Lost and alone my thoughts fall
through seas of doubt and apprehension.
I pace across desolate hall
wanting to fill vacant chambers with fruition
And yet lacking a quick tongue
to woo my siren who walks the earth.
Lacking a sweet song when sung
will kindle a fire to heat my hearth.
I search my desert husk
For those stray, shy words to light
a bonfire against this lonesome dusk.
I search for the rush, that if right
will bring a warming voice
and soft eyes so that I may rejoice.

My quantum politics,
occupies two Space at the same time.
Is it possible?!
Macroscopically, it doesn’t seem possible,
but at quantuam levels, I enter the center,
pulling the masses, the gravitation
that is us.
Black hole. The unknown? Not Stasis.
Not Equilbirium. Death: an uninteresting
recycling between two states.
At the event horizon?
There I am pushing too, out to the far left.
the agenda curved and futurist.
How can I fault another quantuam state
far on a momentum right in opposite spin?
We Fuse at the dense core
of a black hole sun, and meet beyond.

Clutching for words, I sink into silence.
Your waxing smile soothes, but light
Not the darken sea nor calms the violence
Wrecked upon my soul by a still tongue's blight.
Your laughter, bells that chimes heaven's bliss;
Your touch shivers that skin feels *****;
Yet my world yearns for a tender kiss.
Through havoc and chaos comes something perfect.
Gentle madness and crazed frustration start
When silence through your sensual stride
Take pass my smitten heart.
Dazed and stranded, beach by your tide
My castaway heart sits upon a broken keel
For which only your love can heal.

Text me
Test me
Trust me
Tempt me
Tell me
Take me

come push me,
do it better,
but don't be
pushy when
your no better
that me
at being a pusher,
pusher man.

It's the matrix ****,
the primer luck,
in deeper Muck,
around a curved duck,
all for a radiant Buck,
in demon stuck,
paying mechanized ****,
to voice a roast Chuck,
mixed with raisins. Yuck!

Everything has an UCK except...
dried darkness.

It's the primer ****,
the deeper luck,
in a curved Muck,
around for a radiant duck
all demon Buck,
in mechanized stuck,
paying a roast ****,
to voice with Chuck,
mixed everything has Yuck.

It's the primer, a curved demon paying to roast dried darkness.
In deeper, around radiant mechanized UCK, we find the exception.
It's the matrix, in deeper all for a radiant, paying mechanized dried raisin.

Yuck! uck...

Pounding hearts
sounds like pounding farts

Pounding meats
smells like alliterative reeks

To be young and meager
To be green and so eager
without me

Where can I find Kali?
I have no Gold to Gamble
No body wants me
A cyclopic *******
Perhaps I can find her
In my massive consumption
of Drink<strikeout\ing\>  and Swine?

<quote>
...
This is a waist the spirit breaks its arm on.
The gods themselves, against you, struggle in vain.
This broad low strong-***** brow; these heavy eyes;
These calves, grown muscular with certainties;
This nose, three medium-size pink strawberries
...
</quote>

Faithful Sultry less
bleeding gone to die.
Toothy advice sense
take chase child in lie
to win favor from Mom,
Dad and narrow eye.
Fatty truth rubs
beneath a morsel joke,
beating bushy retreat
into a sheep's cloak.
Wrath swearing against
old, Sultry and three,
false age and stiff tail
boar honest friend's free.

Alert!

Oh. It's only a reminder.
Automated, automatically sent
to us.

An email, a text.
They pop on devices,
trained that way.

Tomorrow's a birthday.
Always tomorrow an Alert!
Someone's born.

Yet, the helper has become a daemon.
Friendly assistance
become nudges of melancholy.

A Daemon for grieving?

How many Alerts
can the heart take?

Yearly jolts,
automated realization
that our family is fading.

Not tomorrow's children
born into midnight's Alert,
but the child father,
mother, sister, and brother we
remember in bleaching photos.

Chemically fading away,
decaying like data
on hard drives.

Our stormy lives
remembered with
a half-life of gentle reminders.
Remembered as
ghostly background processes
sending alerts of birthdays so long
ago there's no trace except
in shared memories.

I hear a great Joke
The punchline comes
And I understand wit's dagger twist
It's too funny
I laugh, laugh and laugh
I'll remember the Joke
so that when I meet another Jake
I can decide whether
to tell the joke or fall in Love

I fell for a big Jake
the punchline came
I understand life's dagger twist
It's too sad
I cry, cry, and cry
I'll remember Jake
so that when I hear another big Joke
I can decide whether
to fall in love or cry laughter again

A man comes into Starbucks
and says to the barista "I
want 3 coffees-- One for me
One for you and One for
YOUR MOM!"

The barista is slightly annoyed
but serves the coffee; the next
day the man comes
in and says "I want 3 coffee-- One
for me One for you and One
for YOUR MOM!"

Now the barista is really ******
cuz he's kinda old school
Eastern European momma's boy
but he controls his anger
serves the coffee anyways; the next
day the man comes in and says "I want
3 coffee
One for me
One for you and
One for YOUR MOM!"

The barista loses it jumps
over and starts beating on
the guy until the other customers
separate the two; the next

day the man comes in with his right
arm in a sling and bandages
covering several lacerations he
says "I would like just 2 coffee One
for me and One for YOUR MOM because you
CLEARLY can't handle your coffee"

Where are all the anarchist tonight?
Have they all disappeared
under disgruntled lovers throwing acid,
bleeding misbeloved employees glocking no joy,
displaced juveniles servicing denial
at station number 3?
Where are all the anarchist,
my friends, the needles of hay,
stacked balefully, systematically
against the marginalized barn
side door beneath exit sign 4.
Where are all the anarchist tonight?
Have they drunk too many Molotov
and can't find the Way,
and instead burn car, smell bushes burnt
and forgotten the **** up?

And here we are Sunday
Fun day
Din Tai Fung day
Follow me
follow Us
Me trust
means mistrust?
We rust
Iron oxides
Gingered
root
trust me
reveals the blond
greying to white

In our mid-50s on a poetry site for our kids in their 20s. Not on top of the world. Not really. Not in real-time.

And you'll be with me
won't you?

In Paris, never really seeing but always trying not to step on all the sh*t.

And you'll be with me
won't you?

In Berlin, looping around endlessly on some Bahn, making crosses.

And you'll be with me
won't you?

In Rome, running another marathon. OK. Maybe you'll run it and I'll just cheer you on.

And you'll be with me
won't you?

In Los Angeles, in the end-- at the peak looking back to see us coming and foreseeing us going.

You'll be here in our seething cities, cities by the river with me.
Won't you?

I thought
the carbon monoxide detector
was malfunctioning,
her pulsed chirps
pierce so sharp
unlike any stray
songs of carousing
cat

Supposedly, she brings
good luck like rain
on your wedding
day

A dreambot cricket
more machine
in sound than any slumbering
Kafka insect
bed bug mate
I've every slept
with

She wakes me
in nightly false
alarms but when her short
life is done
maybe I'll miss
nocturnal jolts
like I miss
cold misty
rain

Elder flowers and snake bites
Watch out for the rattlers
babies are the most Dangerous

Chop their heads with shovels
bury them in unmarked fields

Copper Mountain with skis
buyer's Option purchased

9 month babies without souls

Aren(t) could be what we are
but not

a function passing time that
could be anything goes
the argument

Don(t) likes Juan
the fat one in a Chevrolet
riding alone

Haven(t), Won(t), all negate
the haves and what nots
of me doing

I(ll) passes me a double deuce
a good hand to start

but let's wait
on the flop, turn
and our river

we read enough poetry
or short stories from steve
Millhauser, the "as if"s
become like

splotches there, interstitially
holding visceral fragments
together as if by
logical cement.

it's as if our heads have become
saturated, or supersaturated
till the now and then moments
crystallize around "as if"s.

we wonder why
our loves doesn't nucleate
like <from> a more solid rock
metaphor
or why
our agreeable phrase
spreads as creamy cream cheese
on thoughtless bagels?

Atop a clear plastic
mountain box
random syncs
side with me
lying in bed
And we peers
through the murky
clear polymer
haze to see
reflections of us
Artefacts stored
in coffee cans
used empty
translucent existences
and by observing
transform our
historical objects
to Art permanence

August begins
on a cool breeze
rustling Magdeburg leaves.
Scattered heatwaves
heal beating days
but now back to the stir,
future unknown,
braving it alone
ironically with you.

A morning hum
from the heater
rushes my warm
January winter
in Baltimore just
a month before.

Past sits alone
at Millie's table
while Ed sleeps.

I write compressed
time late at breakfast
table, too early
after driving
up work's hill, daily
pass February
sunrises.

In greying room sits my idle stare
glassy I outside see Baltie air
foggy white whiskers, a comely face
Smiling mouth vacant. A circle lace,
Within contact eyes sparkling fair
Uneasy on moving teeth despair.

Zoom, zooming a Prius black streaking there
in between Baltimore, heaven's stair
up collective vibe, woodie brown palace trace
knowledge bit worker, foe uncommon hairy race
Discovering an escaped boar upon hidden lair
Greasy lit padding with dollars flare.

Two friends sit on a train.
One has a bunch of bananas.
He sits, peals each banana,
throws the peal out the window,
sprinkles salt on the remaining
firm but ripe banana and
throws that out the window too!

His confused buddy
wonders why he's wasting such
good bananas.
He asks him,
"why are you throwing all your bananas
out the window without eating them?!"

His friend replies,

...


"I don't like bananas with salt."

Are there strategies to displace binge eating
with binge doing?
Wouldn't it be swell to get $ for binge coding?
something like:

poem.each do |word|
money = word.compose(your.wordstream)
end

More efficient monetizing of your thoughts.
More efficient cars and buses.
Correlarry: more paved roads, driveways and concrete surfaces,
therefore, more runoff pollution.

It's not the end game
yet, but a vast,
complicated middle game
with closed centers
and deep positional
Play.

Will our grandmasters make
a mistake real-time playing?

There's a Mystic in the Air

Birds in the sky You know how I feel

Extincted dinosaurs Seeking refuge in the blue

From barking Dog And moody Cat Clans

Forever fighting In our 2D world

I choose you Pikachu!

We want heroes,
stars, emperors,
and sun kings
to lead us out
of Darkness.

We want
Mommy & Daddy
to make
the hurt go away.

But what can I give?
I'm just a bit player
like David says
in the pilot
of a new sitcom on
the Comedy Channel.

At first, I make whole
my career a foot
like Wesley's child.

One day, I pull myself
up with a thousand hands
twirling, connecting
in dendritic arbors.

I stand at last bare
face against Absurd face,
naked as a rolling Stone.

Blackheart gives
a gun to me
my brother,
and slaps us
my sister.
He says for country,
for security sake
take this pistol
and shoot us
because we are them.
In traditions long
lost to meaning,
I cover her face
to hide my shame,
kick her rib
to mute the pain,
and **** that hole
before life's drain.

"If there are flowers flowers
must come out to the road"

The four Black Vinegar clans:
From the North - Shanxi,
Chinkiang (or Zhenjiang) from the South,
Black vinegar from Sichuan,
And red worker vinegar of Fujian.

Furious flowers wait
across the Realms
across the Changes
"and the spiraling dead,
our black revival, our black vinegar,
our hands, and our hot blood."

we Vinegars
We got this thing
this Thing called Radar Love

(cue song)
(montage of Black Vinegar & Furious Flowers)

We live our single lives
whether with friend, girl, boy
husband, wife or family.
We live our single life.
That is the American Way,
and certainly not
the United Way.

We're taught to lift
ourselves up, bootstrapping.
So I keep sampling
my heart with replacements,
hoping against the odds
that mean means something,
and normal distribution doesn't
give Gaussian grouse.

Or could it be
I'm strapping myself
to the wrong boot
and all my recursive
iterations are yielding
a false curve
to my zero coupon life?

Wake up
Eat that Black Coffee
Drink up Hot Omelette
Listen to Cool June Rain
I am still the Bop King
at least for Awhile
at least till the New Crown

Only in last year's glow,
could this year's Red
chorizo salami come,
and I haven't gone yet.

Gone over the edge
of these Breakfast tables,
in empty cup
or full of caffeine.

Gone over to home not yet
cuz the Brain keeps
me here in a dish,
in artificial cerebral spinal fluid,
or let's just call it
Recording Solution

Don't mix the salts!
Cross-contamination
is a killer for these Recordings.

Easy time
Hard times
Time as primes

Sunday adjoins real
Numbers of our work week.

Prime Monday 2 mirrors in Symmetry

Tuesday's 3 breaks it

4 expands our mirrored self
******* the ****
pass procreating 2

Pentagon 5's primal safety

2 Friday the six a child of
monday and tuesdays

And we rest on the 7 sabbath
dominant or diminished
it doesn't really matter in
Number Theory

Force is mechanically
easy to solve
like a heart squeezed
in a surgeon's gloved
hand deep in cracked chest

Rib cages dried bones
in High Plains of Reno
or was it White Sands of Nevada?

Nuclear blast equations
of forgotten love ancient hate
and modern little cheats among
the billion of us Forced
over seconds to leave
deep craters

How strange the integration
happens to give same the area
but different under curved ***!

Do we like long hot shafts
or voluminous D-cups?
H-bomb holes or a Grand Canyon?
A quick poke or grinding strokes
watered down over centuries?

The math's the same
sung in Smithery
in Bessie lilt
about a little sugar
in our bowl
about a hot dog
between our rolls

"Stop your foolin'
and drop somethin'
in my bowl"

Breanna Winn is fictional--
a composite character. She
follows the decaying poems of
unnoticed flies and rough
cut diamonds ****
in the rubber grooves of
adolescent sneakers.

Ignoring
and ignored all at once
scraping and grinding
each step of pressurized,
carbon against concrete
we walk down neighborhood
sidewalk with fossilized
fly pebbles
stuck in heel.  

Anthropomorphous dogs
walking people in woods,
forest, and dense city
jungles filled with Lord
of forgotten
flies swarming the air
and paving the ground.

Breanna silently,
carefully, narrates the life
of a drifting, morphing
black clad super-org
tribe.

Should it be Blond straw Cafuné
Or fiery Auburn silk
interdigitated;
Slender twine prehensively Black
On hip Chestnut rope
fingered?

Howling bird in cage
Blackish crow in rage

Odin's eyes scan
All-father sees fan

Stylized violence
Rapes with diligence

Half-breeds born
Poseidon shorn?

Roman Hercules
Or Greek Theseus?

Our grottos of painted *****
Wombs for hero cornicopia

It makes sense
but doesn't rhyme

The Card Deck exists
like a first probabilistic
dimension of our
Singularity

A priori we know
the deck is stacked
King and Queen -winners
even Jacks with horses are

And Aces?

Our high flyer fishermen
Our David heroes who take on
too much risk
not knowing not caring
of Black Swans
of Cold Snaps
and Power Grid
Price gouging surge

They will always bring
home a win fall
Fishes or Death

----

A sleeping
A shuffle of coils
A ghost in the shell
lingering at the bottom
of our ocean cloud
waiting for Aragorn's
summon a Call to Duty
a cry to battle one
last time brutish twitter trolls
and hordes of pundit orcs
them & Us ghost processes
finally released back
to our collective
CPU

----

Since the Garden
and foaming waves
twos have been losers

still. Double deuces
ain't bad looking at a polluted
River with mix Numbered plastics:
7, 3, 5 and standing styrofoam
waves

----

You and me we play
with Poisson's hand
the Right embraces
a lover's heat
the Left wiggles
from a child's energy
and the Center holds
our grandmothers together

A new dimensional
alt Left strikes
with father's hammer
while novel ancient alt Right
pays from mother's purse

With what frequency
do these hands
give us Chance?

The cards are known to Us
but the unordered shuffles give
surprising Turns
extending our
Game into unobservable
Realms where we
are all in

Change is necessary.
Change is require.
But is change sufficient?

Change is a diversifier.
Change is a niche filler.
But is change transformative?

Change is not good.
Change is not bad.
But then what changes do we keep?

Heuristic small change we like?
Perpetuating idiosyncratic Absurdities?
Selecting traits for "survival"
in a world of our own creation.

Do you understand the Michael Jackson trap?

Real Evolution is easy.
Diversity + Mobility = Survival
But cosmetics is much harder.

What will the monkey see in the mirror?
Will he like my face?
Will I have diversified my humanity,
change my BIOS for faces,
to an arbitrary Facebook,
Unrecognizable to a nostalgic monkey?

Children forging
ripple across
a deafening dune  

Flowers bow
their head to pray
lulled by the sound
of pillows

Our sappy creek nearby
sinks in time silence
trickles beyond
a graveyard


Was I in the wind
beyond clouds
beyond angels?

I draw circles because
I like them.
They are the hardest
Shape to draw
at the beginning,
a long time ago.
I steady my hands,
by making curves.
I like them.
I color them in
and know which can say,
that is right
and this wrong.
My favorite is green.
I draw green and
purple circles,
liking them in full circle
again.

The clay comes from Earth
just as we
clay motion people Wurm
our way up

In a miracle we fool
ourselves
thinking transmogrification
has Calvinized calves
into bronze molded
legs shaped by a wise Maker

Instead of fast steel Forge
industrially heated
within Narcissus' Crucible

Hot from the oven
our Make-over face,
rouged from fused
sand calls
us Beauties silicon
-enhanced

In the beginning
there is a class
of creatures we call Gods
that much later
we realize are just mono-
instances of god.

From the tower
I babble tongues,
coded messages and ciphers
that you implement
in your daily rituals
and obsessive behaviors.

In R, it's something like,
christ <- god(moral compass)

In Ruby it could be
buddha = God.new

And perhaps a nihilist or we
would find happiness in

10000.times do
pushRock = buhdda.take(me)
end

It's all pidgin for me,
unstructured glimpses at a world
that's moving and changing
faster than my non-existent
grandson can comprehend.

It's all a network
of +1 and like'd
firing mix media,
reinforcing a nascent
thought stream,  
back-propagating our legends
and fairy tales, Grimm
reminders of epic Odyssey |
5 Armies in film |
Warring States |
loping dog with a severed hand
in Akira black & white mouth
repossessing Spaghetti Westerns
back into our feudal *****.

Fire, firing
into the Monsoon rain.
Always in the Hemingway
rain of symbols and Matrix
green code.

And in my cupped hand,
I catch glimmering fireflies,
instances of Gaiman's
American gods, Tricksters,
Coyotes, and my faithful
Dog smiling at me.

a coffee breakfast last
year dad had just passed
away last month ta ree
the year before i'm away
from Home again i think
I can still call
them and talk update dad
on work ta ree for a recipe or how
to cook something I remember
everywhere there's food
and habit and repetition they
are there like the coffee
everyday

Wake, read, work
and Repeat.

Sounds like a movie
instead of coffee
with my father

distant

with David Lehman
on March 30
living The Best Years of Our Lives

reading again David
things I've forgotten
things We'll only remember

living in the Matrix
of references and inside joke,
literature search
and transposed multiplication
instead of regularized
algorithm

how funny our dad
is who knows only trees
and the bitter cold as Winter
sets in my lips are dry
what do we say
skin like parchment

how funny our Dad
who only knows
streams of information
shows as allegory
"Shaka when the walls fell"

what's a good movie
quote for Failure?

The Titanic?
always the sinking
is corrupted with an interlacing
Rose at the bow
dreaming of forever love

We dads aren't Dana Andrew
We don't even know
who
that is and don't care
We're frantically Raising
Arizona blossoms in concrete
soil two beautiful
daughters
We CK Lewis Dads

Lehman time is
over time to take a shower, work
and Repeat.

George.Carlin.stuff
window.shopping.green
jacket.turquoise.dress
­my.our.stuff
close.2.kiss
brief.closeted.mix
somewhere.sapphire.s­hift
somehow.cerulean.drift
wish.holding.past
we.stuff.me
faded.l­eave.memory.