The vampire really craved him some blood,
And thank god; they'd just buried Mrs. Flood:
He pried open her casket,
And was using his ratchet-
But her fluids had turned thick as mud.

Two vampires decided to dine
On a lady, whose blood was like wine;
While pausing to savor
It's delicate flavor,
One said, the House issue is fine!

Vampires sleep days and fly nights,
They are known to be fearful of lights,
And feeding's quite a trick;
It's got a big kick-
Though impossible, with bad over-bites.

To a vampire, an ****'s a feast
On the blood of man, bird or beast;
And he's not into zoology
Psychiatry or psychology;
Doesn't even care, if it's deceased.

Melancholic vigilance can serve as a reminder
That though we might be dying, the world is growing kinder;
The flower's smile through rain and storm, as though it didn't matter,
And rainbows fall benevolent, as storm clouds quickly scatter.

A hand in yours is all you need, to get you through the night,
And every day the world turns till the sky is filled with light.
Be still my heart and trust this day to turn out for the best;
The things I'm given I will keep, and never mind the rest.

Sept. 7 2010

There's an earthy blood-smell to lavender
It surprises you when the nose gets too close
Once you get past the modest skirted blooms
To find the green blood of torn out flower
Fetid black dirt clings to blood ragged roots
Blue-black blood of returning vena cava
Lavender scented babies and lavender tinted men
Planted for eternity underneath fertile soil
And blood-rise suns bake their tender heads
Blood drenched scent tempts the droning insects wing
Their distilled spirits resurrected in hives
Their earthly blood now ours to imbibe.

The robotic surgeon didn't blink
Smoke, swear, or fool around;
He was the newest design of science
His metal feet firmly on the ground.

Robotic surgery was the latest
Improvement over the manual kind
There were no variations in technique;
No reliance on flaky mind.

He was diligent and precise
Cutting flesh to invisible templates;
He never erred and he never missed
Never once paused, to vacillate.

Trusted beyond the regular surgeon,
Using his fragile, shaking hands;
The robotic surgeon could do anything
Because he wasn't just a man.

The newest miracle of science was hailed
As the end, to the older style;
But one day the program blew a fuse-
And he cut her head off, by a mile.

Come to the Psychopath's Junction
For a time you may never forget;
We've got mystery and ****** and mayhem,
For some hours that you'll never regret.

Come to the Psychopath's Junction
We have tours and stories to chill;
And we'll push you down steps to the basement,
And there we'll forcefeed you some swill.

Come to the Psychopath's Junction
Where we have all new torture devices,
And we'll tie you up, and then use them on you;
And won't have to think about it twice.

Come to the Psychopath's Junction
Where we'll do terrible things just to you;
And if you survive and miraculously escape-
You can invite your friends to come too!

Troubles fade away
In the far moonlight
All the cares of day
In the far moonlight
Slow and peaceful breathing
As the weary thoughts are leaving
In the far moonlight.

Peace comes unfurled
In the far moonlight
Brows lie unfurrowed
In the far moonlight
Serene faces all I see
As I look around me
In the far moonlight.

If days were not so long
In the far moonlight
We'd not dread the coming dawn
In the far moonlight
If the hours were less hurried
Then we'd never want to worry
In the far moonlight.

I think that I shall never see
A thing as odd as eight baby
Eight baby from a single mother
Makes me roll my eyes- oh brother
Oh sister oh brother oh sister oh yeah
Mother looked like a Guernsey cow
Is there milk enough- I don't see how?

Eight colic'd infants wailing in the night-
Draw back, draw back- go fly a kite
Eight fitful babies screaming in duress-
Moved far away left no forwarding address
Eight poopy babies dragging two pound diapers
Went to the car wash and used the windshield wipers
Eight teething babies wrangling on the bed-
Picked up a gun and blew off her head.

Drowned piano, plunging through the depths,
Bubbling out its dark mahogany breaths;
Drowned piano, songs played by the tide
And the harp strings shivering inside.

Drowned piano, the sea's become your hymn,
All about you schools of fishes swim;
Upon your legs, the coral will make a home,
And clams will envy your keys of whiter bone.

Drowned piano, answers a mermaid's prayer;
Startles sea-urchins, with a sight so rare;
Drowned piano, so many miles from shore-
Beloved fingers caress you never more.

The steak tartare had painted toenails
And manicured hands of polished silk;
Mouth with apple, daintily wedged,
Floating in a bath of milk.

I helped myself to a silky ****,
Sliced across it's still-pink grain,
Seasoned with a squirt of lemon
And coarse ground pepper, for a tang.

The seasoned broth was the finest gravy
To moisten the neat cuts of meat,
And sweetened fat, in a frothy pie
Ended the repast, with a treat.

The Pansies curtsied deeply, in their flouncy purple dress,
To the yellow Jonquils; and then only to impress.
And Amaryllis hides her newly naked-lady stem,
But her bouffant clothing opens, at each thrill of puffing wind.

The Bluebell always bows her head, when saying any grace,
Though Iris has Apollo's tears, fresh on her upturned face;
While Daffodil has sunshine, in her ringing petticoats-
Poor Honeysuckle is quite gone; all eaten up by goats.

Where shall a hungry mermaid dine
When she hankers, for something fine?
Spiny oysters make a nice cocktail;
And octopus tentacles; and grey narwhal.

And where should she sit, and what shall she use
To stab her undersea feast, infuse
Her goblet, filled up with sparkling sea water,
Awaiting her course, of fresh sea-otter.

And should she tip, at the end of the meal
The dolphin who served her so much krill,
In his scrutable suit, of skin-tight rubber-
(The respectable mermaid never eats blubber).

The lighthouse keeper and his son, one day
Were out on the rocks, by a blue-water bay

As the sea, their bare feet was laving,
They saw a mermaid, they first thought was bathing;

With long dark hair and eyes of green;
Like the mist of a loch, that sings.

She was struggling and sick, in the foamy sea
So they took her to the lighthouse, above the lea.

She begged and pleaded, to die in the sea;
But there in the lighthouse, she seemed fated to be.

A clawfoot bathtub  became her home,
And there she stayed, never to roam.

Some children taught her some words and rhymes.
To help her to pass all the weary time.

The lighthouse keeper thought she was his own,
Though from the sea, she was merely loaned.

Sometimes a midnight, would find him there
Combing her damp and tangled hair.

In her long confinement, he was the one
Kept her sane, since she could not run.

They had long discussions until daybreak,
Entirely by looks and gestures they'd make;

She taught him secrets no man had ever heard;
How she could still the sea, with inaudible word

And how she could tell by the look of the moon
If spring would come early, or winter too soon.

And how the waves, did murmur below
If the weather be rough, or the hard winds blow.

How she'd loved and lost one merman that
Had gotten too close, to a fisherman's net.

They'd had a child, by the madman's reef;
Was eaten by sharks, and how they'd grieved.

He fancied that someday, he'd like a kiss,
For kissing a mermaid, seemed like rare bliss

But something forebade him, to come that near;
So he was content, just stroking her hair.

One day he found her, dead in her tub;
Her heart had broken, all for his love.

No mermaid can tell human men of her heart,
Or else they'll spend their lives far apart,

It's a law of the sea, older than time;
So this be the end, of the mermaid rhyme.

Let the poetry of others repose in majestic halls:
My poems are filler for paper shredders,
For packing in shipping boxes,
And backing for flypaper sticky strips;
To wipe the muddy soles of shoes
That have seen too much of springtime
In the garden.

Others poetry fills the airwaves, and sits between the covers of books;
My poetry is for grocery lists,
And sudden messages you need to scribble while on the telephone,
And maps to undiscovered geneological treasures
That are only a township away-
To trace the faces of cool tombstones
Under a mid-day sun.

You won't find my poetry near any other kind of list
That doesn't say get bleach, dog food, and toilet paper.
Still, my poetry is from a well lettered life-
I have written all my heartbeats, and most of my sighs
Into sibylline hieroglyphics, from midnight initiations
In the secret brotherhood, of my own soul:
And I will die a freeman, because nobody
Will ever feel the need to own any of these words.

Snow White had a pain one day,
She called for the court physician.
He checked her pulse, he felt her head
Said she had a strange condition.

Told her to eat some apples wild
And come back the very next day.
Then found that she must be with child;
For how long, he couldn't say.

Snow White had no rememberance
Of ever laying down with a man;
But her child bore a slight resemblance
To a motley forest band.

Seven dwarves had lived in a place
Right at the edge of town;
Rumors flew it was a disgrace
Which Snow White would never live down.

But then someone remembered a chap
Name of Johnny Appleseed, came through
Said he put some seed right in Snow's lap-
Just before her belly grew.

In a dream I shall feel
The wings of the world unfolding, and
Worlds spinning on the axis of mad journeys;
And the seas breaking turquoise, upon their rippled surface.

In the heart of the ears
I shall hear the shivering willows, dreaming their
Wood-smoke dreams, full of sap and  funneled sunlight;
Pierced by light for a thousand years

And the flowers sleeping nestled in stars;
Gathered in the deep, among the wood-thrushes,
In coagulated violet forests, all shadowed and dark:
And a whispered peace barely rustles this world.

The conjugate of idolatry,
The alchemy of flame,
The Astarte of pure harlotry-
And nomenclature'd name.

The lode-stone of sly coquetry,
The compass-stone of hearth,
The balanced stoichiometry-
Broken waters of birth.

The Vestal of impurity,
The perfidy of shame-
My blood in you runs truer red;
This craving never tames.

I always wanted to be that random style of writer
Writing about things which have no connection
In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity
Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his
Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance
Which insists on stacking things of different orders
Flying birds together of different species
If I could write something of the ticking of clocks
Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration
Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters
Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking
Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day
In which random clocks ticking played a minor role
During the still life of which a poet happened along
And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if
Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia
Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean;
The only task of the poet to capture it all
And let the reader sort it out later
In the random tracks of his circuitous brain:
Whether the pitcher was full of sea
Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher
One blue, serendipitous drop at a time
And where no clocks were keeping time.

I envy the cool darkness, now we're apart
And the warmth which wrapped your body:
Cocooned by your breathing,
The secret shadows and angles
Which gradually changed every hour
Like a dark sundial recording
All your limbs tiniest convolutions.

I know there was a sort of
Kabalistic synchronicity
Some algebraic function
And if only I'd studied more;
If only I'd applied myself better
I wouldn't have gotten all the equations wrong
Lost the notes, failed the exam.

I remember those once acute angles
How they fit so perfectly my body's contours
Our seams vanished together, smooth soldered
In the same molten dream; mouth to mouth
Torso upon torso, moving wave unfurled
Water of twin oceans, mingled-
Now it's only the moonlight that burns.

dragonflies return
to the place where they were born
my humble pond

The shortest distance isn't the one
We find waiting under mid-day sun;
It's the one winds through the street,
At the lowest point, then goes beneath;

Or the one who calls at three a.m.
Needing coffee, or tonic and gin;
Needing a ride, to anywhere
Some place that’s dim, and never clear.

It's arms that wrap around our own,
While knowing, it's an unsafe trek-
But still a journey, we know too well-
The paradise-encumbered road to hell.

I had two rats, to fill my days
Through spines of books and bed clothes
They chewed their lazy way
And when they saw you, froze

Through spines of books and bed clothes
Released out of their cage
And when they saw you, froze
For chewing was their rage

Released out of their cage
And when they saw you, froze
For chewing was their rage
Their pile of ***** grows

And when they saw you, froze
They lurked behind the dresser
Their pile of ***** grows
The cage mess is the lesser

They lurked behind the dresser
They chewed their lazy way
The cage mess is the lesser
I had two rats, to fill my days

The skies are cloudy with a chance of love:
With you, I'd paint all the stars above;
My hearts on fire, and there's a chance of rain-
Unless I'm wrapped by your arms again.

The skies are cloudy; but the sun peeks out,
While in my heart there can be no doubt
The weather there has been just the same,
Since I first heard you speak my name.

The skies are cloudy, but underneath
Love has taken my heart; the thief,
So now all weathers that we see as two
Will show us skies that are always blue.

The cruciferous prophet sticks in my teeth-
I think I'd rather have a tidbit, of thief;
All covered, of course, in a vinegar sauce
With just a light dusting, of the true cross.

Some rarefied spleen, set sideboard,
With red vintage wine; A.D. thirty-four
Frankincense and Myrrh, baked in aspic;
And saved for last, Shroud Flambe: digestif.

Libation of time, that goes unpoured
For the corpse, in death immured
While we sit and wait, to feel that weight,
That final pain- and is this it?

To think the clocks we watch, not ours
The hours we lost, were only borrowed
From accounts, surfeit no more
Once we learned life is a bore

Of bills to pay, and fools to bear,
While searching things that were not there;
Have never been but imaginings late,
Of what we never could partake.

We had snowflake symphonies,
And foreplay arguments-
So long as we both shall live;
So long as we both shall live.

We had silverware tympanies,
In tiny apartments-
So long as we both shall live;
So long as we both shall live.

We argued every numbered day,
But we could never stay away-
So long as we both shall live;
So long as we both shall live.

We watched as love stretched out his wings,
We listened just to hear him sing-
For love, he's brought us every thing;
So long as we both shall live.

Hurry scurry, wrinkle your nose,
Harem scarem, wiggle your toes;
For each thing's connected to every other-
The Earth is everyone's old grandmother.

Bubble bubble, stir in some trouble,
Soon the *** is bound to be double;
And I've a twin who lives in the mirror-
She rushes to meet me when I come near.

The lathe of heaven's spinning, spinning
Now the web of time beginning,
Time the holder of the many secrets
We must someday learn;
Time the hearth where lie the days
The universe will slowly burn.

Life springs up; it's breathing, breathing
And the web of life is weaving,
Life revolves through many stages
And no one foretells the whole;
Life the mold in which we pour
The essence, turns into the soul.

When the day comes that I must die
Run, just run away, when I've breathed my last
Don't stay and stab your eyes,
Run for sanctuary, run for peace;
Peace returns the day after next.

When I've departed and left you solitary
Run away, just find some other eyes,
Don't stay and lose another day
From this life, weeping for me;
Sanity is just around the corner.

When darkness comes to cover your days
Run, to any happiness you remember,
Don't give in, don't give up the fight;
Cause you're fighting for us all-
And there's nothing you can't conquer.

A mechanic on a days trip from Brazil
Ran down a parrot on the crest of a hill
The beak was asunder, horribly rent
The mechanic swore complete recompense
Fine, said the parrot, I'll send you my bill...

My words are cutting themselves again;
razoring their loosely-sutured syllables,
deep as white-eyed bone.

The suave dipththongs butchered
to the cadence of bloodletting
in hemorrhagic oppositions.

Stapled-closed sentences, smeared with Iodine,
and subcutaneous sentence diagramming
for the retractable scalpel
swiveling along the edge,
of the well serrated cliche.

Once I pressed my wordy flesh
against the wrong side
of a paring knife, while paying no attention
and suddenly,
and without warning
it gave, like an over ripe peach
to the cleaver-
and after that, I was hooked.

Violet, in her blue dress
Of fresh, giddy dreams,
Flounces under waves of wind;
Twirling and bowing
To dandelion greens.

Throwing caution to the breeze,
Unveils her heart
With envious ease;
A natural flirt, and temptingly close
To feathery pink mimosa groves.

My poetry's really meant as decoration
For the days of life that we get rationed;
My lines for scrapbooks, wrapped around vases;
Words embroidered utilitarian places.

My words antimacassars for things nearby;
Some dangling sentences passing by,
Upon the latest quilt or jewelry box;
Or purse, or duffle, or coffee mug.

Please use my poems as flourishes and frills,
To substitute for things sans time to feel;
Shabby chic poetry, for every need:
Then there's always something to read.

When I'm coffee deprived; it's bad, I know it,
My ****** comes out, I'm bound to show it,
Was trying to favorite that poem for so long;
Hit the wrong button, something went wrong-
Then I added myself as a favorite poet.

I'm too big for your suitcase-
My life is a hell;
I thought I'd go with you
When they ring that bell.

I thought I could fold
My face to my knees;
Wrap my arms round my legs,
Hold my breath until three.

Then emerge from the suitcase
Unscathed as you please,
But there's no way I'll fit there-
I've eaten too much cheese.

I'm too wide for the zipper,
It won't close or move,
And worse, it seems stuck there-
Right in my groove.

I'm too wide for the zipper,
And it's teeth are now stretched;
If I just had no feet
I would feel much less wretched.

My head doesn't fit,
And my arms much too long;
If I could get shortened-
Would it be so wrong?

I thought I would fit
In your suitcase, to hide;
But instead, I'll just mail me
In a big box, inside.

Like a tomb for a Pharoah,
I'll have room for my parts;
On my way to you now,
To reclaim my lost heart.

Devastator,
Don't trip upon my sighs:
Heavenly bodies do sometimes lie.

Devastator,
Alms-giving’s for the righteous;
So give of yourself, tonight.

Devastator,
Your name means 'who is like god';
And I’ve been searching him forever.

Devastator,
I’m lying in wait all night,
Like a wily predator,

Devastator,
There is one named Michael;
Have you seen him anywhere tonight?

Now I'm in the turnips and string beans of poetry:
It's like, you think you'll grow up some day
And live in a two story house with swimming pool,
And a two car garage, with a six pack driveway.
Things turn out differently, though you might think
You'd spend whole days devouring Dickinson, Keats, and Shelley,
Drinking fine wines with tidbits of exotic cheese.

Then you find out you'll live in a one car rented garage apartment,
Over a couple always yelling or making love-
There's no in-between; and you never know which it'll be
And if you're mistaken for the significant other you might get
Bopped with a lady's spiked heel or an army boot.

Then you find out that you're the couple
But you're always too busy to make love;
Love is no longer scheduled like bowling night,
It all depends on uncluttered horizontal surfaces and spare minutes-
And the wine turns into beer, when you can afford it
And the nightly budget pizza is the only dough you'll get
It's constipating; but the words still get squeezed out.

And the poets you're reading now aren't dead:
They're urbanely unkempt, and you know them personally,
All their quirky habits; writing poems at bus stops
In a voluble rush; writing words on cafe napkins,
On discarded want ads and torn paper sacks;
And none of them are well known, and none of them are rich.

But they're poets all the same, they live and breathe
The written word, and you're no different, certainly no better,
All of you shooting up words and slang nightly,
Weighing out the soul of the latest idiom,
Choking on cheap cigar smoke and wishing you'd written that,
And thinking you could have done it worse-
And suddenly some night, you look around you

You realize you're living poetry, and you don't care anymore
About rich and famous- because now it's your addiction;
None of that mattered anyway, for only poetry holds any reality now.
Everything else is imaginary, and all the poets started out this way;
Nobody knew them or gave a rat's ***,
And they went on writing just the same
As if it were the most important job on earth they'd been given.

The indifference of paper kaleidoscopes
touches the afternoon's stained glass.

Scattered bubbles of blood
repeat the vaporous names of rocks.

The world itself wavers between
straying syllables of books.

A blank moment arrives
staring at secrets made visible.

All day is the stillness of
unchanging light around the temple.

Between 'come' and 'go'
the same motionless theater of rest.

Time gobbles up
the elusively throbbing reflections.

Myself the ghostly transparency
made of circular-turning glass.

A woman's just a padded cell, in situ:
With mirrored tile reflections, of former occupants
Reveals their once desires, like long past feast
That's been viewed only partially, through a narrow hall,
And though her cushions can't stop your fall
They soak up life's effluvium; for she's an island
In the lull; most co-morbidly, antediluvian:
And as it cradles the body's living estate,
Her rocking-horse frame can't navigate
The ground swell of presumptive grace.

Let's pretend, that the dizzy motion ride
Has provided real progress forward, in spite
Of strong waves, that coupled oceans bring;
Jump saddle, on her coiled and double-jointed springs.
Bright enameled eyes might rein you inside
For your brief spate, of the near total ingress:
Waving haloed hips of plastic'd flesh; her glide
Could stay stationary, until you confess.

Only she knows well, the secret of assuring you
You'll not drown, of her swirling vicissitudes;
And if once you abhorred your childhood name;
Now can use same call sign, for your idling engines
Of a certain procreatively inspired invasion
As she whispers it; says it loud, clenching need
Of the second's singlemost long duration.

When she finally unlocks your prow from docks
Post haste, of body's self-deceptive clocks
Inside her temples, rising incense of sweat
Mingled with undertows, of past vibrations; and her smell
Itself: a briny distillate, of a pheromone tonic; forensic clue
Of a decidedly amber hue; the body's cyclonic age of man
Keeps travelling it's way, down her plundered mnemonic.

You can feel the straight jacket's razored sleeves,
Beginning to loose your constricted lungs;
And your ***** overflowing; becoming a sieve:
If you could keep on riding, you'd be quite sure
That eventually, just a small band-aid could cure
The slight, though badly malformed scar;
From the still flowing toxins; to soon immure-
Hard to believe, how far gone you were.

Forget old self; a newfound confidence;
Makes you forestall the inevitable trip
Down to the corner, second-hand store,
As now is revealed, that her paint's become chipped;
And the horse's eyes are now rolling inward,
As if looking there, for some positive proof,
From the prying, irreverent eyes of the world-
But you know it too well: she's just a padded cell.

Our empty syncopation's are patiently ambushed
By restless margins of undeclared territory;
Shivering cymbals, entraining cloistered memories,
A nimbus inclining toward unredeemable quarries:
Refrains unimagined, of star-tipped dawns
Upon certain days of ritual, unbelievably worn.

Breathing dragons of fire-squandering meridians
Pour round water upon semblance's drowned emotion;
Cleave then to me, who cleaves to the last vestige
Of rarefied air, breathed by bellows-smothered centuries
When your foot trod the newly opened ****** earth,
And your hand hinged loves diagonal, even unto death.

Atoms skitter to the center
In the square dance of all matter;
Quarks should rotate once around,
Keeping us on earth firm-bound.

Swing your partner far and wide,
Perihelion's kept astride,
And the strings of matter
String along the boson's heart.

Now come together; smatter, scatter;
Atom-smashers do not matter,
For this dance of matter
Truly is a dance of higher art,

Matter curtsys; and there's gravity
Fills in each slight curving cavity-
From above, you'll notice first
It all starts from just one burst-

So the particles keep on dancing,
Midnight comes, and still they're prancing;
Whirling, somersaulting like they never
Dared to dance before;

Keep on watching, as the clocks hands
Travel once more past the grandstand;
We're transfixed since matter never
Let us ever see this door.

We're the eyes and ears that dare
To watch this tantric ballet, bared;
Entanglement seduces; there's no other place to be-
Bow to your partner in this deadly quantum duel of rivalry.

Maybe we're words left behind by night,
Beneath bounding silhouettes of guiding stars,
Or waters of memory lapsed into rain;
As mind of man bleeds his dreams into day.

If there opened a window, none can know why-
When breath counts the years, and moments bide time,
For the hidden soul's body must ever grow older-
Another years living, in the sacred bowl smolders.

The offspring of earth, or day-star's bright child,
Dancing on moonbeams in scintillate shoes,
And impassioned questions, from spirit begotten-
Whatever magic made him, the secret’s forgotten.

The mold has been shattered, the bird has flown;
The seed too far from the father’s blown,
But it’s the secret we hold true because
The world's more beautiful now- than it was.

The Heisenberg uncertainty principle
Can tell me you've moved
But it can't tell me how fast;
Or it can tell me
You're nearing light speed
But not if you're coming closer
Or moving farther away from me.
Yet I can feel the sunlight
I know it takes eight minutes
From the central fire of the solar system
To reach my skin
And so it is, I can sense the flame
Of your presence
Even a million years distant:
Nothing else gives off as much light.

The dust of their coming and going
Sifts down through the years,
Their gravity once knotted fabric to flesh;
Even though they're near,
Just the ashes, are all can impress.

Since time snapped in two between their fingers,
They haven't aged much, except to uncoil,
Unwind branching strands;
Under satin recoil
Beneath brass sheaths, the body banal.

We walk upon the faces of kings, and sleep
High, on the ruined backs of strangers;
All unknowing, how the dust gets laid,
Unaware of the danger-
Every generation becomes the new day.

You have the right not to look into Miranda's eyes.
Anytime you do look into Miranda's eyes,
Anything you see there can and will cause you to fall in love with Miranda.
You have the right to counsel on how to write a proper love letter to Miranda.
If you have no pencil and paper, they will be provided for you.
Do you understand this, as it has been explained to you?

Well I changed all the locks
Cause I couldn't get in
And I moved all the clocks
Cause time seemed too thin

And I made love be free
Cause it was too dear
And I made the blind see
So they'd have no fear

And I opened the parks
So you could visit for free
And removed all the marks
That said you couldn't just be

I tore down the fences
And opened the gates
And nixed the verb tenses
So we could relate

Now the world is much changed
But I'm tiffed to discover
That our brains are deranged
In our rooms made of rubber

the bones of the doors in some parallel worlds,

I take hold and swing but then they fall apart,

to fly toward dimensions I never suspected.


the leaves of the heart where you've never trespassed

fold open just like a mechanical clock,

all gears and cylinders driven by time.


it's too late when the bones disperse,

it's too late when the clocks stop talking-

caught in the wake of something immense.


help me wake up, I’ve been sleeping too long.

help me wake up, we’ve been sold for a song.

I am the universal signal mixer
On frequency h-u-m-a-n
Intaking and excreting vibrations
Decoding and synthesizing inputs
Receivers attuned and continuously engaged
Transposing matter and energy
Into light patterns of thought
Touching all waveforms
As a lover touches himself and others
Energy frozen into matter
Love frozen into form
Stretched to the very limits
On the blueprint of time, eternity
As dreamed by, yours truly

Earth-shine in your loved one's eyes
Is all you have for memories;
Moonlight died beneath their lids,
When death did his deliveries.

And now the world's a colder place,
Though sun still shines above it,
And moon comes too, and looks upon
The graves, were made with loving.

And though the years will pass the same;
Though weeds and grass obscure it,
Their names on trembling lips will live-
As long as we endure it.

With weary frankness I lean into
Evenings diffident shadows,
Wavering hues, grays and blues
Peering between the cloistered stars:
Endless dream I forgot how to navigate
Encompassing moments built by tidal movements
And sudden divisions between orbital shells
Inertial havoc starts the blood rushing
The world's a quagmire of uninhabited space
With lonely islands of pulsating matter
Suns unnumbered, rippling the waves collapse
Take all my heartbeats too, that as I languish,
The resonance might start another avalanche
The fiery, seeding vacuum of dawns early light,
That old magician's hat trick.
But be merciful to me, centrifugal womb of time;
Both the product and the witness
The sum of the totality only here, only this, only now-
This forever world, always just on the brink
Of breaking into a hundred thousand new worlds,
From insignificance multiplied
Far beyond any meaningful purpose:
For nobody controls even one solitary particle down here.