i think in colours
i only hear your voice
would i be yellow,
if it was your choice?

do you see me?
do you know my name?
my idiosyncracry
it’s making me deranged

if i was a instrument
would you play me?
it’s detriment
and ambivalency

you are strong
and i am weak,
i want to belong,
to your mystique

Freeing from the shackles of the past
trickling down to a catharsis
at the slender neck of the hourglass,
the golden grains of sand
dribble down
to create my reality.

Unhurriedly they flow,
with me they flow
into the forgottenness of the past  they flow,
to rise like a Phoenix
clothed in the newness
of the present
to create a new me!

A lost and thirsty wanderer
          sought oasis on a parched and dusty plain
                   where spectral mesas
                merged with pastel stratus clouds -
            quivering in the summer sun.

                    A slender blue ellipse emerged
                            along the horizon's edge,
                          taunting the traveler’s arid throat.

                    Recalling child-day afternoons.
                         splashing in the pond behind the barn,
                              his legs urged toward aquatic deliverance.

                                       But knowledge seized his boots.
                                   Wary of loving a delusion,
                               he chose instead to seek a road or farm
                           or chance upon a horse-backed rancher
                                tracking down an errant calf.

                                       Still he looked back to his phantom pond  –
                                             never to know if an oasis flowed
                                                   less than an hour’s walk away.


                               December, 2018

The night
is a torn tapestry
where celestial bodies
burn beautifully
incinerating
the cosmic stitching
that bind us,

quantum energy
unraveling
all of reality,
as I stare
stupidly enthralled
by the awesome
complexity.

Silvers spheres
of gaseous spirals
spew atomic fury.

Other poets
and painters
have presented it better,
such a sweet
starry starry night
made to delight
all of us,

but this time
I return
my reflections
with the love
and devotion
born of
a dreamer’s
dark predilection
to romanticize
every aspect
of our lives.

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Coffee blotched wool woven seats
Impassive solidarity on your ***
Dank rapidness
Screeching scream let loose as we transend
Through bleak blackness
Thoughts stream
"Wisdom teeth dont make you any brighter"
"But Starbucks coffee makes my stomach..."
...turn left
Stale air in my every crevasse
The doors to the train open
Crowded shuffles between aged avacado quiescent places
Those weary may rest on, float on
Shallow jolted perfume
As cucumber melon intoxication erupts
On undetermined destinations
Aspiring poets gaze
Out into the open world of
Twinkling city stars
On curved paths
On dipped forks in the road
"All passengers must exit"
Crowded shuffles between aged avacado quiescent places
Those weary return home

This is the color of my walls at eight am
a little light a little dark a little I don’t know if I want to try yet.
“Just say they’re yellow,” I am told.
Secretly, I think they doubt that too, that sometimes they wake up and see the not-yellow.

This is the color of my walls at midnight
a mess of thoughts, making a Gogh at it. I think maybe there’s a little red mixed in sometimes.
“They’re not red,” I am told, again.
How could they know, do they watch my walls at night? I wouldn’t mind the company.

This is the color of my walls at eleven am
a cave I wish I’d never tried to leave at eight am, a cave of moss and wood and rivers.
“No plants grow, no waters flow in there,” I am told.
I can’t hear them, because I am in a cave and the water is rushing too loudly.

This is the color of my walls at three thirty pm
just a little bit like sleeping, more like a cocoon, nothing at all like leaving.
“The walls are dead,” I am told.
But maybe they just wish they were, so they wouldn’t have to listen to their colours.

This is the color of my walls at this time
maybe pulling, maybe pushing. I think that one is yawning, that one sighing
“Don’t listen to the things walls say,” I am told.
Aha, so they HAVE heard them too. My walls make them miss the colors of their walls. Aha.

We are all poets
We all spit it
One time or another
We all **** with words
And sometimes commit ******
We all are poets
In a sense
When our words turn luscious
And resemble hymns
When our words inspire
Awakening angels and sometimes demons
We are all poets
I have no doubt
Ive been spoken to
And felt
The words so deep
Touch wounds stitched up neat
Touch hearts last beat
Make heart skip beat
And repeat
And i know it
We are all poets