With delicate grace, I stuff my face.
There is no shame
Only the pain
The oinky oily pain.
Grab the nearest plate
It's time to celebrate.
Celeron inside, Celeron outside
Don't go too far now,
Don't even knoww how
Good.

When you step out
like horses hunting
for the scent of salt

Galloping miles, days
to taste

The same salt runs
down their necks
Those mountainsides
calling back    turning around

Not asking, but entering
Not following a map

You enter
You listen

Rain cup tracks in the dirt
Turn around     drink from them
Those heavy steps
You cannot return
You don't ask why

Because tomorrow I will be almost thirty,
I've decided to buy a house
with rolling floors, windows all painted shut
by the ones who abandoned it last winter
who didn’t worry about stiff paint brushes
drying to the countertops, stout furniture legs
and the oil in the rain slipping down the street.

Somewhere there are layers
of the dead that make up the soil,
paleozoic dirt clods hatching bone seeds
and plumes of thatch. And from behind
my book on the many uses of short kitchen knives
I remember the feel of my forearm
against a deer’s neck—watching myself
in the black glass eye
and reaching in deep for blood
like a pioneer in snow.

Staring what do you see?
                               While looking right through me!

Blood is not thicker than water
Just harder to wash out

Me the perpetual messiah
Trying to fix
all broken things
The never-ending, savior complex-

Like that bird we found in our backyard
When I was five;
And I had to learn that
"All living things die-"

I wish mom would've taught me that
"You cant save everyone"
Instead.

You are not a bird
You don't suffer from broken wings
Your wound's are internal
Invisible

Forever perplexing the mind of
thousands of
boggled doctors

Like I was supposed to pick up
What an X-Ray couldn't.

And inject you with some secret serum
That escaped from my lips
I spent so much time
Trying to clasp your wounds shut
So much energy
But you bled out
Right in front of me

You aren't a friggin' bird.

And I cant save you.

Winter,
a shy maiden,
                      when she advances;
                      none could foresee
                      her cunning plan
                      of occupation!

playful and gentle,
she tickled nature
with her cool fingertips,
trees with thick foliage
stood before her
like  children,
to get their hair tousled.

                                 she plays considerate companion,
                                 often covers the head of trees,
                                 with her transparent veil
                                 till the sun forcefully remove it,
                                 eager to see their faces.

by and by
she turns insistent.
her presence more persistent
snow fall dense,
grin of ice every where you look,
changes her friendly visage, it looks strange.
her true nature comes out in  the open,
everyone starts to resent her cheeky urge to splurge.
then starts her rude and strident advance.

                                   the canopy of leaves
                                   are fully laden with
                                   thick, white, blanket of ice.
                                   leaves weigh down
                                   suffering with the  cold burden.
                                   the green is completely eaten
                                   by bleak whiteness.
                                   everything,  every one
                                   becomes virtually her prisoner,
                                   thirsting for a drop of sun light.
                                                   OOO

Where are the Kerouacs?
The Ginsbergs?
The Cassadys?

Drunk on
wine
and life

Riding the highways and railroads to dreams unseen, even by them.

Clashes of ideas, like bright lights in the dim daybreak of an all-nighters.
Fueled by cigarettes and philosophy.

Now everyone wants the same thing.
A boring spouse.
A boring job.
A boring house.

What happened to the generation of lost souls that once searched the open plains and the cramped alleyways?

For nothing more than a beautiful moment.

by possession of my reality
i'll plow my new existence

(the tree most heavily pruned, i'm told,
brings forth sweetest fruits of the season)

laying dormant for quite some time
but feeling springtime's urging

leaflets springing from my branches
your words, my fertilizer

my soul will give me gentle rains
the Sun, its glorious power

it won't be long now before i feel
tight buds begin to flower

then by wind and butterfly,
by pollen shared and spread

words burst forth, oh fruitful
dreams!  these heavily laden branches!

I’m interested in the way your mind is locked. I see no chain. There are no keys. Your simple steadfast determination to be deaf and blind is holding the door shut in its hands. It is never off-guard. Your mind-beast is strange. It doesn't have eyelids. Nor lips or a tongue. It doesn’t breathe or have heartbeat. [It is made of wood. Deep roots like veins bind it where it stands. It’s grown into the door. It is the door. The beast is the door and it refuses to open. The beast is the door and it’s killing your mind; one dead thought one dead dream at a time.]