The lotus, I choose the lotus!
The ebb and flow the shore it goads us
Static focus, a layer peeled off and cast aside
The tide it whispered it spoke to me
but I turned I looked the other way
Upwards roads and downwards roads
Set the rock aside Sisyphus,
Bear the weight no more
Stare in lost, in vacant eyes at a boatless shore
The lotus, I choose the lotus

Wayward streams, down and around it floats us
And spits us out,
Our isolated Elysium or tortured chamber
It’s a matter of where you spend your days, in or out
On what you rest your eyes upon,
The whirlwind, the spinning cannon
Fates bolt it shoots us in twirling spiral
And all along from the corner lit dim
Float the soft tunes of a harpist,
Deft fingers pluck the taught strings,
And her eyes overcast, cloudy grey
Stare vacantly out like person drowned

The lotus, I choose the lotus!
The sweet nectar it covers it soothes me
Puzzled pieces glue me, paste me together
Pluck me, toss me, say that I flew
Let’s play who knows who
Be honest who really knows you
Reflection from the lake,
a familiar face it greets me
Whirlpool tides, how they rip they pull us
Oh the lotus, give me the lotus!

Horns of triumph sound,
showering the day with a golden glow!
Apollo in his blazing chariot rises from the east horizon, reigns in hand as he flies towards the stars with the morning light tethered tightly behind
his shining carriage.

Eyes long blinded ache from the coming morning,
the dew on the grass shines in radiance
and an emerging smile escapes from lips tightly held together.

A laugh escapes!
The head rolls back, the eyes begin to water!
A gasp for air, a friend held tightly to your chest!

The mournful songs of the lasting night fade to blurred memory, drowned in new light.
The flicker behind a smile that was lost in the white moonlight cracks open again, one that was forgotten deep within the darkened cave.

The first time come again!
A child’s giddy laugh tolls from a mouth set in stone.
A stomach full of nervousness, a mind that will not rest.
I exist on a single beam of light in between two oceans of stretching, black infinity, and I walk the line as a tight rope, balancing deftly with my eyes in the clouds, and a pen held tightly in my hand.

Shades of blue, the morning doves throaty coo,
each second leaps and bounds, elastic stretching and it’s twanging rebound.
The tension in the rope that can’t help but reverberate, and love in exasperation, shiver as the chills come once again.

Eyes met twice, a joy to be now with no questions asked, no thoughts but what the others thoughts are, and how long a moment can actually last.

Nostalgic tones of youths throaty chords ring through the dreary sea, sending the still waves tumbling and crashing, setting a tranquil man into motion once again, releasing the tension in a brow long furrowed, in shoulders tightly hunched, and ending the silence of a tongue held once too many times.

The Sun Gods booming laugh echos down the valley,
a reverberating sound that even the soaring eagle must stop and perk his ears too, losing sight of the mouse he had planned for breakfast, forgetting all but that musical tone.

When the light comes, when the dawning sun rises again, let your eyes water and overflow, let your heart swell and stomach twist, let the chills flow like the white capped river, feel the rapids of emotion that erode even the strongest rocks in the way of the current.

Now I am and I am now,
I bathe in the light and let a smile touch my lips, with my arms spread softly apart.
I take a deep breath of the cool morning air, filling empty lungs to the straining brim,
Oh, the first time come again!

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.

The wind felt different on my neck today,
Slightly colder, unfamiliar,
It was not a feeling I was used to.

But this breeze hasn’t changed at all
There was a spark on the nerves of the cuticles where hair stands ensnaired there had sounds of foundation rock breaking and cracking a lump of clay stepping out of the mold under its own power it’s own fruition at first its unseemly bordering on crude then your curiosity strikes like what will this lump of clay do? will he crash off the table damp too much water tear himself in two brand new asunder asunder asunder I see a rock we have to peek under I have to keep searching but my search has all been for naught but then again looking on those days in the rays I couldn’t wait to find shade is this really the only way yes she says with a sigh so I position my head so my eyes meet sky i guess it’s time to retry so here I go again and again and again and again and again so many times I’ve tried to take flight and sometimes I can’t be but filled with spite but I know The Wheel she spins goes back and goes forth
So it’s on to the next and the next and the next this life is only a quest but that is only a guess

Ah, once more a day in vacant rays
A webbed window, cracked gently to let the breeze by.
Through,
a minute an hour,
a bee lands on a flower
succumbing to desire,
a move with a purpose
It’s assuredness I admit breaks a chunk from my confidence

What is what isn’t what could what couldn’t
Is of no concern to a bee, imagine how free that would be
A beetle crawling up the bark of a tree,
Oh, just for an instant
I wish I could see the life that you see!

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?

When is when is when is
The next moment I will stand on this shore, looking out into the bay?
Who will I be and how will I see this same scene then?

How will I see again, the morning rising illuminating the tide, it’s misted glow refracting in all directions?

How will I hear again, the gull’s cry, a higher song hovering over the soft sway of the water, it’s lapping connection to the shore, gone now but always on its reverberating journey back?

How will the water feel on my feet, in early spring and then in ebbing twilight? Will I stand strong and blooming, or will I hunch and wither in decay, in memories of a long forgotten brighter day?

Will the salt spray still fill my nose, will its memory be etched in me always?

There is no sure way to know, no sure path we can follow, I say to myself.
When I return I will be him and he will have came from me, formed in the bubbling foam of my memories of this swaying sea.
But in my melancholy daze upon departure,
a vision appears to me as if a dream:

“Be gone!”
A mirage of the goddess Brizo comes to me, sitting alone in a galley bobbing along with the waves.
“Be gone! Hold not your journey in contempt, be scared not of the changing tides!
You have your vessel as I have mine, the sea is strong but not impassible!
Adjust your sails, redirect your mind, the wisdom of the sea follows, to any height you can climb!
The power is you, shed light on what you know to be true, look in the water and be calmed, know that you are you!

Be gone! Go from me, away from this fading part of your journey,
There is still much of the world to see!
Do not linger, do not hesitate,
Do not be contented, with a hazy view of the sea from your seat on the shore!”

Coastline yellow dawn,
Overflowing fountain
Untrimmed garden,
Left to Decay
Rot in the sun

Bluebonnet field,
Honey suckle sweet breeze
Left to flourish,
Their petals reach to the sky

Light step, on the untreded
Birdbath with feathers flashing about it
Dawning spring, swallowing following
Enchanted breeze, dew on the leaves

Break the cycle of the illusion
Never ending we march along
One step higher another step closer
At the end, Door Closer locksmith
I have to see beyond this

I lay in the center of a meadow,
My eyes trail the drifting clouds above,
tracing their paths and drawing sketches on the blue canvas.

Towering evergreen trees surround the meadow,
their leaves creating a ornamental border,
A frame for the flowing sky.

The clouds drift past, into and out of the frame,
a slow parade of shapes
shifting and changing, coming and passing.

This slide show of white swirls dances for me,
in drawn out motions like molasses ebbing from a tree.
They envelope my sight, roots spread from the
back of my head into the meadow floor,
connecting and expanding,
melding me to the ground.

I lay for hours, the clouds morphing to the clear
nights sky, bathing me in moonlight.
Shining stars vibrate, shake in their molds,
and I listen closely to their hushed advice.

The poles have shifted, the tide retreats from the shore!
Shanty lines revised and rehearsed
upon a crumpled paper covered with speckled dirt,
to make a lasting impact at the foot of the blackened hearse.

Does she hear me, this woman trapped in portrait?
The frame it yields and shakes mid rotation,
teetering back and forth as a compass without
magnetism, in circles as a ship lost to the starless night.

The painted woman with her knowing smile bores
her eyes into mine, her flashing irises projecting
from her world into ours, from her reality into mine.

My eyes blur and a vision dances for me,
a water color flow, with daisy tunes lost
in a shimmering and shifting mist,
swirling colors bear together, mixing and connecting,
rubbing and repelling, crossing my eyes in its intoxicating motion.

My mouth slacks and my shoulders sag,
lost in the trance of this melting scene,
and it’s dragging pull.

Excited I ran to show them, to show what I saw,
but they didn’t listen, to them I speak in gibberish.
I smirk and feel my face begin to melt, my ears drooping and my nose falling, the drops fall
and a puddle begins to form under my feet,
before dribbling slowly down the drain on the floor,
In a watercolor swirl.

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.

They sing from along the path,
lined like torches would, evenly spaced.
A hazy wood surrounds me,
swirling trees and melting hues
of a late summer afternoon,
fiery colors dancing and melding together,
flowing to the next,
cream in a Sunday morning roast.

The colors, the chimes
they illuminate my stumbling journey,
my tottering travel.
I stop and catch a gaping breath,
bent over, panting, and begin to listen.

The wind pushes the trees,
it sounds the chimes colliding ring,
it exists in flux,
rising in singing ascent
and exhaling in a comforting sigh.

Drifting down the path,
I separate and regenerate
With each glitching step forward
my face distorts, rearranges.

What is the source of verse, of thought?
Rehearsal, a precursor who holds us like
a ventriloquist through time, or is it just
a keen ear for your minds own
singing wind chimes?

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

Ancient words spoke in syllables unknown
vortex about me in forms of growing smoke.
Ghosts of times passed swirl about,
their eyes locked to mine and mouths wide,
tethered to me as a center point.

Life must be chosen once per day
but the reaper must only make one deft move.
The smoke continues to rise and tighten,
the spirits muted howls fade in and out,
and I cough.

I choke and cough as the smoke fills my lungs,
desperately trying to expel but I fall.
There I lay, wheezing and hacking,
A rejection, a fight, a resistance,
longing for the clean air that I
did not believe until it was gone.

My throat burns dry and bruised,
but the smoke does not stop its growth
and the chants grow louder still,
filling my mind and shaking my skull.

The smoke fills my lungs to capacity and
I call out but it comes as another cough
and another after, again and once more,
my eyes watering and hands gripping chest,
until at last I gasp one rattling inhale
and Fade to black.

Smoke filled dens of drifting ***** scent,
Imagined worlds dancing behind the eyes
of the laying men.
Heads fall back and pupils roll to face brow,
revealing a cloudy unseeing white.

What lies behind the eyes of laid men
that makes them respond to the sweet song of
lotus flower time and again?
Are they taken to that Mediterranean isle visited by
Odysseus in his journey, the idle isle where time lazily flows
and sunrise and sunset have no meaning at all?

If I was bunk mate to Odysseus on his mission home
and our boat met sand on this secluded cove,
would I see it for what it was?
After tasting my first sweet lotus petal, offered
to me by beauty divine, could I resist a second kiss?

Would I have bravely boarded the ship away,
eyes hard and mind set on my destination,
or would I have planted feet firmly to sand
and wave as the brave ones sailed away to face
the ever abundant misery of reality?

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.

Time has its hands around my neck, strangling me.
A diamond clock around my neck like Flavor Flav,
hanging off me, pulling my head down to the dirt.

The tortuous second, an arduous minute
I grind my teeth at the passing hour.
I squeeze each passing day, holding tightly,
but it always escapes between my fingers,
liquefying and dripping through, evaporating.

Wake and pace,
I wake and begin to pace.
Weaving a trail through the leaves at my feet,
the meadow floor becoming my revolving door
with only one exit, a blinking red sign
flashes, its arrow pointing directly down
imprinting itself in my pupil.

Sing the song of the day!
Whether it be swaying morning Jazz
or a night owls rhythmic hoots,
sing it loud and let it ring,
for you never know the last song you will sing.

Walk in circles, hum the tone,
whatever it takes to get you past that
glaring sun high in the sky at each passing noon.

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.

A plane of faces turned upside down,
Somewhere along the trail to the Underworld.
The long corridor stretches indefinitely,
Torches spread sparsely along the walls.
The spiraling stairs push deeper on.

“Do not look back, he said
Do not looked back!” He thought.
Terror struck, for he remembered clearly
the lessons the hushed voice had taught.

A grief struck chord plucked from within,
As his sobs began to form.
“Oh, the fool I am!” He cried,
“Why could I have not held my gaze,
Held my vision steadfast
To the closing morning rays?”

As he reached the bottom,
He readied his lyre
And stuck strings in frenzy dire.
Rounding the corner to the banks of flowing Styx,
He saw the same creatures he once tricked.

Determined eyes and sure hands,
He struck the chords at the essence of man.
But this time the creatures lining the Styx,
Were not so surely bewitched.

They closed nearer, vicious growls upon their lips.
Back met stone, an exit long gone.
“The song had always worked,” cried the desperate man, words falling on unhearing ears.

Yes, his tune had always worked,
But not twice tonight.
To mortal love you have given your life,
For you cannot fool Pluto twice.

A dawning of Spring,
The tree’s pollen eye-dust spreads free.
White paint-stroke wind swirls and
sways through the plains,
the grass kindly greets in sighing retreat.

Blue skies softly shelter,
filling the days with their comforting hues.
Sparsely dotted roaming cotton clouds dance as
the yellow Sun yawns and spreads its rays,
rousing the slumbering bear from his winter den.

Sounds of the hen’s call awaken,
a signaling for paper to meet pen.
The heart swells and empties
just as the flower’s buds lazily fall open
at the bidding of the Sun’s young light.

An open world, the never ending wood,
A night river flows just beyond the bend,
full of salmon fighting upstream from the wrong end.
A tender letter penned but not sent.
A winged man smiles and whispers visions,
guiding my ascent.

Unfortunately, a penned letter is not always sent,
just as all the hopeful salmon do not
make it back to their springing den.
Some sneak by and continue their uphill fight
but others are clawed and left stuck within the
bear’s teeth, writhing in defeat.

So tired I have grown, of building castles
only to have them overrun by cresting waves.
So tired I have grown, of tasting water on my tongue
but spitting, complaining of its salty burn.
So today I take a dive,
for I've grown sick of the shoreline and
smelling life's salty scent only upon the wind.

So today I took a dive,
head first into that salty steep
and was pulled here by current arms
and pushed deeper by ocean nymph charms.

My body flung about,
counter currents tossing me in circles,
eyes itching red with not a second to blink
and my nostrils jammed full
of the salt that hinted my senses before.

On the brink of drowning,
vision fading from blue to black,
I am pushed to a surface
far from the shoreline from before.
A gasp for air and the seagulls call
beams of sunlight carefully fall
onto the white crests of traveling waves,
and upon my blinking eyes.
Here, on the bobbing wakes of erasing waves,
I begin my ocean days.  

I had become so tired of my earthly ways,
so tired of hating the cleansing dawns
hiding behind the ebbing tides.
So today I took a dive
and began my floating ocean days.

A Midnight bell rings through the night cloaked village.
The high standing clock tower has surveyed the night,
and deemed it high time to sing its chime.

A procession of men in crosses cloaked
sway forward with eyes searching dirt.
A humming unison, softly painting pictures
of mankind's final days.

Their humming chorus carries slowly down the empty streets,
an approaching fog creeping through the alleys,
smelling of soft odor sage.

Ever building ***** chimes build,
Frantic hands introduce each note to next
All culminating to its bitter end,
an apex, each note cryingly rings at once
deep into the fearful fox's core.

The illusion is shifting again
The columns melting stone to blurred sand
Kiss the River bed, saturated nutrient flow
Estuary, opposites mixing like friends

Meeting our ends, meeting our ends
The Compost heap rots and withers,
In preparation to add to the cycle again
The moment is fleeting
Gather, pull the light close to your Chin
Hold it on the sides of its head
And gaze, gaze deeper and deeper again

I peek out my window and see her,
Lady Twilight in her shimmering black gown,
walking up my cobblestone path.
She walks slowly, at ease, looking from side to side
and moving in her flowing stride, up to my doorstep.

I creak open the door and her eyes rise to meet mine
and she grins, a soft smile etching her smooth face.
Her head tilts ever so slightly to the side, her raven hair
hanging from behind.

The warm rays of the day have given way to the enveloping gray,
a hanging light clings to her outline, lit by a hidden source.
Hues of deep blue and violet shades mingle through the air,
suppressed to black as the sun makes it steady retreat.

She takes a step to me and raises her arm slowly,
placing her softly on my shoulder.
I break contact with her eyes and look down,
trying not to see as Lady Twilight quietly fades away.

My head is stuck at the peaks of youthy rooftops
trapped in moving circles and daggers rotting brain.
I hover, gliding above the generated, empty plane, tracing the moving shadows below and tracking the nights that rain.

i was so careful but the lines oh the ever running lines they vibrate frantically, I cannot look away they dance back and forth between both crests of their prison, their XYZ axes gripping them trapping them within definite images between associations and contexts, between gleaming ascent and its tumbling recoil.

The ride hick-ups and pollutes the clouds
filling my scent and descent pulls at my stomach,
gravity yanks me back, pulling on my rope and
laughing all the while.

At first you fear it but then you are laughing and shouting
and throwing your arms in the air and having the wind rush
into your lungs and whip your hair it is so beautiful it is
unlawful it is unreal i cant be seeing this and it spirals and tumbles and shriekingly grinds to a halt, panting.

Words of honey and liquor would flow,
At temples along the rolling hills,
they would grow and ripen and
be uttered at sacrificial flame
If I was born in the vein of Apollo.

Words would meet paper
with crackling energy loaded, ready to burst,
robust in power and accompanied by crashes of thunder
If I were bred of the mighty Zeus.

My speech could flow like lapping tide
and slam against the sterns of braving ships
If I carried within,
the flowing will of Poseidon.

Perfectly forged syllables struck on metals
passionately burning. Resounding clangs
and crashes from my shop would ring,
If the strength of Hephaestus guided
my hammer swing.

But as portraits are painted and
are gone to wind,
Their light touch fleeting pass,
Remorse not felt but only desire
to express and to deliver,
to paint, drop off, and be gone.
My words dance with winged feet
and then exit in retreat, with a bow
and a dashing leap,
Disappearing down the street.

Caduceus snakes wrap about my pen
and whisper rhymes softly in my ear.
Rising laughs echo down the trail,
a man dashing to his next delivery.

Light feet dancing forward,
hand whirring from line to line
and his eyes posted firmly to
the nights sky,
The stars singing his Siren song.

Have so many days passed
since those shining lights were to
iris pressed, or have I just
covered my eyes?

Every man speaks of time
and how fast it flies
but I believe that it
gets off a hard day of work,
barges in the door,
founds its spot on the couch
and then collapses
with a gentle sigh.

The melancholy eyes of departing,
The lingering taste of love’s last kiss.
To the skies I've been sentenced and
In the soil you've been left, softly sprouting.

Oh, what I would do, to spread my roots
There next to you.
Our petals caress with love unstressed
And our leaves would collect the morning dew.

But I’ve been plucked,
Snatched in the claws of the bird!
Cast to flight, cursed to explore
A life without you that must be endured.

Upwards dragged but eyes cast down,
Drinking in the sights of her last frown.
The wind pulls me clean, and I see
The last of that morning's dew
Falling with a shimmering gleam.

Floating days lifted in flight by birdsong,
waiting upon an evaporating cloud
of time and its passing, its trail leaving so soon.

How do I feel on a cloudy day?
Stinging eyes and stained regret,
things that in the Sun I do not fret
about or for.

A staring Sun's gaze burns so softly
upon a man walking the path
towards ever approaching melancholy.

If I wrote of Love and her soft caress,
would the crowds gather to bear witness?
If I spoke of her words and
the spells they cast on me,
would they gather to witness its gripping affect?

Oh, if they could only feel her love through my verse,
the whole world would gather round,
pushing and shoving, clawing to near front,
for just one glimpse of proof,
An Angel’s holy love.

White jet stream splits the blue sky
Serenity, I ignore what they say to me
Maybe daying be’s, laying fading beneath swaying trees
Dawning years a tease, burn away the grease
Wipe the grime away, I’m searching for signs today
Pried myself outside the lines, you stayed behind it’s okay
Thought grenade, cicadas and bees serenade,
Peeling back layers, the sour tang of marmalade
Garments handmade, dip my toes in the bluing lake
Vibrations I feel a wake, a dip in the curve
Butterfly stomach I can’t help but squirm
Serenity, I saw a white jet stream split the sky
As I wandered, I wondered why

Beep, beep, beep
A satellite circles but sleeps.
One eye always open,
It catches the lights on its sloping.

What is day but the rays?
What is night but fright?
Cold vacuum meets hull,
But the bite of frost has grown dull.

The satellite may be lonely,
But at least it knows why.
The Earth pulls it along,
As if string to kite, saying
“Please watch me, as I sing in delight.”

A bird’s song, the people clap and cheer,
Unknowingly seen by the seer.
A cruel joke, a sighing anecdote,
When all you can do is float.

Eyes daze, pseudo-malaise,
The soft lament of wasted days.
Whatever needs be done be done,
As long as none insist on clearing
My veiling haze.

Dim those lights, turn down the sounds
My mind becomes crowded,
Elbows bruising.

The further pushed from,
The deeper pushed in.
Raised voices and wagging fingers
Have no effect but a
Deeper shove to the depths.

Firm hands held haughtily between strangers
A meeting with the spirit lost
To the deep end of the well,
The cracks in bone show age

A glimmer breaks through the clouds,
A single beam of white light drifts
through the skylight above
As I lay with back to carpet,
watching the fan lazily rotate.

The fan wobbles and creaks,
it’s paint chipped and weary.
Chains dangle below, rattling
And the blades blur in rotation.

I do not blame the ones of before
for seeing a single hopeful beam of light
and dropping to their knees in prayer,
tears dripping down in the face of
a savior, any savior.

The layers behind eyes flitting with
joy, eyes that dart about, drinking in the scene
to that of unseeing blank, wide mouthed
as if in awe of the world above,
stuck in their ways for eternity.

The bus is running late tonight,
I eagerly tap my foot and check my watch,
tapping its lens to make sure that
the arms are still ticking, roaming.

Lights flash bright down the street
and a smile leaps to my lips.
The lights hold steadfast,
coming coming!
I wave my hand and grab my bag!
It’s here it’s here!
I run to meet it
going going,
Where are the lights going?
Sped by in a flash
And then past, gone.

Throwing my hands in the air,
Exasperated and pacing
Ranting and raving
I walk back and forth, I
cursing my luck and the luck
of ones like I
stuck at this empty bus stop
having light tricks flashed
in their eyes.

The camp fire burns high and
Provisions carried from home are passed about.
Laughing faces of the unyet tested,
The over morale of an Emperors finest legion
Marching into Gaulic lands
With heads held high.

Spirits are soaring and blessings are passed,
And the fluttering thoughts of home are flower painted.
Perhaps I will be back before the July sun
Bakes my armored back,
Perhaps I will be back to attend to Love
And its reaping yield
Before a burning sun alters my heart.

Searing memories of love gone past,
pillars of sand that buckle
at high tide's first crash.
The castle carefully crafted with ***** firmly
in hand, but the waves destroyed it,
my walls, my structure, my protection
and then ran, leaving trailing footprints
outlined in the sand of its receding wake.

I’m st st st st stuttering
In the corner I’m muttering
I tap my feet I dance my dance
All for the courtesy of a passing glance.

S s s s s sorry
The words jumble and tumble
Out of my mouth and onto the floor
Meeting the ground, gathering and mixing,
Melted hues congealing into gray.

W w w w why are you here
Why do you sit where sit,
Love where you love?
I I I can’t take it anymore
I can no longer fake it

T t t the light it terrifies me
The single bulb glares at me,
St st st staring, burning my pupil
Until my vision is full of
The blinding light
And my lungs full of a
releasing sigh.

Upon Death my thoughts have been anchored
much to the dismay of my creaking ship.
The precious drops of life's morphine drip
siphoned away by the gathering storm clouds
of my coming decay.

Move forward I shout, go past even the veil!
Pull up the anchor, wind it tight and toss it
out of sight, to be used when the time is ripe.
Each passing second, hoard together and hold
give a soft kiss and then mold.
Mold it, as putty in the hands of a child
or wood and whittling knife in the
hands of the wizened man rocking in his chair.

See the seconds, laugh loud and clear,
let the echoing chorus reverberate off
the imagined walls at the limits of you,
shaking them, loosening the containing
mortar and bricks, reduce them to ruble.

This all should not have been
the crisp morning air, the damp thunderous nights,
my ears perk up at each just to see,
for just the chance to be.

Do not bargain the waking seconds as they tick away,
do not auction them to the impatient void,
it will feast on them and demand evermore.
Run to the skies, drown in golden light!
Cross red stained eyes with your other,
clasp hands and rejoice
for we are all in this together.

Remember the hues at the edge of the forest,
memorized and lost in them my eyes once again
catch the flashing greens of wind blown leaves,
surrounded by flies heavy with maggots to breed.

The cracks begin to show, I pull back the battering ram
once more and push, crashing it into the barrier,
chiseling away the limits of the barricade,
the limits of an anchored ship,
and prepare my stock for the open sea.

Crumpled paper damp with ink,
Immortal words washed away in the running stream.
The paper breathes longer than I,
whats behind longer still,
for the same worries I carry
are etched in the walls of Pharaoh's grave.

When the candle of life is by saliva-wet
fingers extinguished,
Sighs resound and glances cast at the
vacant seat my voice used to occupy.
The present man soon dances for the prying eye of
Retrospection.

A picture printed on the page in many days,
full of laughing smiles and vacant gaze of youth gone
blank,
The Retrospect looks closely, trailing fingers softly
over the black white rendition.
An all too human fear creeps to mind,
and he quickly turns the page.

Ephemeral Dust, Primordial Soup
Essence in swirl,
Conscious of Unconscious
Thoughtless, Sway like a Leaf.
Under sunlight, Rejuvenation
Under moonlight, Exhalation
Vacant Plane, I wonder in Circles
Gnosis, I have to break these Chains  
Realization drenches over me
Smiling alone in the Rain.

Deep in the night he lays fast
asleep, his chest rising and falling
in long, steady breaths, his mouth wide
and eyes carelessly shut, unaware.

A light turns on and he groans awake,
disoriented at first, wiping his eyes
and mumbling incoherently about
something he thought he saw
deep in a dream already forgotten.

He gains bearing on his surrounds,
the white painted room lit by one
dangling fluorescent light, illuminating
the chips and the cracks in the walls.

He stirs, becoming agitated, his breaths
begin to rattle from his lungs.
He grasps around, patting hands
to concrete, a desperate search
for something solid to grip.

A resounding boom sounds above
and dust falls from the ceiling.
Specks fall into his eyes
and he curses,
eyes watering and blinded.

He wipes his eyes, clearing them
and takes one more look about,
searching in vain for anything
and lays down once more,
an acceptance.

The light turns off, and he drifts to
sleep once again, escaping.

The crisp air pressed to the breast of that dewy morn',
A piercing of the skin by the rosiest of thorns.
Thorn to skin, blood to air,
A soft ebbing of life from its lair.

Venous roads and capillarous tunnels,
A captured path in which life is shuttled.
That ****** thorn that interrupts its flow,
Allows life to meet that soft morning's glow.

The ravens catch wind of my secrets,
Hidden words veiled from light.
A ghost wandering through the yard,
A frantic hand scrambles for his pen.

Specter that drifts among all,
The sleep walker slouches with
The rest, but life had long lost
It’s interest.

Eyes of lemur, tilted to the side
As if to inquire the dark.
Inward voice and scattering wind
Dry leaves blown down the empty street.

Ghost man with his ghost hands
Greek warriors in their horse, invading Trojan Lands.
Thoughts reaching sky and the stars
Sending their replies, condolences.

Irony brought to its greatest extent,
the rain drops race down the window
to join the growing puddle.
Raised eyebrows and a voice layered in
smug confidence is shattered
by the hopes of whispered reassurances.

A reoccurrence, Yeats’ falcon flying
ever farther from its bellowing falconer,
whose advice was once heeded but
is defiantly unheard now.
Nietzsche’s ever repeating cycles,
the same lives lived 100 times,
past voices whispering script softly
into my calmly waiting ears.

Meager fears and joy draped in hollow blue,
the dance of body and mind with no metronome
to give a cue, no orchestra to hold its tune.
Clap clap, tap tap, and resounding boom.

I grasp the gilded knocker and gently rap,
respectable at first, for courtesy,
and then more assertive, social conduct leaving
and desperation filling as I bang on the door,
painfully aware of it’s glossy paint with each hit,
and then I am kicking the door, trying to break through,
pleas rasping out with each lunge,
Until I give up,
And slide slowly down the wall
and cradle my head into my hands.

On sun-filled days with few clouds,
We pray for just one to pass and
Provide that sweet shade, offer
A reprieve from the sweltering heat.

But deep in those lonely nights,
With bone chattering chill and the darkness blinding,
We claw the skies, searching for the cutting
Beams of moonlight.

top brain forward eyes severed diluted
down mind feared essence ignored
star gaze rays smogged polluted
connect connect widen the gap
flow flow hand meets ice-water
growing numbness crackling bones
crack sip sigh Relax

unattended, withering, left to rot
chime chime signs direct where
why lark fly vines hide
the corner
beads dangle I move them
and they fall back into
they fall back into
their places
stages lights tread lightly across
and bow be sure to bow they like that
humming bird wings on twilight canvas
blurs blurs the paints and hues
dreams and views dreams and views
severed sinews, unabled motion
crack sip sigh Relax
lean back rising tide blanket and jaw slack

I keep a pocket watch,
meticulously polished
and
insistently checked,
in my left breast pocket.

There it lives
on it ticks,
the soft clicks a reminder
of its continuous ticking
lasting far past the heart
that beats just below.

Toxically clean,
a faint scent of acetone drifts
on the wind as I walk pass,
head down and in a hurry.

I retreat quietly, gripping
the watch I rub in circles,
counter clockwise and
in compulsion,
an absent minded fidget
that helps panicked time pass,
it’s melodic clicks a
centering metronome.

I've reached the end of my days!
Tomorrow has never come, and I know
it never will!
I sit and wait for the sun to set, night's
humid breeze caressing my cheek with
silk touch, leaving a trail of goosebumps
that send a shiver down my spine.
Tomorrow will never arrive,
it cannot be!

Waves of distortion as these red eyes
catch aching morning light, a glimmer cast
into his irises until they dry and burn,
his head drops to his hands and a sob escapes.

The sun it goes the sun it returns
the sun it goes the sun it returns
the sun it goes the sun it returns
the sun it goes the sun it returns
the sun it goes,
the sun it returns!

An energizing sunrise!
Those bittersweet sunsets!
Each set in the molds of different lives
to everyone their specific smile or iconic laugh,
the ones that see as each of them are forced to see
due to the differing circumstances surrounding
their inhabited reality!

Tomorrow has never been, you have no proof!
On and around we spin, ruler in hand to
measure the meaning of a higher powers
light shining upon us, translating its language of
forgotten past and harrowing future.

In the middle of that vacant space in your head,
a spear pointing directly inward,
towards the infinite space still finitely contained.
Right in the middle, on the highest hill
next to the white rapids river
I am building my fortress.

I spend years digging my moat, deep and wide,
laying bricks side by side climbing ever higher
closer and closer to the sky and
farther and farther from the Earth.
A lifetime design to protect
my last spec of shining light.

Oh I know tomorrow never comes,
it never ceases, cannot end,
the light it glares and we turn to meet,
but it retreats, pushing us back to our sheets.
Time to rise and the classic
"I'm so sorry guys but i really
must go to sleep, could you please
keep it down?
I have so much to do tomorrow
and I swear on God himself
I have no time to waste!"

I have no time to waste
I have no time to waste
I have no time to waste
I have no time to waste

Thoughts of my many lives reduced to subtle sighs,
Living breathing hues reduced to written lines.
Up the vines I carefully climb and am then dropped,
Falling slowly, hands gripping rope burns blazing hot
Resisting gravity’s insatiable allure.

Ground meets spine and my lungs collapse
Upon a bed of lichen my eyes bulge, and then relax.
Stars dance constellations behind eyelids and
Are engraved into the stone of memory,
The lichen becoming a decomposing cemetery.