there is a longing
that cuts deep
like the long
slice of cake
from the 1st birthday
you remember

there's a home
that shines bright
in the distance
during a storm
and your clothes
are wet and cold

there are people
who live in fear
beyond their control
they still don't stop
hoping for better days
no matter the cost

I spent so many years
on the outside looking
into all of these things
wondering what it means
and I learned something

Hope is like a blueprint
a guide towards greater
purposes and even if
you find yourself lost
it will always be there

My village is a bit crooked, of course
of course
it shows
on the streets
it was known
evening police
traded in grace for blow
sources say they
wanted to drive it home
catching sirens
dating gang bangers
on video drones

My village is corrupted, of course
of course
it shows
puppets wave
programs
smiling daggers
while our weakest
become sadder
kick the bucket
and say goodbye
to the dispatcher

I suppose
some people
lead by a nose
and someone else
must shake
his ****** fists
and cry;

"All these beautiful things I've seen make me feel so alive"

I am holding myself accountable
For now, but not always
There's times when I should have
been the first to say I'm sorry
Of course we all have those times.
We must all have those times.
To err, to caution, to be human
Questioning if you said or did
What was right, most kind
The best possible actions
Achieving the most perfect outcome

But I cannot hold myself hostage
To reckoning with perfection
Nor can anyone else reasonably
****** me upon such a pedestal
and expect me to preform
my best, most absolute
unconditional, unequivocal
gestures of good faith
If they have not made themselves
Stand tall in such high places
Responsibly bearing the weight
Of being incorruptible to errors


I allow myself to look within
And search for the answers
As to why there's always this desire
To be something more than
The accumulation of cells and dust
That surrounds my innermost self
It seems like finding answers
Will have to start with asking questions
As to why I am the way I am
Right here in the now.

If I can shape myself into anything,
more than or less than
what I already am right now
How can I ever truly be myself?
How to begin knowing myself
If it was never really clear as to
what my self was to begin with?
Where is the source of who I am?
What I am? How I am, and why?
What happens if I stripped away
All that I am and put the pieces
back together in a different way?
Would I become someone else,
or something else entirely?

I have always wondered
If wondering will be good enough
In search of the answers
In search of the miraculous
An inner earth within the earth
which I heard only
existed in pages of a book
Written in the sand
A very long time ago

If you looked into yourself
and saw a mirror reflecting
the parts of other people
you either hated or loved,
Could you continue to look
at yourself when others called on you
and honestly say to them,
"Look, I am what I've become"?

No one is to blame
No one is blameless
The truth is a place
That meets in-between

If I were a stone
I would not believe
that the medow
looks after the rose.
To be hardened
is to be muted.
Any stone that
does not tumble
will not shine.
The truth is that
freedom comes from
aching hearts,
and full moons.
Lonely roses hidden
behind tall blades
of grass.
It's so good
to see you thrive
where you thought
you might not
have survived.

You always bring up that time I broke the pint glass and cut my finger.

It leaks out onto the floor and becomes a habit.

Nobody salts the wound more than me.

Providence the dreadful mystery;
The impeccable dignities and places
Sweep in spirals, from the sand;
that blowed And licked at your feet
The world Conceived before those hills
Foot-fast; Look, where He strove to get at.

The gardener from thee-
a meager seed and humble need
a leaf within his reach
The spell enclosed,
apricot and peach.
Pineapple in bloom
No rose
No jessamine
Symbols of all interposed
With a flower so sweet,
like a blue eye
the gardener sighs.

"this Plant, is not mine."

Today, I am awake
Reminding myself how to be gentle
It’s a process, it takes time
Remembering how to co-create

Yesterday, I did not stir
I could barely even function
Perturbed, or disturbed it seemed
I never thought I would begin

In those days, all was still
Even the ghosts dare not speak
But even still, my house was warm
Every book held its own space

Back then, the thunder shook
And cracks became unglued
But slowly, a light poured in
Giving hope for what should have been

Now, the words come slowly
However they do not hesitate
To fill my aching heart with wonder
Heavily, a stone set into place

Today, I am noticing
Familiars that have always been
So much older than any tome
Faith works miracles out of sight

Within the stomach of the world
The country stretches its branches, uncurled
Who is the horror of Napoleon Bonaparte?
Who darkens and fools the heart?
Often when man is shaken to the core
Other worlds sneak peeks in his door
And even in the junction of cattle
Metaphysical and mystical truths dazzle
Touched by the sea, a vision came
The pearls of the earth in flames
A jackdaw perches itself on pistons
Radiating heat from all of its mission
His mystic sense stayed tight beneath eyelids
Yet lit the flame in all said and undid
Like a voice in the wilderness
Or even a prophet of old, who might deliver us.

Hail the green,
It shall cover the earth again.
The time of beast is over,
Now is the time of leaf.

Do you know what there is to know?
You claimed you know what you wish to know.
You cared not to know, so you will not know.
You did not know, so you will not know.
You pretended to know, so you think you know.
But you did not know, so you will not know.
You cannot know
You do not know
I do know
For you I know
For a thousand years
I know, I know
You will not know
But I will so.

I know.

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
    ­                                                                 ­       the day ends
                                                            ­             singing to us
                                                              ­         ourselves to
                                                              ­       each-other
                                                      ­             of the hour
                                                            ­     to a minute
                                                          ­    on the clock
                                                           ­we drink roses
                                                        for fading embers
                                                        th­e burning match
                                                         th­at proverbial breath
                                                          ­      the familiar pull
                                                            ­      towards dreams
                                                          ­          towards sorrow
                                                          ­                       the pain
                                                            ­                        the joy
                                                             ­                          from
                                                            ­                         dust
                                                         ­                            to
                                                                ­               dust
                                                            ­              emptiness
                                         ­                             orderliness
                        ­                                         indifference
                                                    ­    mounds of gold
                                                    ignorant­ shiny
                                                 pile of ashes
                                               enlightened
­                                            afterthought
        ­                                 in the morning
                                        in the evening
                                        all the beauty
                                         is all suffering
                                          living forever
                                           dying together
                                             hands over fists
:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

two pairs six works
input, beginning
output, ends of things
subject: to the seventh
the beginnings again
concept of the egregores
hundreds of thousands
emerging independently
united but seperately
casting jungian archetypes
the most beautiful pottery
a Hyperborean hero
the Lord of Darkness
immortalizing himself
again but with the face
of absolute Man and Woman
gone away already
Together with Another
who was waiting
at the edge of time
the minds of gestalt
wonders above,

“Truly, how can you, oh thoughtful reader, look at the shadows on the wall and see anything other than the script of a movie unfolding before your eyes?”

Too long we strive,
        yet not to thrive
                            ... patient
            forgetful ...
                            ... many towers
                                are filled with
                                dust, of which ...
                                we cannot depend on.

All Understanding uncovers
ugliness, usury.
Unifying utopians
uncorruptable,
unmoveable.

Dashing Prophets promoted
promiscuous personalities.
Promethus’s powers
persisted
purposelessness.

Do Postmodern proletariats
protest phantoms?
Puckering proudly,
pondering
paraphrases?

If Egyptians engineered
excessive egoists,
Englishmen evolved
ethical
endgames.

Tradition Rules reformed
rednecks, remobilizing,
romanticizing, recursions
rose
remarkably.

If Caesar costumed
cabals crafted carefully,
Christianity calibrated
circumferential
conflicts.

Vigilantism Unveils unlucky
usurper, undoes underachieving,
unemotional, unconsciousness
unlearning
unhumanness.
  
Every Tadpole’s talents
triumphs titan’s tricks
tip toeing
towards
truth.

so by the time
        of a force
       of an effect
   of the most important favorite place
                     I am the
                First to be reviewed,
             now I am the First to
           find out what it is
           the heck is a bit
           of a washed-up
              new window
              heaven being
            a good idea, too.

i could know so many things

i could be a bird

i am a working class dog

when did you realize
 our street was on fire
   like sort of hanging over
       smearing the hate
         for themselves
          for the rest of us
            with spark head
              moving forward


    they don't go home
 this is popcorn classic
  movement of hands
     muses getting some
         mustered
            darkness
            covered in dust
                             warmth

         the noise being made
        over layers of humanity
                          eating itself

      


                 i don't know
   i do not understand
   i don't know how to
             but i could try

inside an early morning
the sky flipped around
cart wheeling above
lightning bolt flashes
big thunder boomers
some clouds fostered
the rain which leaps
onto the earth just as
Zeus flushes the toilet
and the entire world
stops to listen for
him to zip.

time passing
a place to be
nowhere to go
so it seemed

twenty-five hours ago
didn't we break free

wet Mondays
called out
the grooves
that smiled
in between
Needlehead
and me

i am
     soft like a
     ***** sponge
     burning soapy water.
          the others were calling
                    i tried to reach you,
                   you told me i should.
                                          but you
                                              never
         ­                                     answered
                   ­                      so i left alone
                                      because i am
                                     soft
                                   and
                                 able.

today
      smells of
              cut grass
                 stuck to
             flesh
     in the heat of                                    
       summer                           you
                                             tasted
                                          so
                                     familiar
                                   and i
                                  thought
                            your glass
                       would shatter
                             if i laid
                            my hands
                               on you
                                    so
                                     i'll pretend
                                         you're a ghost
                                                instead          
                                                  and say
                                                     something like
                                                      my river
                                                       is on
                                                     fire

"strange"
                                                 is declared
                                                  of person
                                         who rationalizes
                                                that­ matter if
                                         non-human
                                         non-animal
                                         non-living
                                      merits recognition
                                      as being good
                                      on it's own

                                      but really      
                                         are we
                                         the ultimate stewards
                                               of absolute purpose?

                         what confirms                      our judgement

                                        in deeming what deserves
                                             to exist for it's own
                                             and what belongs
                                                 to our means
                                                           ­                 and ours alone?

                                      is it so fantastic
                                                  to suggest
                                      that by some means of
                                                           indefiniteness
                                                  ­of intangible
                                                                ­            comprehension
                                                all matter
                                       is fundamentally intertwined
                                               in the sense
                                            everything is stardust
                                             created by
                                                                ­   the universe's omnipotent hand?

                                      don't you
                                                 ever get the feeling
                                      inside of your conscious
                                                       ­           too?

                                      doesn't your awareness
                                               ever whisper
                                                   as a sentience
                                                you have an obligation
                                                from some unspoken contract
                                                    sign­ed before birth
                                                  to uphold the integrity
                                                  of everything
                                                  that­ inhabits this earth
                                                       whether or not
                                  it thinks in the way                                       you do?

                                      for what purpose
                                           we exist assembled into
                     abrupt                 profound               togetherness
                                      remains       ­      undecided

                                      earth's fabrications
                                                 will survive
                                               harmoniously
                                      but
                                will you
                 do the same?

we live in the morning between smoking rooms
hanging underneath blankets
 soaked in glue

   we always climb that ladder           
       towards a higher value
     or maybe a better purpose

     sometimes we will laugh along
      and break down in the same week                    
        flashing everyone cracks hiding
           in private places

we've told you before
i'll say it again                  
the
  sun
    will
      not
      guide
         you.

here is now
 to what the
            heck?

         jump out of this year
         with that old joint attitude
         and leave a mark
          like it's too hot for me.

                  so quickly
                  that burden ate.
                   loved the way
                   he operates.

                      won't let us help.
                        needed it.
                        sounded good.

              man, what's wrong with less?

     let's meet up again sometime soon.
           after a few more questions.
           let's meetup somewhere  
                    between
                         two am
                                  and
                                   here.