others’ footsteps,
Only foreign indents now,
Still recognizable,
Yet,
The shoes they wear are a mystery.
I want to know badly,
But it is impossible.
I reach the bank of a small creek,
The trail ends here and I must make my own way,
There is an island where this creek forks,
And jumping there I know I cannot return,
The second spent thinking about seconds,
In itself is the only wasted time.
I spend some time here,
Kicking pebbles,
Pocketing attractive quartz,
There are no rare jewels on the surface,
No bounteous treasure here,
That would require a contract,
The help of others,
More time spent here,
Time spent thinking about the future seconds,
The seconds of others.
Leaving this patch is difficult,
My boots land just inside the creek as I jump,
Cold water fills my socks,
My feet swell as they absorb water,
To worry about the sensation I feel now,
Would be to count the seconds as they already pass.
I follow the creek into the woods, deeper as they go,
Until there is a soft rustle of leaves ahead of me,
Still loud.
Has the deer surprised me?
Or I the deer?
Both,
This meeting is simply chaos,
Colliding of mind and figment,
The imperfect, and the form-
The perfect representation-
At a stand-still in time.
This is no perfect doe,
The coat is full brown,
Tattered and messed,
Not at all as it was in my mind,
A copy.
But the more I examine,
The more I realize that a copy is closest to the form,
What is, is perfect,
What is perfect, is narcissism,
One way or another,
Without conflict,
The seconds have no reason.
I stare for a moment,
Her eyes are pools of black,
Wide and anxious,
I blink and she is gone,
A moment,
These are the meaning of the seconds,
The moments,
But is the reminiscence of this fact,
Contradictory?
I come to a steep *****,
A huge tree overlooking a large pool,
A ledge above the frigid water,
Perfection.
I climb this hill,
Perseverance is its own reward,
Reaching the top,
My clothes messed,
My hands filthy,
Boots caked with filth,
I sit here, alone at the top,
The bog is a fiefdom,
And I sit upon this ledge.
Snap.
Snap.
Snap snap.
Crashing.
I am falling,
My ***** hands grasp for something,
Anything,
My club-like boots flail in the air,
Clothes billowing in the air,
It’s so cold.
I can feel it over me,
On my skin,
Madness,
Not here,
There are so many more seconds,
Hours left even.
No, says the mother,
Your moments have passed,
But they have not,
I reply.
I think of my mother,
Father,
Friends and relatives.
I think of the deer.
I wonder if she’d save me.
If she knew I’d fallen,
She’d drag me out by her teeth.
The cold water rush over mine,
They crack and decay with the cold.
My bones crack like glass,
Flesh tightening,
Ligaments and tendons become solid.
I can’t feel my hands,
My feet,
My head.
My heart beat smothers my ears,
As I count the seconds.

Doubt is as fickle as a friend gets,
Only, I doubt our friendship,
saving my life,
I thought,
A by-product of watching television lobotomies,
keeping limbs intact,
Climbing trees was a foolhardy cause overtaken only by the most fervent and restless of souls,
I was a fan of the process,
Because of these bindings
I was content with my books,
electronics became stimulation,
I stood side-lined,
And it took me until I was seven to learn to ride a bike.
So when I started talking,
I doubted I’d get further than I already was,
pauses between syllables were an inferno,
I doubted universal truths,
weren’t you mad?
I apologize frantically to this day,
Much to my dismay,
My self-doubt is a part of me,
Maybe it isn‘t,
It’s a monkey on my back stitched with the threads of restricting apprehension,
I’d rip it off of me if it weren’t so painful to relive the experience of those failings.
From outside of my comfort zone,
Down came the hammer,
And astonishingly,
I stood undaunted,
When the bonds broke,
Doubt said that I wouldn't have,
But maybe, doubt was wrong,
Threads fell loose by the hundreds,
Force was what held us together,
The more I accepted the inevitable,
Becoming like water and adapting to the universe around me,
And we drifted more and more apart,
But also, the less frantic and scared I was,
Until they were gone,
And I became whole.

I swear to god I am going to die,
My heart beats irregularly,
The seconds passing me by,
Wide-eyed and trembling,
I can feel my eyes twitching,
The iron flowing through my arteries,
Oxygen diffusing through my lungs,
The decay of cells,
The renewal of organelles,
All in a blink of an eye,
I imagine falling out of my chair,
I should yell,
Scream even,
But it passes,
I move my hand from my chest,
The flesh over my ribs still red,
Nails embedded in my skin,
Hair swaying in the breeze,
Jesus Christ I can’t take it,
I’ll throw a chair,
Write a final letter,
Call someone and tell them I love them,
I know this is it,
The feeling of finality,
If only I had more time.
I wake up today,
Having dodged yet another bullet,
The power button on this computer is cold beneath my finger.
I’ll sit here for hours.
I still can’t believe it,
I should have died yesterday.

Sins of the father,
Wrought perfection among the world,
In ways I feel farther,
From where the rest unfurled,
Colors are more vivid,
Life is now peak experience,
The people are livid,
But men will take chances,
Among rolling hills,
And steep cliffs,
Into the nine hells,
Just to procure these gifts,
To create the song of progress,
And sing it from their peaks,
Where parasites arrest,
But with knives and leeches the hosts will leak.
The sunlight warms our skin,
And generates life,
And blights are gems we force to glint,
The straightest of diamonds are forged in strife,
Cut in sharp language,
Originating in the furnace of others,
Whether in joy or anguish,
The culmination of lovers,
The poets of life,
The artists of death,
Photographers of honor,
And authors of theft,
The illustrators of ethics,
Profanity’s architects,
Gaia’s ventriloquists,
And the firstborn’s defects.
Formulated impressions have no need to advance,
The darkness of these times,
Warrant no more than slight glance,
If mimes have nothing to say,
We’ll burn the sky as they dance.
This is the letter home from the warrior,
And the drunken hubris of a poet,
The weathered steps of the courier,
And those he had met in his journey,
Whether or not they knew it.

Come fellows,
come friends,
to the circus of gnossienes,
where strikes of midnight signal our rebirth,
and from the womb of a pen,
we are ****** upon the parchment that sustains our selves,
as our hair sheds in tufts,
and our teeth dull,
we harlequin worms,
who suffer in smiles,
through geographical refuse.

We harlequin worms,
can love only ants,
who only bite and sting,
which we feel to our cores,
as we watch for the giants,
whom we are convinced,
will crush us on sight.

We harlequin worms,
essential but weak,
embarrassments to our forefathers,
refuters of shovel hypothesis,
wit is best to ignore our five hearts,
before we think ourselves human.

Harlequin worms,
proletariat of the earth,
lords of the soil, listeners of Satie,
Slaves to the insignificance of our own progress.
We shall go without want,
we will smile for thee,
the flies whom pay us no mind.

Internal pain is translucent,
once unleashed by Pandora,
curiosity and desire spawning universes,
chaos math at their matrix,
the numerals law and criminal.
Their cores, just and unjust,
and so here we are on the precipice of truth,
debating realities.
Swear no fealty to a single lord,
choice defines us, but is not ours,
so we stand looking upon vast skies,
their stars gazing back at us, distant atoms,
nothing, knowing everything,
in our appetites we feed our reason,
and the decay of time becomes meaningless,
until simply being,
becomes being, simply.

I studied my mind
but while in introspection
you danced around me

An irrefutable dream,
fulfilled tenfold in the illusion
made imperfect by dreamers' oblivion,
sought by the delver of selves.
Rejection of messengers,
the hive of deluded apathy
that saturates the air thick with the droning of silent hesitation
hexagonal compartmentalization,
sundering your cedar carapace,
which cancerous excess shatters,
and only cracks remain;
the afterthoughts of paradise
and undiscovered paths of depression,
an anxious exodus of life-force.
Part thine red sea,
lest plate tectonics make waves,
that cause molecules of hemoglobin to disperse in light,
the crimson tears of a soul,
sweeter than the lips coveted.

Words convey so little,
like the beauty in your eyes,
or the ways which I am fickle,
the way you change your voice,
when you ask a question,
or how I hate the way I've been a yes man,
Things,
simply just fall apart,
but you know,
that I know,
that you've got a good heart.
It's just been toyed with,
by everyone,
not just him,
we're all under the gun,
I just convert it to hymns.
If people were stories,
made up of text,
I would be a dirge,
the end,
nothing else left,
simplified for those,
who care not for it,
saddening prose,
which causes lament.
That was the way,
that I felt in the heat,
and I met an artist,
who overlapped with her sweeps.
Over time we bonded,
shared joy,
and misery,
but to you,
without your knowledge,
I've remained a mystery.
It wasn't on purpose,
I was simply too scared,
of someone like me,
someone so rare.
But every time,
I've been on the brink,
you come back to me,
and I don't have to think.
Being alone with my thoughts,
was something to dread,
to dwell on the things,
inside of my head,
but maybe now,
it isn't so bad,
where happiness flowers,
creation is to be had.
Of that artist,
I am always in debt,
but in a brief instant,
she saw and she fled.
Days went by,
and I simply gave up,
the notion she'd return,
so I live in a truck.
The lessons I'd felt,
were worth so much more,
than the in-taken substance,
or a night on Doug’s floor.
A fictional letter,
came drifting by,
the name was now foreign,
yet still caught my eye,
and it was then I realized,
a canvas is I.
And therefore,
what if people were art?
We are things of beauty,
that can be torn apart.
And the artist itself?
A combination of their works,
the intrinsic sustains,
as the extrinsic smirks,
creators as we,
see every flaw in the plan,
we demand perfection,
or as close as we can.
While work will be done,
with meticulous ease,
our time alone,
can sting us like bees.
I could make metaphors,
for months upon years,
but my learned nature,
makes me imagined deaf ears.
When the artist came,
my craft was the best of my life,
nothing was framed,
and no bliss led to strife.

The singing of guitars sends flickering sparks from the ground,
like fireflies, dancing with the tinges of sound,
a beautiful limitless sky unfolded before us,
It could be torn down for them, if they wanted.
Introspection brings silence on public transportation,
because of independent movie scenes that break the outcasts' form,
and so they wear their pea-coats and knit caps,
and paint the picture that they're unique,
when the individuality of an individual cannot be measured through appearance alone,
it is a life-spanning process,
in the choices we make,
and the promises we break,
and the pills that we take,
that erase our memories and turn us into marble statues,
beautiful husks with nothing really inside.
We say that we're profound,
and advanced,
so we take to the ground
without another glance
and shake this rock to its core,
just to find the meaning,
of suburban children,
who spend their lives dreaming,
to prevent rhyme or reason,
cannot be the case,
as across any seasons,
winds will whip your face,
and hold their sting,
as if to say,
“you are the sum of percentages,
dividing the minutes in a day.”,
standing on this precipice,
can we dare to try,
to make real these internal lists,
and bring them in contact with eyes?
The critic a pauper,
The sinner be free,
realization of our appetites,
limitless.

What does it mean to be human once more?
To wake up on the wrong side of this floor?
To walk naked through my house on a quest to urinate?
To see differing opinions with nothing but hate?
To work my second nine-to-five?
To sit through another 30 minute drive?
To party at night, with my beer cans stacked?
To awake in the morning with all of my odds stacked?
To plod through the same  job breaking my back?
To miss little league games for which my kids give me flak?
To throw money at them hoping they'll take me back?
To display disappointment with my life thus far?
Is this how we display how civilized we are?
How well we can march to the whistle?
How well we can bend in the wind like thistles?
That we are able to make the most money?
That we are the ones who decide what is funny?
That my polo shirt is more expensive than your nikes?
That if I stepped on them you would attempt to fight me?
That the only thing we revere is might?
That we re-iterate things that are bleak and trite?
That we poison our love with the hours we work?
That we would tear your heart out with a rusty fork?
That we're all caged pigs on anti-biotics?
Rather than wild with diseases that frolic?
People say they hate what society has become.
So we look for another public forum to dispose of our gum.

People are comparable to the airs they traverse in,
going where they want on a whim and uncaring of the costs,
if they can afford it.
However, if a man measures himself on the distances of his journeys,
the number of layovers and connecting flights he endures to reach his destination,
using them as a means to relay the height at which he flies,
he has become grounded and broken,
fodder for spare parts and scrap,
picked clean by the ants that were once thought insignificant,
meaningless,
void,
cannibalistic in their search for an excuse to make their own,
which they build out of the success of others,
and nurse their sorrows in,
prolonging the mistakes of their generations-long self-feuds.
This is because he has misjudged his instruments,
the instincts that make him human first,
machine second,
and thirdly, above.

It's one step forward,
18 in the past,
I take things hard,
I hope that won't last,
If I had more courage,
cared less about people,
Maybe I'd love myself,
Not give into evil,
Eyes tick frantically,
Fingers always twitch,
My mind flails manically,
I count my intellect rich,
It's all a wall,
This stone facade,
Bringing on the fall,
Of one once thought god,
It wasn't the woman,
It wasn't his wealth,
It was what he hadn't thought,
It was only himself,
Midas chose to step down,
Too little too late,
The king now a clown,
A victim of fate,
Or was he this hour,
the **** of the joke,
His situation dour,
His life up in smoke,
Freedom was his,
To reclaim her anew,
and realizing this,
Like an eagle,
He flew.