You see I was I was
reading this book right
this real great book
and i had it in my hands
and im seeing this scene
that its describing
im not gonna go into the details
right now per se but im seeing it
in my head, you know
you know like how when
youre reading the words
but not really because they
are becoming blurred
and the picture just
kinda appears
in your brain
like you are living it,
like you are actually there
but you can't be
its just something that you see
without eyes
it blooms and engulfs the inside
of your mind
it opens the door and enters calmly
and makes it self at home, like a
painting on the wall
or or
like a number youve been meaning to call
do you see what im saying?

so that got me thinking, hear me out
you can imagine anything, yes i know duh
the pictures can sprout and bloom
become overgrown and be trimmed
maintained or treated with disdain
or with some good ole TLC,
really anything you want
a home a gnome a crystal phone
in Rome trapped on the wrong end of a honed
pearly white bone,
what does it mean oh let me tell you
i havent got a clue not one
but what about
a light you were shown when you were
younger but somehow still aware
that what you really need is somewhere
out there
or in there I should say,
does that mean something or does it
only hold significance because its your memory
of what you did when you were young
because right now you arent moving you arent seeing
anything you are just there with a blank stare
and if you measured the time that was lost
in this state it would be sad it would be
disappointing yeah if you watched it from the side
but from my view its fantastic i see lights
in different colors and see crystal worlds and
different others, thoughts borne of differing
mothers from different places
but all the same
down the same path
from the same origin,
its all really a walk down the map
to find your own x
but thats a discussion for another day
but as i was saying it could lead
to so many different places
filled with beautiful faces and cases
left shattered and broken on the ground
and everything is sound and safe
but then there is a clap or a pop
and bam you are awake, aware
that you were stuck staring into thin air
trying to see shapes  
awake awake awake
and then its all gone like an old song
that youve forgotten the words too
but sounds so so so so
familiar,
you know?

The leaves dance for the breeze,
birds hop and glide from tree to tree.
Cicadas throaty song and the crickets cracking chirps,
the vibrations sent into my ear
in a humming tornado swirl.
Life moves with ease, if you let it.

A memory recalled and the scene brought back
found in the sleek motion of a pouncing cat.
Shown to forethought, brought under the light
a recollection lost to the wind
lit in hollow tones of hazy purple.

Nuzzled between the layers in those forgotten days,
Life will pass with ease, if you let it.

Turn turn turn,
the globe on it's rotating limb it turns.
Light shines, line fades,
time aches but quickens its pace.

The flame it should burn the blurred heat
rises in mist all around,
I can't i can't i can't
feel the flame forming, lashing at my feet.

The shoreline night breeze sends my bones
shivering and knocking and aching,
can someone tell me why
the horizon will not stop shaking?

A look above,
breath found within the shining eye
of the crowded moon, behind a blooming star
their retreating dance in tempo with the lights
as they shake and dim.

Clear and vacant eyes,
Cleared out and left to rot
in the twisting tumbling weeds
of memories you thought you had forgot.

Home is a bus station
A byway between,
A place to rest my head
Before the next departure.

I’ve seen rain through the windows,
I’ve sat through cool midnights.
The station fills and empties,
People with their luggage arrive
And wait for the next bus out,
Standing in a line at the door.

Home is the next station,
The nearest side of the road
With a view of the stars.
It’s an x on the map,
A hazy line connecting the dots
Between me and you.

My ticket is stamped
My bag tightly packed,
And with time I’ve come to know
That where I’m truly at,
A map can never show.

Life is a bus station,
With its comings and goings
Its periods of waiting and of rushing.
Charon, the perpetually impatient,
Drives his bus into the loading bay
And checks tickets at the folding doors.
With teared eyes I wave,
At the back of a bus as it drives
Into the dreary autumn sun set,
Down the interstate and out of the city.

Life is a bus station,
The place between
Where the crooked lights are on
Through the windows they shine
a lighthouse’s winking eye to a captain
Trapped in the tumulting waves
Of a wrecking sea storm.

The bus honks at it leaves,
And we wave to the driver
Who bravely heads down the road
That we all walk down in the end

A soundtrack from behind the blinds,
fleeting and skittering steps into the rocking water,
crossing the ebbing tide's line in the sand.

I cross the barrier between,
I open my eyes and I see
the castle standing on an arching hill
over the snaking river.
The tower reaches high,
stretching to meet the clouds
and the bricks of the walls sit in piles
of rubble, left to the mosses
and vines that drape their faces.

My vision fades to black and it forms again,
the gray sea and shimmering light appear
as i wade deeper, now up to my knees
in the lifeless water.

Up the spiraling staircase,
a glance through the hole in the wall
as the valley shrinks below
and the hazy purple sky
envelopes the whole of my sight.

The water reaches my chest now,
my steps scraping the rocky bottom
and the white moon lighting the path
forward, reflecting in a white sparkle
on the top of the slow moving wake.

The crumbled roof at the top of the tower
gives way to the dark and starry night.
A hazy mist surrounds,
of a cloud slowly drifting through
like an ambling specter,
on the long march home.

I crouch at the edge,
at the edge of the hole at the bottom.
I fill my lungs with a last breath
and dive downwards,
the gray sea covering me
and pushing me into the lightless cavern.

The mist of the cloud passes
and the view of the valley
is cleared.
I sit at the edge of the tower,
with my feet dangling over the side.

Lost in the stars,
once again my vision fades
But the gray waves do not return,
the white moonlight dimmed and extinguished
as I sigh and sit at the top of my conquest
and remember the days i've lost
in the traceless place,
with its tranquil waves.

Have you ever tried to draw a picture
without lifting the pencil from the paper?

One line, uninterrupted and looping
in on itself, swerving in arcs and switching
directions at sharp points.

The line grows at a constant rate
but the vectors change, how the wind is blowing
and the wobbling arrow of the compass.

A head hanging closely over the paper
and a hand pressing the pencil with trembling
force against the desk.

Eyes squinted, focused intently on the next
angle as the lead begins to tremble and crack.
Just a little more, just one more turn
the piece hasn't come together yet.

The timer beeps its descending count
10 to 9 and 8 to 7.
Sweat condenses on the brow
and the lead shatters
as it lets out its electronic shriek.

Now lift your head, trace the line with your finger
where it loops and why,
and when the work is done you will realize
where the line drifted away
from the hazy picture you had in your mind.

A scribble dons the paper,
the line intersecting randomly
and turning when it reached the edge,
influenced by the frame, not your whim.

A crowning flame,
the man with the beaming gaze
still wanders down the dreary lane,
with the sky crimsoned by the yawning
sigh of the Sun
as it waves its hand in goodbye.

Medals on the chest, stripes on the collar
are garnish on an ever crumbling tower.
The height once reached,
at the apex he stood
the forest engulfing him
and the chill air flowing around him.

But as he reached his arms high,
at the very apex of his climb
why, why, why
did he still close his eyes?

Why does the morning pass by so quickly?
The grey light fades steadily away
as the sun reaches the top of its ascent.
Empty coffee cups, the bottom layered with grounds,
sit on the desk by the window.

Sewn into the fabric, intricately woven,
the multi colored threads begin to overlap
and are tightened, pulled through by the sure hand
of the passing hours.

The outline blurs,
the voice of memory begin to dissolve.
The faded face mouths the words
but I cannot remember the sound,
lost to the piling sands
at the bottom of the hourglass.