First, I am the rising sun
and on the coast, I am the crashing waves at dawn
I am the forest murmur, the silent song
I am the nameless nativity,
and when you slow your pace to a stillness, I am there.

My radiance fills the hour and the place
footsteps fall, that leave no trace;
I am the passing cloud, a deep breath you take
cracks in the pavement, a grand escape.

I am your love's embrace, and so much more,
the thunderous sound and the dancing floor,
I am the moments laughter, and biting pain;
my full embrace can drive you insane.

I am the twilight and the milky way,
you find me on the mountain, and as you peak,
and see me in the haze that billows when you speak;
I am the city lights that pull the stars from the heavens to earth;
and when you find me, remember that I am you.

Family, the heart of the tribe resonates beyond the horizon
beyond the soul into the great spirit, Mother Earth;
her eyes open as ours start to form; a single breath between us all,
in--and out we scream with uncertain emotion.

The spring of all life swells with joy at the notion:
the birth pangs of a new childhood, a circular trust, and a tribe reborn
in the spiritual spectrum of all ages and cultures.
Glistening, on the surface of oceans of joy, Father Sky smiles effulgent.

I am on the front of a beach, a seas exit or entrance.
There was a feeling of superficiality in my vision, and my conception.
The waves, **! The keepers of the fleeting see on the soon-to-be-night tide.
They were so subtle as to loosen me in placidity, a melting hypnosis of crashes and slides. Thus was the nature of my moment with god. I was thus, thus was thus, thus was truth, god was truth, and the moment was god.

And oh, what a season, of fire and explosions, of the heat of summer and the love of the summers warmth, in the night that blew a silver wind in the moonlight, and the days that would either burn your skin, or tan it, depending upon constitutions. And depending upon the angle of the eyes, one could see the beauty of either the blades of grass, where there is no single blade, or the golden-sun dusk that was the most beautiful red, orange, blue, violet, becoming deeper as every memory of the day passes with the sun for new memories to take their place. And I will sit and wonder at the new sky, the freckled face of the drawn beauty, made demure, made to endure, though the moon gets smaller, though the day seems longer, though slept through. I will sit and wonder, until the darkness fades, the silver turns molten; the freckles turn pure blue, the true colors of his natural shyness. Just then, the day seemed like the beach, a seas exit or entrance.    

There was a beauty in the ever foreseen sorrows of the future. Where the time became a fortune telling bell that, even the dulled mind, could hear and know where the tune was going. So as far as the ghastly face of death was concerned, we thought she was a beauty, a dancer at the ball, where infinity, god, oblivion, and me where fixed upon her her, as she was the spitting image of the beach, a seas exit or an entrance.

Baby time is calling to its window
The stars blink in, and fade to ash.
And I am a flower, a rose, a passing hour
Amid a cup of space—horizons twine.
My consciousness is a photon firing,
And we are the matter of gods.

Infinity is painting a self-portrait—
Its faces are everywhere,
Changing and remembering.

When the portrait is complete,
There will be another, by a new hand.

Flower of the spring to winters child
vibrant beyond her ever unfolding
horizons of sweet beauty blooming

There is color in the heart of winter
rainbows in the eyes of spring
and life is the character of summer
never sought and never seen

Love blooms on her branches
the seed of beauty, eyes abloom
lips of lilac, and kiss of wine
Intoxicating, cries of June
under lamplight and under moon

Silver are her rings, and auburn hair
dancing glimmers everywhere but here
yet closer, my heart is there
With her dawn of ecstasy in the hallow morn…
as the autumn wind or summer sun

Studies have shown that corporal punishment
at a young age
only results in learning disabilities,

God smacking the grey matter out your brain...

So the cycle of self, ego, perpetuating abuse, goes.
It is a series of footsteps, streams that become rivers;
and we are composed of these chaotic streams: energy
Dreams.

And my brother is a perfect window into "America"
He has a five year old boy, a Girlfriend with a boy and a girl;
They both believe in tough love and hitting;
On Sunday, as they were entering my mothers house,
his son hit him with a snow ball near the crotch, so he hit him
in the stomach, and I saw the boy lose his breath.

"You're a terrible father."  
I picked him up as he started crying.
My brother said he was bad all day before that.

What am I to believe?
That you are raising, caring for, and loving unconditionally,
or you are ******* up as a parent by hitting your child?
What am I to believe? That glimmer of light is a deamon
or that the deamon is you, my brother.

When you slap your child, or any animal, you reduce it
its brain, its body, and its mind. That's why alphas ****;
they just want to reduce the other males around them.
Its an evolutionary trait that carries through to today.

And so do fools, my nephews mother wants to medicate him...

when science meets spirituality, mind spirit
we replace the box with a tree, a galaxy.
We replace the pill with therapy, and community;
petrol with the sun, burning a hole
in the unity of our dreams and the whole of our destiny.

Hidden, behind all the things you do;
you cherish the mile, the medium, the money,
convenience is a specialty, and status the while.
The perfect personification of capital: a slave;
Property in a picture, capital a drug; the presidents on TV,
and we're all here because of love.

To use love--a materialist notion--getting wet, but not wed.
Going hard, but no rain, ice falls, and summer set.
Collect the dials and never forget that you are dreaming,
when you are stuck in that spiral, just reach out and find me.
Corporeal copulation: congealed cortex conversations,  collide beside me.
We are one self, and no status the while can stop We!

The pimple faced gernment representative told me
I had to hold my pollinated dreams until
next season.

And in my school house dream
matthew told me his dream
nothing less than Sustainable Planet

And as I started to argue, I realized,
my mouth was full of seasoned nuts
full of warehoused food,

because I could not attend
lunch, at this newly packed cafeteria;
I was on a mission to... I forget now
but in my dream it was **** important!

Now that I'm awake, trying to write a poem
that captures the meaning
all I can tell you, as you read my heart
is that no one can tell you when to start
caring about your dreams.

Get on your moral high ground and shout out to the world
"I'm MAD as HELL and I'm NOT gonna TAKE it ANYMORE!"

And unless you get knocked off your high horse
and unless you find your voice dry, horse,  
don't stop yelling until others join you--
because they will join you. We all want freedom
We all want the dream, but will we fight for it
to make it happen? Would you fight for love,
For life?? Would you fight for survival?

This is it, its this or oblivion, its sustain our childish
fever of consumption,
level out our infantile pride or
rest quietly into forever.

They say sustainability is what were after
but what we really mean is sanity;
they say rational policy is what were after
but really what we mean is enlightenment.

I'm asking you to change the wheel of your mind
and your asking me to hold my order until the window!
Can I have fries with that?
Make it a KING sized!
**** your frizzy fries, and your listless orders,
I want none of them, give me liberty or give me DEATH!

This: the ache, the strain
delayed;
Betrayed the high way
is
The pain.

Swiping clean the mask
and peeling…
Off the skin,
and off the layers.
I say, “Off with rotten reverie!”

And to the bottom
splayed
and lust confronted. Wish
The ****** made
unchaste, and further hunted…

Bade. The wire and the sound
the wind upon the end
when wild
the civil keepers
Child, in vane, a-tempts

the sane
with flesh and blood to taste
the wine and bread,
Again,
will strain the strings,

of heartless, thoughtless,
loveless, self
protected by analysis:
Paralysis. Portrayed
in the light by time (and life) itself
Again!

Tired of being spectators, they threw down their beer, turned their eye from the spectacle of it all, and started clogging the gears of poisoned progress with their designer clothes, smart phones, televisions, and credit cards carrying the debt of ages.

No longer the spectators, passively accepting their elected fate, they burned the ballot box with the ember of liberty; but it was their breath of righteousness that turned that box to flame. It was only after they turned off the television that they realized their banal heroism--their right to fame.

Together they would inherit the earth in its shabby state, knowing that if they could make it past this winter, a new spring would emerge from the seed they had sewn; no man or woman could hold back the feeling of regret for the past, but it was the children, unseen and unnamed that would strip them of the past, and pave new roads to the future.

No Boundary, the mask unveiled.
I-I co-pretend, this game is real,
senses, so sensual, so gratifying.
Thought! Creativity, being; Wisdom
calms the chaos in radical transition.

The desert to the sea, the forest,
the map is not the territory, it takes fractals
to measure a coast line, and of course computers.
We are being made obsolete.
Best to reinvent the wheel of our mind.

Change the dialogue of our public service
Announcements that amount to nothing,
while the people speak nothing is heard, but whispers
in a land of the brave, this bunch of slaves may be depraved.
I'm sick of lying to myself. Lets be honest and transcend!

You broke into my heart
like a vagabond, drifting in and out;
and I smelled the American spirit
you left behind;
the cherry burning
left a scar on my conscience
like the word selfish, uttered insipidly by your lips;
and I was broken, pumping not blood
but frozen memories from my veins.

And the feeling still haunts me--
of being ignored by the one I love;
I thought it shouldn't bother me,
we've barely met, and yet
when we talk I can feel your energy
flowing into laughter, from one heart
to an other. There is no other.

Now I'm the drifter, listlessly annoyed;
I thought you were the one,
but now its me that you avoid.
A, void, avoid. I feel the emptiness
without you--the one I told you about,
the one that makes me feel death
creeping into my very hands,
yearning for a radical change I cant deny,
nor desire.

Green cascading from the smooth curves of her hips—
unmoving—of velvet flowers that I approach.
Silken, they are; and with balm applied I kiss her lips.
Wandering to discover Eden, without reproach,
hands and eyes journey together, seeking
what pleasure, what ecstasy, delight  
the texture of her soft skin returns to me, peaking,
I am only hers tonight.

And yet the sun is not in keeping
with the children of her Eden shores,
swallowed up by her catlike creeping,  
why side to side, like waves of joy
crashing in curves of green velvet cascading.

Eyes ablaze, yet shoulders coy
her stare implodes my chest, inflating  
waves of rapture, collapse, and drown me so
I am but a child of sudden, timid choice.
Why her eyes that say come hither, come slow,
that motion stills and vibrates with her voice,
yet I am a silent caress that goes
up and down her thigh intending, from her waist
to her lips; I am not a fool to woes
nor a child to her eyes unchaste.

Lo! Reflections of the crescent moon,
the night unfolded like dreams hidden behind her eyes
that call “lover,” to me soon
I know, and yet cannot impede reprise
for she is the sun that draws me out,
and I am the seed that sprouts ***** before her.

Choiceless and unaware of clout
hiding nothing as if nothing were
the object of my affections streaming
from the fingers stroking down my chest,
to lips that pucker open, and to her eyes, beaming
shatter the gray of storm and jest
that by the sounds of thunder repeating
could not find meaning in the apparatus of her smile
nor the significance of her heart.

Yet still I search beyond the mile
to understand what plays its part.
The answer must lie at dusk
between the hours sweet and bitter, which have no time,
but smell like musk
and whispers softly in sweet and gentle rhyme.

old as time, and poetic as rhyme:
old grey heads waiting to chime
like carrion birds hungry for crime...

Some spend their life wanting glory;
repeating the past, their fathers worry,
until the mask of death ends the story.

But I will not be so shallow
to rend or to waste , fallow,
that which guides our fate towards that shadow.

Glare deeply into the eyes of war,
prepare your heart to end the score,
to end the game, and those wanting more.

Were all just machines, bound for the train station that’ll hightail us out and over
To the junkyard where we never sleep and the foundry melts us down to make room
For the new undead, but non-living, to starve for what their computers say they need.
But when you smile, your eyes show me that you have a soul inside that’s beautiful,
And it proves my heart is something more than what the factory made it for;
That my love means something more than a series of chemical reactions in my brain,
That the mornings and nights we spent were worth more than we ever knew,
And that you are someone more special to me than I have ever known.

So, as we fly down the track of grayest metals and coldest weather, into the north country
To God knows where to as the sun is at dawn and dusk at the same time,
Remember that your heart doesn’t need to be held like coal, that your eyes are soulful,
That someone, somewhere thinks you’re more than a piece of electric meat,
That I think you’re worth more than my life,—my holy hunk of steel—but don’t let that
Get to your head missy! And that when we’re laid upon the cutting board
To be scraped and melted down, I want to be laid there next to you
To kiss you one more time, while I look into your eyes, searchingly.

Bathing under the cool glow of a thousand million stars--
shattered mirrors reflecting your brilliance--
you are the sun, and the great deep your lover.

When I am not there, you see the emptiness in all its implication:
the death of stars, the beauty of change, and the soft significance
that all of this is happening without you, and within you.

I hear you call to me in the midnight hour,
longing to be touched by the warmth of a familiar star.
But I am as empty as the great deep, filled with peace, surrounded by chaos.

I knew once you had the chance, you’d take it
So I bottled up my sadness in pride and manhood
In the hope that one-day you’d come and change me
But that day never came; I’m still on the ropes
Where the days are still and my hopes are changed
Your smell is still on my mind, and the feel of your clothes
Every moment is the last; every memory is calling

There was a time when the phone rang, and it was you
Those moments were the light of what I knew
I held them dear once, but I know the truth now

All known things are meaningless in time
My death will bring the swift end to what I consider life
--security and the wonderful warmth of such—
The relationships I held so dear were nothing
Because they were between untrue self idols
I know this now, and I realize that unless we hold no
Imagination
Human beings will have no relationship

Let go of “self” to be self
Feel for another and not for security
(The ubiquitous trade)
Know another and not the image constructed
Find no comfort in me—that’s my job—
Love me and not your imagination
Know me and not your imagination

For so long we’ve been playing as puppeteers
Our false images make fumbled motions as we watch behind curtains
Come out and meet me and I will meet you
And we will share movements that no strings can orchestrate

You, that flower barely blooming; I bear thy pollination.
It is my purpose solely to cause the fruit of thy creation.

Nano art, my pantheism is objective idealism. God is in the details:
the stamen, the leaf… all is fractal, some charmingly chaotic,

All scenery composed, each part of reality is a representation;
a word of the language of reality in her garden.

Her voice is sweet like the honey suckles. Pale like her petals.
All a play, a dance, a game to the night and the sun, and to all her beloved travelers.

And while I watch her, this star behind moon and trees, behind all that I see;
behind my very being. Reality, her character is through and through me.

And in the act of creation, flower and I are as her representations,
There is no thought to our most profound desires.

Innate will to live; our mother is the essence.
Death and life are her androgyny displayed