If I gave you my soul,
would you read each page?
Scribble notes of interest
and know me.
Would you take the time,
to help tape the seams?
Would you mend,
the fragility of my soul?
It tears and rips,
easily, emotionally.

Sun ached to rise,
above the jagged horizon.
It lit the shadow,
of stone work,
of your craftsmanship.
It stood high,
strong and everlasting.
A stone giant,
held together with assumption.
Assumption of him,
the prince that you seek.
Recently one has followed,
to the top where you lie.
He said the verse,
a promise, an assumption.
He would mend the holes,
patch the sides.
As time rhythmically passes,
the tower would stand,
strong and eager.
Until your assumption,
is not yet reality.
The one that followed,
sometime ago,
has left with the moon.
As your eye tears,
the tower leans,
crumbles.
The salty liquid,
corrodes your assumption,
that is often set in stone.
I watch from afar,
knowing the outcome.
I tread among the emotion,
overflowing and scattered around.
As your kin, your brother,
I help to pick up the pieces.

we lost you in April
during the rains
it was as if the sky was grieving
we lost you right before the blooms
that awake during the crisp morning
we lost you, and it is April again
they speak to you now in silence
and in memory
we lost you…yes
maybe physically
but, I see you during the spring
where life is full and lush
I see you in the cardinals  
they fly free in ribbons of gold
this is where I see you
among blue hydrangeas

The dunes are tall,
but, we can still hear the crash.
The smell of salt reminds us,
of treasured frames.
You asked if I remembered,
“yes” I do remember that one.

Flour like sand,
it cradled our feet.
Our palms smacked,
the land.
As we progressed,
to our full stride.

Loops of gold,
surrounded us.
Tickling the laughter out of us,
it echoes beautifully.

In slow romance,
your gaze meets mine.
That is when you turned,
'click' a pose framed,
by my eye.

The shutter captured,
a moment of escape.

Though, should I
or have I begun?

To feel the tussling
Of blurring bodies.

Transforming and dancing,
Through these very halls.

Where aching is thick,
and a embrace is a release.

Should I begin?
How should I begin?

Swallow the dagger,
stabbing from behind.

Let it sit deep in my stomach.
Push it further, where it can’t cut.

Where will it end?
How will I begin?

Under lock and key,
Just where I left it .

It escapes as it did just now,
conjuring a puncture to bone.

Blood flows,
Rushes out into the world.

Is this a release?
How can I heal?*

Pouring out,
It tastes salty on the cheek

The color is dark,
cold to the touch.

Purging the night,
that stained blood black.

Sifting the chill,
of steel from bone.

Ringing out whats left of gore and fluid,
down the drain.

*I can begin now.
This is the end.

Wrapped and tied by time.
I felt it seep,
into the world around me.
Always taking never giving.
As it absorbed… slowly.
It pushed the pins,
of the past into the realm,
of my present.
To escape the things,
I store away.
Lids of my sight close,
to view an asian forest.
Riddled with bamboo,
with filter of green and dusk
I feel myself sleeping,
near coy and a soft brook.
I dreamt I was a white wolf
in a green asian forest.  
Hunting my brother.
The wolf dark with time.
He was where darkness seeks,
to infect and seep.
I feel myself breathing,
deeper and deeper.
Slowly, the darkness around,
lifts enough and calms.
Stillness, and the light song of evening.
I feel myself calming, breathing,
and letting go.

there is a piano
it sits amongst woodland shroud
your tread
are what press the keys
to play a melody
of a woodland experience
this hymn
is different for each
as it entertains
the one that it suits
that one is you
so play the piano
the piano
in the woods

I'm an eagle,
that flies high above the basin.
Or, am I a snake navigating the forest floor.
Fate is what answers this.
It's cold reaches high and low.
One strives for the sky,
but walks among meadows.
Not knowing of twig they break,
or the path they wield.
Am I an eagle?
I would like to be,
high above the heavens.
Far from the roots that hold,
and nourish.
Am I a snake?
Meekly making way through thicket.
Always finding passage,
through life's perils.
Yes, only fate can answer this.
Fate will choose.

Another being,
fresh with blood.
Pale with dark black circles.
Fills my sight,
every rebirth of gold.
It's even there,
during its death.
Its subtle whispers,
telling of truths.
Truths I know,
in heart and betrayal.
Pester and fester,
poke if you will.
Not even time,
grays your message.
“I know”,
with force I scream.
“I know”,
I sing.
Look away at the wall,
“breath”.
Open my eyes,
there you are…
In your vile prison,
reflecting flawed detail.
Who are you?
the being in there.

It is neither here,
or there.
Not behind this door,
or maybe this one, no.
Tis not high? Or low?
Oh, I’ve forgotten so.
One can be pleased,
as I have misplaced this.
My steps miss-traced,
something could be amiss.
Though, it is difficult,
to lose such a thing.
Its hands wrap around my neck,
as it clings.
I can’t hear it ring,
what sound will it bring?
When it finally comes back.
Oh, what happened to it,
I feel like a lout.
Where is my self-doubt?

it is one desire
I have kept away

it is there behind Revenge
a jealous sister

she is there

her hair black as vanilla
eyes cold and numb

she taunts and pulls
to reveal

the flickering
foresight

of what is capable
what is expected

center stage
she quivers

“Revenge is a thought”
“Revenge is a coward”

“let me act”
“perform”

******!
She pulls

******!
She yanks

pulling at the very
thread of desire

her sound is dark
yet sweet

a howl
screaming for embrace

a performance
rhythmically polished

with saber and dagger
tip toe and pivot

she performs
the act

the act of
revenge

the filth of the alley is kind
it is the dust of the office
that coats the brick cubicles

here stands the curved beauty
presented and elegant
as if carved to physical perfection
she sways the men who pass
hoping to tickle the primitive weakness
that steeps within

like a corporate jungle
they compete for position
to meet the daily quota

among the urchins and minions
they are the forbidden fruit
they’re bouquet fills the air
bringing suitors
who choose the exceptional

these retched sales are precise
they’re instrument is physical
product of flesh and pleasure

the red light markets this reality
teasing curious souls
into the cubicles

giving into the primitive weakness
they leave them stripped and bare
cradled by the alley
covered by the filth

the transaction filled
she stands
the curved beauty
and begins this ritual again

Watching through the pane
Your hands as cuffs
As you unveil the earth
Tending what you sow
The Night Before last
Under the blood moon
It was that night
Where we spoke and
Planted seeds of old ideals
We would be as the land
Nurturing one another
As we both worked
To bring callused hands
Gripping the fruits
Of our labor
To our humble
Farm house table
These days would be long
Out in ribbons of gold
And slight scent of country roses
Would be our remuneration
These are our seeds
That we both planted
That we will water
That we will grow
Soon my love
As they are ready
We will pick each
Dream and live

I am walking.
Pushed slightly, by the northeast.
My companion yellow in color,
fondles the air with his muzzle.

Our strides take us forward.
Galloping cracked pavement.
Exploring familiar arch ways,
of hemlock and bittersweets.  

Our view is panoramic.
With flights honking in the distance,
as they return to the waking land.

We huddle at the top.
Where we watch the day,
tuck away into eves pocket.

This light is special.
It is a sensation of nothing,
and everything.

It fills you and the land,
with just enough.
Then swiftly dims away.

Leaving softly.
Is truly a perfect,
ending.

“Keep your nose clean”

His intent was momentous.
An ant like phrase,
with mountainous exorcism.

“Keep your nose clean”,
His voice like Zeus,
thunderously subtle.

Echoing and vibrating,
through regret, sin,
and fueled debauchery.

This phrase kept me true,
on-course through,
dark seas.

A map to navigate,
knowing when,
to steer away.

“Keep your nose clean”
I hear him still,
his voice sobering.

“Yes, grandfather.”

“I will”

Snow falls before us.
Through her eyes,
the sky collapses.

It tumbles gently.
Laying softly,
as lovers hands.

They are still as white.
Slightly covered,
by ivory silk.

Snow still falls.
A blanket of calm,
weaves through.

Let it keep snowing.
A tranquil scene,
as her eyes closed.

Let it keep snowing.

Our glass is full,
it spilled over last year.
Your ropes tied to me,
were cut, so I fall.

In morning, we meet,
But it will different kind.
You will hold the suitcase,
I will hold an empty cup.

Why couldn’t we last the year,
we were breaking at the britches.
You packed your suitcase,
for red rocks and a better life.

I tried to mend the seams.
I tried to fix the table leg.
But my love you’ve wrecked it all.
It wasn’t balanced,
I needed your needle, your strength.

I tried to tell you,
it was about to burst, spill.
I tried to be patient,
and wait.
We pretended.

Who the hell was I?
Who are you?
I loved you.
Our glass is full,
let it fall.
Wash our hands of this.

In morning, we meet,
But it will different kind.
You will hold the suitcase,
I will give you the empty cup.

Fill it with what you need.
Fill it with the love you find.
Fill it with memories.
I will be here,
far behind.

You're gone.
I’m shattered.
Perfect little pieces,
of self broken.
Reflecting each side,
the hero that fought,
a poet that was adored,
the helpless romantic,
even the sadist.
All of me was for you.

Sweeping up whats left.
Assemble with glue and tape.
I am not perfect,
but I still love you.

the peasant with nothing to offer
but, rock of bread

they vowed to each other
the eternal devotion

and with every union
a male shall support
the house
and female shall
tend the house

daily labor
filled with black
stained his skin

the remuneration
was barley sufficient

she offered her talents
of the morphing avifauna

feeling hopeless
they pursued
and flaunted her majesty

the worlds eyes did pay
with plenty

but greed stained
the her feathers

until yet another
wanted the relentless
curves and talents
of the female tengu

the count
made his presence known
he persuaded the wedded

that greed is now what binds
with a swoosh
her majesty was swept

locked behind stone
taken away from him
her love

Pass the pasture
of four legged wool
beyond the knoll
and to the hill
here is where I sat
as still as a frighten fawn
the fragrance of sweet grass
and black berries
filled the air
remembering my
grand fathers words
“hard times will come”
“experience you will gain”
my nostrils widen
taking in the fragrance
I shall not burden myself
with these boulders
instead my eye and mind
will transcend pass
this physical beauty

Violins will play a melody
For those who wear purple
You there in time lapse motion
Will fluidly show this
Violins will play a melody
Each limb will inherit motion
Graceful as it is
It will be slow and it will fade
Violins will play a melody
Fit for people in purple
As seen in monarchy
Underneath doors to heaven
Violins will play a melody
For you… the one in purple

Past the moon light
over the tall knoll
under the bows of the mighty

exists a pond
steaming from the warmth of the day
like glass the water is still

it is the stage for countless fireflies
that dance with the evening chill

there on the grandstand
lives the olympian
who gently glides
in silent elegance

looping under ribbons of light
she is the matriarch
of this small kingdom

tucked on the edge of timber
it is here a figure appears

she is not alone

peering from behind the steam
his eyes gleamed
slowly following the white

he examines her majesty
transfixed on ever feather

he watched

feeling strange
he saw what lies before him

a shape yet odd

her glowing feathers she spread
bathed in moon light

her body ached
twisted and full
wings to arms
feathers to curves
beak to full rose
eyes to blue

her hair flowed a gray stream
covering her subtle *******

he fell to his knees
eyes wide
hidden in spring fed grass

his eyes following the slight shadows
of her neck
pass the barren of her belly
down through taut slender legs
he confessed, he declared
that she was his

the maiden now notice
the eyes of another
demands he reveals thy self
from toe to tip
the stunned man stepped
a man of no work or duty
nor rich or fame
he stepped into view

a peasant

her ice blue eyes
weave through his features

their eyes met
and as if fated
they fell at first glance

humble and mighty
a bear leaves behind a trail
the white cloaks its end

You can control love,
as you type.
You can change the style,
which evokes feeling.
Script — curvy lines,
fitting for passion.
Sans Serif — Strong,
but friendly.
Grunge — Anger or,
vengeful.
Serif — Elegant,
and structured.
This four letter word —
is a shapeshifter.
Shifting styles, weights and
kerning on a whim.
You can control love,
highlight and change it.
Again.

But, love is fluid,
as fonts are to typographers,
as words are to poets.

they come fast
puncturing my very soul
my body only a coffin
if they stay trapped

it is torture
this feeling of eagerness
relentless fists punching
through my very chest

once my sternum breaks
blood, bone and marrow
splats on the digital canvas

pouring out everything
to the last drop
of creative blood

though satisfied
of the ******
what I see before me
is strategic
as a general in war

a visual interpretation
of society
feeding the design of
consumerism

Oh yes this work
of my blood, flesh and bone
they will consume in such
drunk laughter

like cannibals they
will judge, speak, and post
of the visual
that lead them to
experience the indulgent gorge

song held in morning
echos across summers mist
splash a loon dives in

I come to despise you
this word, this label

even though, it was muttered
first from my own lips

its sound sings the memories
that hunt my every step

I still remember...
they follow me like shadows

demons mimicking my silhouette
they infect my mind

with each syllable
rehearsed by your lips

you practiced
and twitched in glee by its sound

this word is common
it is used, everyday

its very meaning
is honor and loyalty

every rising sun
a new man will inherit this word

that day, in a brisk, painted landscape
I was brought into this world

and you inherited this word
like a knight swearing by the sword

you inherited me
your kin

I still remember...
they slip into my mind

like a vivid film
glimpse after glimpse

my reel shows me
what this word really meant

it echos a deep nothing
that is left within

the void never filled
it was there for you

this word can not be
sealed with just blood

it is word based on action
without selfishness

it is earned
and felt

yet it was branded to you
for me to say

and forever this word
will be my first

a word that's empty
to me

Resenting the light,
from the Olympian,
that warms my wool.

It cowards behind holly,
that grows in the pine grove.
Retreats to shaded cold,
below timber arms.

It is disgusted to the sight,
of white, yellow and orange.
Prefers the blue of night.

As it fades, flows and steeps.
It becomes clear,
pillaged of its white veneer.

Though, it carries forward,
like a grudge that won’t melt away.
Or is it more like love,
ever changing.

Or even as stubborn,
as a cold bedded love.
That brings life to you,
at least once a year.

But, in the end
it recedes.
Into the wood,
from under the holly.

Then waits,
until you’ve almost forgotten.

Mist today is effervescent
It lurks during the morn
This marks the end of renewal
And slowly tucks green to sleep

The Mist softly heralds in
A painted landscape
And the smell of falling blades

The straw now bowed
To the slight sent of cold
As the Mist clambers up and down
To bed in the deepest valleys

Finally blanketing
And settling on the landscape

She is the pedal
they come to gaze upon
her slow dance
where she will meet the ground
the music starts this custom
filling the air with a hypnotic trance
she begins her decent
bending and twisting
the wind her choreographer
she beautifully floats
not one scuff of her feet
she has honed this skill
the stage is set
with a glow of orange lanterns
and perfect wood detail
frames her exquisite shape
as she gets closer
the instruments grow faint
in slow time lapse motion
the pedal has reached the ground

the light is red
8:01am is the time I see your right directional
we meet here on the corner of Crosby and Abbey
you are always dressed for daily labor
collars pressed to perfection
your make up even rivals Cleopatra
I spy from your rear-view
it is glimpse into your reality
I long for eyes to embrace
with it a smile
but, I turn with each glance
this a forbidden chance
a full 3 minutes of a pure dream
then you turn right,
and I left

Walking alone
Spied by stubborn boys
With big green eyes
Stopping to see
His Birch wood hair

Walking alone
During the day of
Communion cups
And blood dripping
Dripping down
From his thorn crown

Walking empty
Through the rock stares
Thrown his way

Walking on the path
Lined with cedars
Limping to the judgments
Folks bring to the
Evening table

I am walking
With sins and tin cups
And a ******* dog

A fortnight
Will be our measure
For those who seek
An idea of independence
Beyond these chambers
Of steel and stone
Lies of beggars
Weeping urchins
And slept scent ******
Cheer on those judged by gavel
They are roped to truths
That they forswears

A fortnight
After this night
We will be our measure
Will it be justice to, whom
Society?, ‘tis not justified
Judgments of weak eyes and mind
They keep them like stones
In their shoes
Weighing them down
With hate, greed and sins of old

Before we squander
Away a chance
and before this
fortnight will reach
a certain ******
we will fill our eyes
with independence

This here is my home,
metal sides of cold.
Death drips,
from the roof and mold.

This here is my home,
I run away far with my car.
To find myself parked,
staring through the dark.

This here is my home,
the walls mutter judgement,
charred with abandonment.

This here is my home,
It's gone now,
Burnt to the ground.

This here was my home.

This is to you
The one who
Ran through the wood
Passing by apples
Through the grove
To the left
Thats where you always
Found me
It was a game you see
We played among the trees
Just the two of us

You’d follow me and I you
A complete bond
That only some experience
You my silent friend

You jumped through life’s hoops
Yes you suffered the hardships
But you stood loyal
As no other friend
You leaped through them all

There was one hoop
I never jumped
It aches my heart
The feeling rips my chest

It was goodbye
I wish I stayed
And helped you jump through
This is why I write to you

Now run! Faster!
Dash through the wood
Pass the restraints of the trunks
To open space
Were the smell of sweet grass  
Fills your soul
Run, run I say
Go with such speed
Feel the freedom
Stretch your limbs
Let them feel light

But don’t look back my dear friend
Flee from his hand
Flee from that life
I was powerless to stop
Run! Run!
But don’t look back
Wait for me
on the other side of the field
I will meet you there
And we will play again
You will find me
In our place

Wait for me

This is to you
And now I say
Goodbye

I can finally jump through
Wait for me my friend
My dear, dear friend

Droves of the dead,
drive through.
Women and men,
dogs doing tricks.
Shiny cars,
and slum deadbeats.
They are like rats,
finding the cheese.
Or maybe god?
Rich women,
poor men.
A nice guy,
in a car soulless.
Screens of pixels,
a father yells.
A mother cries,
her daughter falls in love.
Sunrises,
and then falls.
The dead rise,
soulless and unforgiven.
Trying to find their way.

among the bustle of clacking heels
and conversations through frequencies
speaking to someone
you will never meet, nor care to
they sway in the midst
of cemented construction
determined to uphold unforeseen judgement
they are of rats, fussing for crumbs
nibbling on social order
dictating instincts of survival
they shuffle, bustle and hustle
to destinations near and far

however, in this carnage
there is a moment between

it is a moment
lasting, only a few
where an action
disrupts this daily migration
it can be as simple
as a bird floating into view
or as tragic as death

it is that moment between
the bustle and the action
where we find emptiness
a truly euphoric state

Beyond the ridge
Together we clamber down
The pitch is sharp
With field floral and dust

Sister in forefront
And I far behind
Limping to the tune
Of catching up

My Naked feet scarred
By fierce barbs
The palms bleed
beet red

Gripping the handle
Of a vessel of water
That didn’t escape
Once from its spout

We stop amongst
Sapling timber
As the gold
Lights the terrain

This jaunt is meant for two
It is made before the gold sleeps
A ritual of emotion
Within each of us

Its purpose is to pour
The putrid water
That plagues us
And our thoughts

We are inconsolable
Son and daughter
So we pour each day
Into the puddle

Droplets of memory
Splashes of abuse
Ripples of habit
Spray of deception

Since then
The puddle is no longer
But a vast body of liquid
A lake

Most have been swallowed
Except for a small parcel
Where we rest our feet
Upon the ridge

The flood has taken years
But we hold the ****
And nail it shut
The pressure is there

We can feel it
One of us will have to
break
To release the flow

One of us will have to…


break.........

The mist is heavy now
Thick and moist
As sodden newspaper

It covers the range
Which, I clamber each day

Cloaking the way
It’s gray keeps me from straying

Following that beaten path
In endless ritual

Past the stone and wood structures
And past the nook that smells rustic

The mist is heavy
And I’ve noticed, how thick

For me to ascend to the crest
Where light warms the peak

I must wave through the gray
The unknown

I must calculate the cliffs
While I follow the gold

Ascend I must
Brave through the mist
Choose that path

It will define, you and me
Reach and hold
The palm of virtue
And I’ll hold yours  

Come with me
Let’s climb through
The mist
Let’s claim our crown

What is love,
if not told to the heavens?
What I feel for you,
is locked deep in the ocean.
The more I know you,
the Deeper I go into your forest.
What I want is not empty,
like weathered plains.
It’s not murky nor dead,
as I step through your swampy past.
It’s whole and true,
as the smell of rain in April.
Its beauty is among the sun,
in spring.
All I want for you,
for us.
Is an adventure,
of love everlasting.

On this day,
of 35 years.
Humbled by,
the cycle of death.
I place my foot,
on sodden wood.
Embracing,
the November wind.
It's cruel and nips,
at my blue fingertips.
There is something,
new and also blue.
That pushed me out,
into the deep cold sleep.

Your eyes.

I am up, the house is still
Even after I have already taken the pill
It is here I write perfect forms with a modern quill
streams of light fill
and distill the dark passages at will
the ribbons finally reached my poet mill
where I read countless works from my till
until the silence is broken by a sound as loud as a drill
with a giggle from my sister Jill

Scribble,
Scribble.
The etchings,
of a dreamer.

Who's quill he,
quibbles with.

Grasping at an idea,
that he hydrates
with ink.

In wrathful vengeance,
he abuses parchment,
with a sharpened wood spear.

Drinking his creation,
tweaking the taste,
that's almost bitter.

Slash, ****,
cross out.
He is vexed,
about the ending…

On a cool damp night
the patter of the port subsided
drips of the cold rain echo

a captain ripe with whiskey
breaks the silence of the harbor
feeling his way back
to the flat on high street

navigating his feet on each stone
he muttered to himself
“left, right and then right again”

ending at a stoop
he found the *** within three
“click” the humble door opened

entering the dwelling
ready for the weeks pummel
he swung his fists at the inhabitants
especially the women, the wife

this night was routine
the smell of whiskey, puke and **** is familiar
but, tonight the mist in the air was different
his blood boiled with fermented spirits
his eyes gazed an emptiness of black

with a quick hand
reaching for a sparkle of steel
he firmed his grip and pulled from the block

it made a “ting” sound as it cut the air
meeting gently with mothers throat
with rage, his eyes stabbed with intention
holding the cold steel to freckled skin
his remarks filled her eyes with fear

and I in the corner, watching, listening, feeling and rocking
yes that was you, as a sea captain
and I was there

I once fell asleep,
to pleasantries of sound.
As the ribbon slides,
it painted color vibrance.
An emotional luminance, that made,
the soulless whole,
and the blind blissful.

Sleeping to strings,
felt like death.
Not the regretful kind.
It felt as if laying,
in the field,
staring at the bountiful sky,
as seasons pass eternity.

A melody of,
exuberating melancholy,
was infectious.
As if my body,
gave into sickness.
Now its still,
in joyous null.

Let breath subside,
slowing to a faint whisper.
Sink into a nothingness mind,
drain all to slumber.
And listen to Prélude.

She laid beneath
dew and cloaked pine
her hands slight with curve
toes in agonizing arch
eyes barely reflecting
the soft green moss
that entangled auburn strains
the pitter patter in the distance
echoed a stillness in the wood
it surrounded her winter body
even though the estival air
was dank and heavy
as I stared
my eyes reflected back
a story of winter
laying with summer
in harmonious still lust
a statue captured
in this moment
is hidden in pinewood
I remember thinking
“How beautiful”

a structure
filled with belt buckles and bonnets
and yellow in tint

it welcomes the day
with bubbled windows
opened to the scent of thawing

with the grip of a steady winter released
the inhabitants embrace the air
and embark on the daily labors

clothes line flutters with white sails
the farmer tends the barren soil
and little feet, pitter patter across the green

this is an awaking
a birth cycle of warmth and light
begins a new

The wood is calm
From my bedroom window
Limbs sway gently
Giving tranquility  
I seek refuge in this moment
While chaos starts to breath
From the heart of house
With each gasp
the yelling screams
as it stains through the wall
my eyes falter only once
turning to the hall
as if to see it
creep up into my bedroom
breeding its hate
I turn
seeking refuge…again
in the wood
it is a slight calm
in this chaos

Selfish are we,
as they breathe death.
Creeps undetected,
its gluttony is relentless.

Infected by narcissus,
obsessed with “want”.
Devoured and exhausted,
we perish when exposed.

Divided by masks,
one selfless,
the other selfish.
It's your choice.

Summer seeped in night
And I standing in shimmer
In forefront of the door
Watching a moth
Hover by the bulb
Chirps in the distance
Set the silence in tune
Staring like radio static
At the moth and light
I tune out the cries and abuse
Of the one who gave warmth
you were there… you know
in impaired stumble
on the edge of light
out of the dark
you grabbed…me
by my scruff
hurled the fragility
into the bed of your chariot
you screeched
“We are going to Cali”
the horse power rumbled
we drove
and I like radio static
never took my eyes
off the bulb or moth