I'm irritated and I'll
pour this bowl
of wrath on all
the things
around me
punch holes and
shiver through
the sudden bleak
Emptiness
around me
fill it back up
with liquor until it
sloshes away down this
knife hole and it
clatters to the ground
even though it's got my
fingerprints on it
I can wince through these
tears and cover it because
I'm irritated

Some think this world a vale of tears, or worry and of sighs;
That Life's a great big lottery, in which few win a prize.
I read some hopeless verses once that don't deserve to last,
They told how the mill can never grind with water that is past.

I'd like to change that fallacy which has caused so many a tear,
And by transposing make it bear a message of good cheer
And point the way of winds of hope, like pennant on a mast,
For I know that the mill can grind again with water that is past.

A mountain stream comes trickling in the sunlight down the hill,
And gathers volume until it has strength to run the mill;
It happily continues then, upon its useful way,
Turns other mills still further down, until it joins the bay.

Its temporary mission o'er, it sweeps out to the sea
With other useful waters bearing it company;
And there all peacefully they rest, beneath the shining sun,
Who seems to think their mission is scarcely yet begun.

With gentle force He lifts them up in vapors to the sky,
And gathers them in fleecy clouds in His domain so high,
Where kindly winds then waft them back to that mountain home,
From which a few short hours before we saw them start to roam.

The cooling night then causes them to fall in gentle showers,
A blessing to that mountainside, to grass and trees and flowers;
And in the dawn of early morn we find them back once more
In that same little mountainside, but stronger than before.

They gather volume as they come a-tumbling down the hill,
And then with added vigor again they turn the mill;
And then in play they rush away, through meadowland and town,
And every mill again is turned as they go dancing down.

The brightest day is no more useful than the darkest night,--
Our troubles soon would disappear if we'd view them aright.
Good fortune may be holding back her best things to the last,
For I know that the mill can grind again with water that is past.

And that same little mountain stream
Has always been to me
But one of Nature's many proofs
Of Immortality.

Miles of dusty polished marble
In half lit carpeted corridors
Of abigails and millers
Furnished lobbies that
Pipe down in soft tones
For absent auris
And present shells

I can see that double blue horizon
where the sea and sky meet
Barely
through the trees in the parking lot
There's a little gravel trail
leading through the ground cover
called Pacific Mist on both sides of the trail
that leads down
to that sea salt smell
and the loud echos
of water striking cliffs
and large jagged half - islands
farther out into the bay
the longer you stay
the more you belong here

being separated from you
is suffocating
and i wonder
if you feel the same

Dusty you pick it up
but it's been too long
and the chords feel strange
and the sounds not right
so you
fuddle with
pegs a bit
and is
still not quote right
so twist them harder
until they
Snap and piercing
note vibration worth it's
Snapping blessed bleeding
fingers to play
cracking oak in
oiled frame ashamed
shamed smashed against
the doorways of discordant sea
there
that's better

I swallowed this coal
in the pit of myself
it's just there
weighing me down
making me slow
curse you circumstance
you're never in my favor
I think I'll drown you
in liquor and pour decisions

Drift and blur
Detachment
Fork in a socket
Reach out to catch but
Not falling at all
Why is it dark outside?

I went about my day
with my intestines and stomach
so tight
I had swallowed rocks
boulders
exhausted
shaking
nauseous
went home early
there was no way I could function
so I used the rocks
to drown myself
in a bottle

I should be sadder
Bawling great big tears
To drown my cheeks
But I'm just sitting here
Am I a robot
I feel blunt
Muted
Lethargic
What's wrong with me

my hand could pass
through the table
if I pressed hard enough
my feet
through the floor
I just want to melt
until I disappear

Weeping bleeding memory tree
Who branches are heavy
When amber globes hang
And pop with sudden death
Smashed on
Gravitational wombs
Careen into cayenne powdered loam
They'll unfold Irises in the dawns morning
sputtering sparking electric dreams
where it grows beside the Styx

I enjoy words
Little words that fit unto tiny cubbeyhole spaces, a word like Key, something you could fit into a pocket, makes other words rhyme and think about secrets and doors. A wooden frame, gateway to another room or someplace else, it opens and closes and clicks and turns and clinks and all from that tiny three letter word.
Large words that stretch and yawn and roll around in your brain marble like trying to fathom and plumb their bottoms. A word like Miasma. Miasma Miasma. What does that make you think of. Like a big stinky cloud, it creeps along the ground because it's heavier than air, something soup like, but I've never heard that word used to describe a soup. Or really used for much of anything at all. It's not a word people say or write to each other. Miasma. That's sad. It's a beautiful word. An interesting word.
"Normal" words, everyday words like buttons. Makes me think about a button on your coat. Maybe it's blue or one of its shades like cobalt navy or azure. And it's popped off and rolled away under a couch or in a crack somewhere. And we all agreed that that Buh sound was what those round objects made of all sorts of materials that hold your shirt closed, that sound is what that thing is going to start with... buh tuns... or **** tons... how strange. That we all agreed that.

Moon of my heart
I haven't called you that in awhile
in the language that isn't ours
or heard you say it's response back
Even so
you are still
Jalan at'thirari anni

Sometimes I stifle
under this silence
I feel like a tv on mute
around other people
and I was starting to feel like that
around you
the walls had gone up
and you built them too strong
for me to see you through them

in reverse trendelenburg
hot blood flush rushes
to my face
vision blanks the time being
and scarlet feverfew dreams
come with bills of ignored mail
why did they pour sand all over my bed
Im helplessly brushing notes
of blackbird wings
all because I wanted to give up

Today is my last good day
and although you normally don't know
that is coming
I do
and If I could have pushed back the dawn
of this day I would have
for more time with you

I like to remember that time
that we went to IHOP breakfast for the first time
You didnt know
but i was really nervous
and you started singing bohemian rhapsody
and i joined in
it made me feel better

You haven't replied to
The letters I've written
because
I haven't sent them

Oh goddess
Let me kneel before thee
in supplication
Arms outstretched
the temple's forbidden smoke
burning in the brazier
is your perfume
How may I best worship thee?

In the summer we shall
paint your alabaster idol
Her lids be the color of bruised fruit
She is nameless in our tongue
but the people called the Greeks
name her Aphrodite

The farmers pray to you for wet summers
the masters beg you let them cling
the dregs plead for full bellies
They do not know you
They do not commune with you
in your temple
and yet they have the audacity to lament
when you turn your face from them

What brings the rain and corn
Is sacrifice and devotion
it is the doorway you enter through
But even that is meaningless
for your beauty is a mask
and you are not your face
or your idol
behind it
is your divine truth, secrets lie there
gods demand beauty in spirit
so if they be hideous to mortal sight
they will still be beautiful
to Aphrodite

So bring the oil
cloying to pillars our garlands
touch our forehead to the cold stone
and lift our spirits
to meet your painted own

My outlet is this ink
and there is no other

my feelings overflow
with nowhere to go
waves smashing against the breakwater
spraying sea foam
a cacophony no one can hear but me
because it's roaring
inside my head

Rainbow parking lot oil stains
After the rain
staring at the washed asphalt
and my fingers go numb
wondering how the hell
and why so sad
another long drag
so much for
trying not to be bitter

Sometimes I write landscapes
sometimes I paint abstract thought
sometimes emotions split
the iron I have wrought

Past me was an *******
He didn't care that future self
would be miserable
selfish ****
I want to trade places
with that *******

Sometimes what is
and what would have been
or what will be
slips
Through your fingers and
possibilities and moments
that never were
or won't be again
flicker through
single frames on a
film reel
and if you could see all the frames
At once
you would be God

with a black sharpie smile
and two scissor holes
my brown paper bag face
lets me walk out the door
and interact with you
its safer in here
my brown paper bag face

Feel the walls breathe
They ripple outwards
And reverberate back
Cracking the air
Breaking the floor
Shocking the senses
Accelerating the heart
Heating the space
Between us

Layed on the floor
breathing was shallow
too weak to have more
and flustrated about it

Silver Forest
Glinting Steel
Pierces Me
From Every Angle
Walls of Razor
And Floors of Blade
Slowly

Pour the killing
                            Fire
Upon our raucous invaders heads
from the murderholes
we rain their
              death
until they run aflame
screaming
from the iron gates

I came upon a wood
Where no birds pierced the air
With their song
I feel the wind
On my skin
But not its howl
I sat near a rushing water
Whose torrents flew undamned
White foaming by
In silence

Sip my coffee
and read poetry
like I'm reading
the newspaper

Blurry eyed **** of paper
and memory
quicker
pull it open
oh
I love it
Bring me more

So light
I brushed the drops away
With a wave.    
But long enough
To soak the earth
And fallen timber.                
I balanced on precariously
Traversing effervescent deluge
Losing purchase
And contemplating a sanguine palm.
Empathy swells the waves
That wash from each other.

ive got me shovel
and ill ***** some more dirt
into this hole
but there is no bottom

thought of writing so
many letters they fill to bursts
of rain worn
mailboxes
Peeling painted
faces so adored
you'll see no other and
ache forever with the
thought of writing so
many letters

Force my chest
deep on the grinding wheel
firing sparks
into my heart
ill burn myself out here
so the razors of yesterday
won't sting

Home that isn't
Is full of spiders
What do they eat
I'll sweep them up
Until it's lovely
Again

The spillway
Is the only way left
For it
To flow

The stones of lambs – and folded hands
grass as green as Seafoam
summer sky – this place we lie
The flowers grow as brushes
to paint our fates
- in heartbeats

Sit on street corner
with my hand written sign
Delicate letters
and scriptwriting fine
whisper your desires to me
love loss lymric & rhyme
I'll promise you sweetly
it's worth your dime

Crowd rushes forward
surging
and back
blaring horns to battle
and gasping doom
swarthed blades
screaming metal
thunderous applause
raucous madmen
best concert ever

What the hell is normal
anyways
everyone's running around
with these terrible secrets
so devastating
keeping it in
making them alone and
disconnected
that phone off the hook noise

You're the kind of girl
that makes someone want to write
and crumple up
***** of paper
because the words aren't right

Mouths move to
Abstract sounds
Musings
Lounge ice cream
Meltings
Of black and white
Drippings
Out of the frames
Of old pictures