lost my heart in the circular realm
when I think of anything it sounds
like a drugged up
contradiction, that never was and never will
it's like I'm Dead.
In this vacuum presumed
Dead.

who I know , who I knew
the people that helped me grow,
are never recycled as new.
I keep writing these lines of my poetry mind
that to everyone else looks twisted and lied
like my mind is corrupt and they knew all along exactly
what's up.
What I know for sure is that nothing is for sure
But someone's said that before,
so I guess I'm a fake
unless I discover something new,
something blue, something old,
nothing at all,
it's absurd
it's fool's gold
it's an unreality
from the line of a sonnet
written on a vanishing moon.

it's like I'm Dead.

My dead ancestors have taken up all
the juice for my parade.
I'm left a charade; a skit;
half-hearted & unfit

it's like I'm Dead.
My obsessions say it all
You know the reasons
the buzzes
and the contrite liaisons.
You knew
all along
the undead song sang
to the soldiers
whose lives are ****** war zones

You know my cellophane
you've seen it televised live from every side,
and on every dead celebrity whose tragedy was pied.

The moon has become a dancer
at this festival of love.
This dance of light,

This sacred blessing,
This divine love,
beckons us
to a world beyond
only lovers can see
with their eyes of fiery passion.

They are the chosen ones
who have surrendered.
Once they were particles of light
now they are the radiant sun.

They have left behind
the world of deceitful games.
They are the privileged lovers
who create a new world
with their eyes of fiery passion.

Morning *** is like drinking coffee
Hot
Thick
Sweet

Brown?

Morning *** is like scrabbling eggs
Quick
Heat
Beaten

Creamy?

Morning *** is like sizzling bacon
Greasy
Aromatic
Bubbly

Crunchy?

Morning *** is like sipping orange juice
Cool
Tangy
Healthy

Pulpy?

if i wrote about winter
on the back of a starbucks menu
with coffee stains and coffee smells,
would you feel the snowflakes
miniature yet icy
bite your reddened cheeks and outstretched tongue?

if i sung about early-morning autumns
in the steamy hot shower
echoing in the long empty hallways
would you see the grey mist that cloaks the streets
wispy threads of fall-season cloud
and the yellowing of the leaves?

if i carved against a smooth surface
about lazy summer blue skies
and the warmth of the sun
would you hear the intense crash of
each wave against the rocks
and the excited shrills and laughs and chattering
at the beach?

if i painted on a blank canvas,
patiently waiting for the picture to conjure,
about chilly spring breezes
and the foggy spring rain
murmuring of what's to come
would you smell the fragrant
dainty flowers that grow by abandoned houses
or from dew-strewn grasses on the park
or the post-rain forest earth?

I
I am in Cardiff,
          Where waves pummel the jetty
I am in Cardiff,
          Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
I am nowhere

II
Where the sun severs the street and
Slowly, methodically,
They come, they come.
Electrifyingly stupefied in the dawn,
Tenantry not bound to cause and
Helpless as marred lead in the wind,
Stuck to strata and
Battered under **** pale-green
Thinned on spread fingers.

III
There is intent when the addict mutters ---
Alienated in his nettled gutters ---
"Life is cheap and love is free."
Hopelessness's epitome
Sits naked beyond the wall.

IV**
And I am in Cardiff,
          Where waves pummel the jetty
And I am in Cardiff,
          Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
And I am nowhere

Old man eyes hide
behind rims covered
in Native design
Lens' of a dark
bark brown keep the
prying looks out
Honest irises are a virtue,
I was told.
Mine scream
"This head is muddled and old!"
So cover them up
Don't let the hungry
stares get past the
glass, sipping from that
red plastic cup
Honest eyes are a virtue
I think that's only true
for you