You are in a room, inside a house.
The door of the house is closed.
The door of the room is open.
The window of the room is open.

The door of the house is being opened.
You hear the sound of the opening house door
through the window of the room, from outside the house,
through the door of the room, from inside the house,

simultaneously.

Losing one glove
is certainly painful,
but nothing
compared to the pain,
of losing one,
throwing away the other,
and finding
the first one again.

Open conspiracies are born in black light
as a big bang passes a tiny toot

Beyond color-prison shackles
freedom glows a fitter hue
as unreal and exact as foreseen

Baby Buddha in smoothed-out wrinkles
redisappears
backwards
into a moment gravity holds dear
pieces of universe stuck in its throat
giggling to negotiate
the terms of its final rebirth:

The magnetic pole to every needle,
in exchange for time to squeeze out of life
the conditions for running counter-clockwise…

Reality is a plot to overthrow itself.

unreleased, unaimed
bow undrawn
position unassumed
target unaquired

moments repass
as we unwatch
our arrow of time
approach its mark

real money is real
and
fake money is fake
because
real paper is real
and fake paper is real

Semantic stars collude, collide
until the brightest constellation of words
emerges to articulate for life
what cosmology would consequently liberate:
Emancipating sentence served in the unspeakable tongue
Oxymoron’s ill delight

In the pitch-black universe of language
Oxymora hide
the darkest matter

Les mots:
du sucre glace
saupoudré
sur les sommets
de nos pensées.

If a photo of a falling tree
is posted on the internet
and not a single person "likes" it
was it ever really taken?

"no gods were harmed
in the making of this universe"

1/ Swallow a ripened evening whole.
2/ Regurgitate the metaphor bit.
3/ Masticate on the ensuing puzzle.
4/ Spit out the sparkling bottomless-pit.
5/ Savor the nutrient-loaded symbols.
6/ Plant the jewel in fertile wit.

Her face collapsed
Wave of love
into particles
when he asked for a *******.

Dingy motel-room-planet
Smartphone cameramen, women,
Children
united in a circle ****:
Lead actress in the center, drowning
in fossil-fuel *******.

Mother (Nature) I'd Like to ****.

is when you smash a soft-boiled word: Lightly
against a hard substance,
peel off the protective layer of semiotic circumstance,
reveal the gelatinous, inner white sentence,
and take it all with a pinch of salt.

what do you know
about their pain
what do they know
about yours

run through each other
the sharpest love
to find out

She stands at the window
a fine white stream of goodevil knowledge
trickling down her chin

Lungs heaving against the pane
Lungs heaving against the pain
She longs for a killer breeze
from the die-hard fan.

The yellow-eyed seconds slither out the clock
hi S S ing in rhythm as they crawl.

On the table lies the used core of a once
juicy red delicious
hourglass figure, cyanide hearts and all

She is aware of her own nakedness.

The moon watches on
bleeding silver
from stab wounds by dagger-branches
waiting for a crack in the window
through which to enter

The Tree of Life towers menacingly overhead.

He walks in
AdamAnt
intelligent-designer suit: businessgod attire
briefcase in hand
brief case in point

He knows.
She knows.
Time knows.

An Electrified goliath stirs in the depths

The Ego awakens
lifts its rod
beckoning to the waves of children behind it,
parts the folds of red sea
charges head on.

It rides long and hard
hooves pounding the riverbed
Ready
to pull out on the other side

But the branches find their crack.

The Enraged goliath stumbles
suffocating
Ego trips
relentless walls closing in,
It goes under in a seizure
frothing at the mouth
drowning
as its children swim.

Time holds the twosome breath in its constricting grip
Tree binds Life inside a cell
at the center of the evolving prison

The pane, reflecting
The pain, reflected
Window souls mirror soul's Window

Branches regain their higher dwellings.

An exhumed goliath stirs
on a distant shore.

She stands at the window
a fine white stream of goodevil knowledge
trickling down her shin.

In order to become
the next Big Thing
one must first
Give up being a person,
devolve into a thing.

Robert Frost
is quoted to have said:
"Writing free verse
is like playing tennis
with the net down."

I suspect
he never knew the joy
or challenge
of playing tennis with himself
against a wall.

If the road was a woman
he'd settle down and marry

Pale shadows
dangling on a string;
Arm of light connects

For the sake of little i
who cannot look it in the eye
the Sun plays puppeteer.

Open your ears
Listen to the sky
on a still night you might hear
The whole note
droning silver
that sits
on a hidden ledger line.

You win it
simply
by playing against yourself

…………..…to   every....................
……...…poetic   moment………..
……......……..its   angle…………...
……………......of   *******….

For a captivating 2nd
the heart thought a thought
the mind couldn't think

A hand that thinks
with its fingers

In a river of eyes
Soul bathes
****

Gun in hand
to spill the colored truth
of poet’s own grey matter
Neurons dying to and fro to
figure out
if a stanza suicide is worth committing

Pen, on the other hand
dangles a juicy metaphor
from the *******.

Sitting on the bus:
A sudden chill down her leg
She panics
for a moment
before realizing
it's summer
And more importantly
the liquid pouch
is in her backpack.