Beware the ones with that unbreakable faith
you'll know the bunch
they've got it dripping from their mouths
like a paralyzing case of rabies
and they'll look at you with those black and white raccoon eyes
eager for a trial of persuasion
so they can shoot it down
like a pearl harbor plane fighter.
know,
to posses this wisdom
is to become a hated minority of the times
and those that carry the faith like fire will seek to save you
but their warmness and friendship will be like loving a scarecrow
eventually they will push you to do something radical
and all will stand in awe
like statues as you burn their sacred icons in a heavenly fire.
but it's not enough
no
it will never be enough
and soon you will fade into the background of history
like a photo in sunlight on the dash of a car.
ideals will lose their meaning
change will become a myth that scales with technology
culture will die
romance will become a foolish art
and the faithless will be forced to heave a heavy smile
years will pass like this
and you will almost die of boredom
but one day when your just about to kick it forever
some kid will print your face on a magazine or newspaper
and zing you are a revolutionary
and the faithful come running

There is a stillness hanging in the room
whaling from the memory of the events this morning
work,
moving through a field on the tailgate of a truck
work and work on the mind
tall green grass swaying with the wind
and bambi asleep and fragile
curled in a ball, unaware
sure that mother is near
weak in temporary withdraw
I like to think she's dreaming a little in there
of a world where she doesn't have to watch her back
one where she can grow old
maybe even one where she can step in the same place twice.
But instead she meets the belly of my truck
because of her sleep and camouflage
toss and turn
metal on bone, spots and rust stained fur
in the front and out the back,
run over, run through, and thought dead as she brushed past
my dangling feet
I thought she would be nearly dead, and I was scared as hell
almost jumped.
But she's tougher than she looks
and only allows herself to whinny
so loud, like a fog horn
it was the kind of sound that creeps inside of you and dies
is like a tape recorder on a bad loop over and over
even after it's gone and done
you can close your eye's and see the sound waves on the backs of your eyelids
she grows farther away and she moves to the edge of the tall grass
mother's gone
the truck rolls on and so do I
with work and work on the mind

Where there are fields of corn and wheat
and where the river whistles down the spine of the land,
loneliness waits, frigid and limp,
hovering with harmony as he parts the sea of grass.
He nervously grips the pole of an umbrella,
dodging the sun rays,
and shuffling through the postcards in his pockets.

He’s a quite spector.

On board with an unlikely train
of foul, bitter, and loss.
lumped together with
the unpleasant, unfavorable, and alike.
And there he travels,
sipping at tea, and eyeing biscuits.
waiting to fill another field.

Loneliness, who or what is like you?
What goals can you obtain for us?
Why must you travel?
Where is your heart?
Is it there?
Is it beating?
Can you condition mine?

Where there are fields,
just beyond my back door,
cling like a scarecrow no more.
Come inside and get warm,
let’s talk,
but eventually, Loneliness,
I know you must leave.

What price do we pay in the end?
for feeling love in our bones
but only hinting at it to another
like a shadow
trying to converse with its owner.
One can only shiver out loud
with the cold iron machinery of the inevitable
bundle up, carry on
and silently turn a cold shoulder to the world

I was told by my friend Nick Fu that
an un-tuned piano can never make music,
despite the intentions of the player.
And now the old upright from my childhood
sits by the mouth of the staircase,
with cobweb skin, and a sore throat.
Sometimes I think about trotting downstairs
and playing it.
opening up the top and letting the sun shine
on the beautiful machinery.
Mostly those feelings come at night when all is asleep
and the sun is gone.
Sometimes I get up and go downstairs, inches from your face,
hovering my fingers back and forth like dream.
I’m sure its old bones wouldn't mind the workout though.
Maybe I’ve neglected you. Made you starve. Made you wide eyed.
Made you hate me for not echoing you through the chambers
of everyone's tiny dusty heart.
Sometimes I sit backwards on your bench, trying to see what you see
but I know you can only see when you are being played.
and one day you thought I was back, but it was just the kids next door,
punching your keys and pulling at your ivory.
To everyone,
you were ugly.
Maybe even me.
I haven't thought of you in so long.
The way we met met fingers through life, and works of music,
and heart
in the past, Surely extends to now,
I’ve done it
like an old romance movie: “you once found me beautiful”

Took a hike in a park today.
Charles Lupo at my side - camera in hand
watching, waiting, and wondering
as we climbed those cute dunes of sand and sea grass.

There we plopped our ***** down, at the top,
Charles Lupo - busy documenting beauty.
Me, reading the same,
all bewildered and stubborn-like.

At our backs: industrial and residential devils,
all doggy eyed and spoiling words, disrupting our documents.
Setting fire and hell to our paper,
one by one.
Feeding the fire of big smokey green,
across the drenched, softly-splintered sky,
and in every peripheral of its inhabitants the notion:
Fly.

Before us, the crisp clear apple light
all egg yolk orange and such.
What a happiness elixir my mind has swallowed
on the sand banks next to my documenting companion.

Devils in our hearts,
minds like America’s harsh cornerstone turning,
and the park, only an image.
We pack our things and head up or down shore.

Return is certain.

In eyes of golden seeming fortune,
where waterfalls fall awkward rain-like
with sharp rocks and cemented over arms,
engulfed:
windows of the soul,
let the light and rain inside,
let the dark and insane inside.
Shut the back door and looked for wells of water, and silver
in the mouths of busy streets and monopolized peninsulas.
And just left, still fresh and new,
spending money on fast food and cigarettes,
not conscious, not sane, no eyes of gold,
no eye’s of gold.
Steep four cylinder hills, ****** brakes, and surprising ditch deer,
where and wild with delicate sea grass
and endless pie in the sky.
It is I who is bewildered with water beads running down the brain,
and a great audience before,
there to watch the play that's Americas greatest  invention
the end in end, hand in hand
with no remarkable story told,
and no eyes of gold.