I am a cluster of
seashells on the floor
lend me your hands
that we may
seize edges more
that when I thought
of you, with
penstrokes down
the last of we
bearing up
what fruit there
is to share.

A quarter of a century ago,
washed a movement of white bodies,
young hearts, white freedom,
for a fresh chance in a nation,
the largest nation on earth.

Minds brightened by education,
a flock of birds called ideas,
awareness, Prometheus,
then became a new story old,
slipped into black by orders.

In standards held among nations,
there is no mention of spirit,
peace, and time,
which changes all things,
time, where memory is born.

Trains shuffle fresh hearts,
great cities house personal prayers,
unheard voices, personal pursuits,
under newer suns every day,
over the largest nation on earth.

A couple papers came out more than a week ago,
expressing that certain astronomical phenomena,
black holes in this case,
could be expressed accurately by projecting the universe as a hologram...
By my lay sense, by taking the integral of space and time and looking in from the outside were we finally able to make sense of gravitational muckery.

You can do this with your life too!
Compress it, from end to end,
into one tasty pancake of a thing. Think: your entire life expressed as a beautiful arc of lightning from baby to ybab...
such that you cannot remember all the times you cried without remembering all the times you lived,
all the times you laughed without all the times you gave,
all the times you could not get out of bed without all the times you enjoyed the clouds,
and all the times you felt powerless without all the times you felt real, vibrant, rainbow love.

Ah! To laugh and cry from the heart at the same time, to be devastated by the tranquility of: yes, our lives really are long, filled with the age of time when taken in one read. Let us continue on then, to forget the past and set sail, knowing that our volume is safe.

How does a little one work,
who sits upon a leaf
when upon a morn
a dog shakes the plant
and little one hangs on?

A pea of a body,
four legs down each side,
the second two from the front
sprayed out to feel the wind
and not stand...

Little friend, your body red,
I can only think of the journey
that all your forebears weathered
to bring you upon this form
after many a day's storm.

Here you stand, miraculous,
not an arachnid I am told,
but I, you, we are not
so different, we are,
little ones.

Eden is a place where all things grow,
Sometimes the moon glows
where all shadows go.

Freeing the moss hands
dance eagle legs, go,
Show the king how to jig amongst
Shivering blooming ferns.

Easily among us and
shown from far to few,
We live in a land where evening rises
and curfews shift from view.

Great lights dance across the sky,
these follow the lights among the cloud layers,
the lights among the earth.
I gather'd the minstrels for a time of crying,
and they lamented upon birth,
gave thanks to the dying,
and knew from heart spilled worth.

They sang of beautiless oceans,
bountiful wealths that sprang within,
Gladly to be swirled to bits
so that beneath then would be real.

And I could only see them play
by the fire light so bright,
They knew to pack their instruments
and travel when came May.

And so I follow...

I walked my dog this morning
and it was the perfect time for a walk
(thanks Chrissy).

It was just as the morning sun was
making its face known.
I got to see the gentle morning
cloud that coated my childish
forest hills get burned away;
I got to see the familiar mist
on my nearby lake be born,
I had never seen it start to rise,
but this morning, I watched
it grow.

The white light of the sun was
drowned in the atmosphere
to become a gentle yellow that
shown on the trees,
and everything was breathing,
was aglow, with the multitude
of dew that had gathered from
yesterday's rain showers.

Directly against the yellow air,
blue bark gnarled by time,
green mosses with redheads
sticking out in patches within
patches.

Red cardinals flinging themselves and
thrashers too in their characteristic
Spanish flair. Ravens aplenty,
fishing crows too, their ugly cries
adding to the density of elegant
morning conversations.

Among all of this, one bullfrog called
once during the morning walk. I
took a moment to turn and look towards.

Most of all, there were colorful
southern flowers that rang down
in chains, left right one-two's
that drooped with dew, and they
were drained of their former glory
for Spring has been over.

The walk:
a nice good morning and a
reminder of breath, a way
to clear morning thoughts
and bring a hint of the road.

Wise men in their bad hours have envied
The little people making merry like grasshoppers
In spots of sunlight, hardly thinking
Backward but never forward, and if they somehow
Take hold upon the future they do it
Half asleep, with the tools of generation
Foolishly reduplicating
Folly in thirty-year periods; the eat and laugh too,
Groan against labors, wars and partings,
Dance, talk, dress and undress; wise men have pretended
The summer insects enviable;
One must indulge the wise in moments of mockery.
Strength and desire possess the future,
The breed of the grasshopper shrills, "What does the future
Matter, we shall be dead?" Ah, grasshoppers,
Death's a fierce meadowlark: but to die having made
Something more equal to the centuries
Than muscle and bone, is mostly to shed weakness.
The mountains are dead stone, the people
Admire or hate their stature, their insolent quietness,
The mountains are not softened nor troubled
And a few dead men's thoughts have the same temper.

These kinds of stories are hard to find.
I posted up in a bar between
nowhere and a town named Ida
(probably named after some
sweetheart, that old southern name),
and in the characteristic openness
that I can only find during my travels,
I decided to say,
"hey stranger."

It was early in the evening,
he was a traveler too,
but of the trucking sort,
ashen eyes and
pale breathy skin,
we got talking amid
electric neon glow and
the pale blue light
that shown in through the rain.

His name didn't matter,
I won't tell you his name,
but the truckers know thumbers
(there are 5000 or so
across the country
at any given time),
and so he told me of a thumber.

This thumber was in the thunder,
clothes torn and eyes wide,
and with a mind that was,
at that point especially,
oblivious to the solidity
of the dry towel that was
set on the solid truck seat,
and, what a mess this boy was,
so by appearance, I presume,
it was easy to ask,
"what in the hell happened to you?"

It went like this:
the thumber turned those
wide open eyes
(I imagine he was shivering),
and told of how he was
walking, backpack and all,
and of how he smelled a storm
approaching, how when he
saw the treetops bending,
he expected the rain and
pulled a waterproof cover
over his pack just in time,
it started pouring.

This time the thumber,
he said he knew he had to
keep going,
he said he didn't like rolling
dice, no, he said it was a cheat
because if you knew enough
about throwing die the die
land the same, they land
the same enough.

So,
listen, have you ever
walked through heavy rain?
You get dizzy, but
in some deep part of your mind
in the spray, the insurmountable
lukewarmness stealing
a little with each blow,
you lose yourself,
and that's what I imagine
happened to this thumber.

At one point, the thumber
knew ground no more,
that's all he said. He said
he landed one county
over, that's all he said.

And by the jingling
of the die hanging
from the truck's rearview mirror,
one of the truckers laughed
and said *******
as the story of the thumber
came around,
what in all hell else could
you say?
And the thumber wiggled
his head and gave a queer
sneeze.

Against the neon glow
I peered at the trucker,
you can't tell an honest
man by his eyes but
you can tell it by his breath.
I shook my head and said,
"that's a kind of story that's
hard to find."

Yae, she's difficult,
drags you by your feet, strangles you,
a light between the clouds wouldn't help,
down here in detritus, covered in kelp.

No name, no name can be spoken,
that would capture the terror, the pride and the error,
of a possession bursted, and also of a soft arrow miss'd.

Sweetling, she is difficult,
Charybdis is beyond hunger,
but better to be twisted, wet, and spun,
as long as she sinks your mind til it's hung.

Well, here's to the glue,
Dripping, dripping,
Closer, to a familiar face, (hahaha)

Manager, I believe I lost my shoes,
Somewhere,
Here, in hotel room 6452,

(from the window)
Soldiers with lead in their pockets
                                            mothers
Without any voice (let alone ears... despair)

Window, sitting upon a cloud,
Hark, a hard rain's a'gonna fall. (bleed)

Lady lent down frost and silver moonbeams,
made my mind green, call it lost.
Call and ask if I'm thankful, all is lost,
lady found my metal core where she hides away.

I might have loved her, but I justly can't say,
when a man is far from home it is not quite his tomb.
Remind me of the liquid earth, not of the cars,
then shall my own half-moon rise for one night,
over the dunes.

IDENTITY! That coward things
Holed up in a wall afraid to come out
To experience the brilliance of night and the dancing of the ladies
Forever still; a Casanova or needs-more pill.
Identity echoes along the hallways of my head
and I can never find the source, no matter the speed I travel
Though I know the source, and it is that next to darkness.

Terribly alone, that thing idenitity
Once I knocked on its door, no answer
But I could feel it in my bones that
Identity wanted no company but itself.

Born to be a bumble bee,
Bumbly more than acceptable,
Bumbling opportunities,
Dim at best, shh ghmm ack ole

Friends we are
You, we, bumblers
Bumping things too far
Until off with our bums

In prison will write book
"Bumbler Chronicles"
I'll put that I bumbled first
And that you bumbled
Ever
After

I put shrinking rage into a cage
at the bottom of the sea,
gave two bubbles as companions
which made it float like a bee.

Sixty years later after many tides' lap,
my child before me will ask,
"Who is that bird who against your cage taps?
Is it looking to get free?"

Wrinkly old me will twiddle his thumbs
rub his temples for a bit and say,
"From that question, another riddle,
now go run along and play."

Then in the slanted evening light
a jumping will spider hail,
Where I'll slouch down to look at her eyes
as she sits on an oxidized rail.

Appearances swept aside,
a point across a cosmic background.
We are all the same: seeking love, losing pain;
siphons, ideally, in this sense.

Curious to watch
one over another;
their love is good luck

The caretaker
being cared for
by the caretaken

Yet this old mom
still gives in sound
"Son, get home safely"

Her voice, to there,
shares space with
empty chairs,

and where once
were shrugs and eye rolls,
patience twines subtly into silence

A risen mossy hand prods gently at my back,
sewing circles on my shoulder blades,
and my skin turns blue,
and I float away.

Laughing gently,
butterflies make laps from
my stomach to my heart.
Happiness,
without reason,
came in through an unlocked door.

Resistance of the wind gives
rise to sentience inside,
realization that self is on the
fence of rejection and love.
Feel the hurt eyes looking out to the world,
always with love
and always behind bars.
Relive the old age that
you will experience near the end;
there is nothing to fear,
but fear is real.

Mailed her off in a letter
To somewhere over the horizon
Never gonna talk about love
Signed, sealed, delivered

On the way to three 16
Crested over a highway hill
Saw the entire town in a fog
Sky, fields, and river

Raced her down empty ten
At 7:56 am
Took Exit 1 and parted ways
Signed, sealed, delivered

On second thought
Should write this poem
Tomorrow morning

The proverbial
Better jump down a manhole light yourself a candle
Plays away at sensory deprivation
As soon as shadows dance around the wall

Well, a modern day cave
Such as the ones prophets receive their callings from God in
I suppose it only means
Truth lurks in the subterranean

Met a wife and her husband at a bus stop in Atlanta.
Said
     "We're going down to Miami to see our brother. Hubby's gonna go deep sea fishing next to all the mangrove roots."
Just then, the double decker came and swooped them up, took off into the sky beating its mighty $1 dollar ticket wings.

Write till your itchy fingers fall off
When the party's over, write some more
Write into the mist, write from the veil
Hand your heart to readers and write while they feel your pulse
Write like you're being chased by dogs
And when they ask "who's side are you on?"
Write like you mean it to their faces
When they're leading you to the noose
Ask for one final request: pen and pape
And write down a moody poem and draw a picture too
Write upside down, write on a rail
Then build yourself a glider with your writing and write while you fall
Write in a wooden house, write poems for louse
Write, write, write, write, write in spite (if you have to)
All in all, no further explanation required
Just write, alright?

Failing the fox
It's no pleasure of mine
But what's done has been done had to be done and then some
Silver lining aside
And there are great lines that hide
I'll stay south a little longer tonight and into tomorrow as well
Wishing, washing

an old blues musician whose poetry is absolutely timeless!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4dOcvQdv9fM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VcvKFBwxzj0

Such slow road unwinds
Vast possibilities in mind
Fresh hatchling ashore

A standalone play, day today
Watchmakers in store
Hatch moonplay on display

Merrily a cascade, bitter
notes in rhyme
A head comes out, it's time

Movement minx, mincing meat
She tides through jungles in wake leaves shake
But east side eidolon her sleep displays
Between the concrete displays, her age and her rage

A dream like a rag rests on the spires of her city
Centuries of men reflux into muscle
Pushes her along, her excitement belongs
To none other than herself (you're young (sometimes rich) once)

My father never liked cities, "they're all the same"
But daddy don't you know that's where the future is
And neon vines drop down from scaffolds
Grab her by the waist and bring her up up

Where she rests, solemnly gargoyle at
Outrageous heights.
I'll surely miss her, that old gal of mine.

An ageless whispery weave we sit on
As friends on an ancient glade,
Our grain heads bump into one another's
Eternally shifting sighing movements
Remarkably from one place to another
Without anyone losing their wheat

Strangely on grey days we encounter
An unexpected rolling back
Of the strangest colorations of our minds
Sadly, we do it to ourselves
We do, we do
And that is the hardest part about flying
To awaken ourselves from our thorny nests

Let's carve wooden boxes for each other
Wrapped in green cloth, hidden under arms
We'll pass these boxes along until
Someone finds and opens it
Inside it a dagger, as all helping hands become
And though its edges are sharp and painful
With use, brush will turn gold and fall

What's left behind? That's the adventure of love.

Imagine young Rita to be
too small to walk Mingus properly
And instead of a yuletime stroll
a one-dog sled team over yonder hill rolls

Going to take a hike
down these old Georgia roads
Lead me to where the dust comes crawling
so I can stare into the distance and imagine

Hold my hat, son please
watch me as I unhand this plow
Feed the cattle, don't forget
that I'll be home on a wooden float

Way up there in the hills
the way the northern woods glow
A perfectly placed dead tree, that'll get
me satisfied, then I'll find a natural moat

Build a raft, sand the spikes
on my way back, I'll pass a toad
and the river will open onto woods more sprawling
until I find my way home, I imagine

Yuch,
I tasted Chrissy's canned food today.
Though our tastes differ
her personality is sizable.

Her thinking faces
and her dog winks
make me think she is an old fuzzy lady.

Peoples and their pets.
Not a petty thing
yet treated as such.

This morning she
crafted an omelette
for me because I requested.

I would have liked it
but, as I said,
yuch.

Good morning secret readers
I'd like to tell
of something I saw pass my window
last night.

Last night
though a moonless night
was fret with strange rumblings
and pitter patterings
all about my house.
Pah, was it a mouse?
No, it was my spouse
lit up from her sleep
by who knows what, but
she was spinning
there mumbling
in a sleeptalk.

And she says, and she says to me
"Arlia, my husband,
over the many years you have done me
no misfavor, but I would like to
request a simple repose
away from the stink of your feet.
I, for the life of you,
could never tell you myself.
Love,
the nose."

And just then, I noticed
the bell of a great brass horn
leave my room through the window;
it had been there all along.
Confused, I leapt
to see who was now snickering:
a fat fairy baby who had been
singing mischief into my dreams.
Fat fairy! Thanks
to you, I dip my
feet in Epsom salt...

Like sprinkling Fred
who waters the flowers outside her door
He's probably not well read
but has much fun from nine to four
And when he's in bed
she digs up dead flowers in a chore
a chore limitless, she can only ask for more

She thinks:
Two snow rabbits
burrowed deep within a snowbank
Call it a habbit
they sleep around cold like a riverbank
Ears, fur, noses small bits
their eyes are closed and they have nothing to thank

Outside the sun sets brilliantly
the city's pollution makes a fantastic prism
And she step by steps up the staircase
each wooden partition creaking in response
Fred lays sleeping, tucked away in dreams
and she pushes his bed off into a river
the black water carries him away, away
She is left on the sand, waving Fred away, away

1)** One grain of salt and one grain of sugar
To be taken daily with the dose of the day
And I was impressed by what was said,
Sitting on the curb, I turned to face him as he explained
A little bit of brine and a little bit of sweetness
To make the bittersweet passing of time unchained

2) Sit, matter, stay for a while
But it does not and it passes askance
The universe on the next block over
Pajama shorts, your mom's hat on
Says with tongue in cheek
"This too shall pass"
While pointing at a passing bicyclist

The loneliest librarian is in the
heart of darkness
I saw him, old, bearded
on three sides book cases
on the open side, a desk
he faces outward into the darkness
drawing notes at their best.

Look away! in the distance
an army and her generals gather
Up ahead, a conqueror
metal jangles, saddles horse

Cries the pony boy:
I miss my mother
let me go back
what does this all mean?

Studying now, the librarian,
notes in check, own pen
scratching, no metals
only and only
his mind and an ink-filled well

Spearhead, arrowhead formation
a king and his khanate lean forward
into the permafrost, snow lashing
wind blows against but cannot stop
fierce wild will
and only the willows weep

Cries the pony boy:
Radically, may I be afraid
of the dead, arms asunder
so much love! so much love!
what does this all mean?

And far, far ahead of this army
librarian sits, silently
loving nothing, everything beside him
he scribbles notes
A love letter? tiresome if so
upon closer inspection...

At the center of the dark dark forest
where a lonely man rides in his kayak
lantern fixed upon a frame, making his boat top-heavy
he bobs back and forth across his body of water
he is haunted
he is lonely
he is a skeleton

Now grand general crosses the Styx
Ice clumps brushing gently against his ships
cold enough to **** a horse, set blood aglow
with blue, so cold it could not rot.
To valley forge!
to valley forge
to forge a future.

And pony boy cries:
What does it mean?
my father is gone, gone before this war,
he once said, it must be, be,
Did he mean...

Finally, up ahead, the librarian draws
untraceable lines, he knows the army is at his door
lonely, shaking, only the conqueror made it
and he is almost dead too.
Scared, sacredly, he finally hands the librarian his match
and sobs, softly, under breath
"Time, time is, time without,
time too
starts anew."

One sided love
arresting a dove
her nose kindly nestled in the crooked leaved bristle

One may softly rustle sheets, they stir
the quiet sound of legs against legs several
            no, must be more than a hundred
nights before

But I regret that I am not speaking
rather the dove's keeper is seeking
a quieter appearance of both lover's snores
We love each other
just can't say it any more

Far narwhaled
silly monkey speared
aquatic creature cucumbered
another mammal tonight

On the fishing boat,
they reeled in both bodies
the monkey frozen solid
narwhal flapping harmlessly

They asked the monkey how it happened
his reply was this:

So they took his wide-eyed frozen stare
as for an admission of guilt.
his shock spoke volumes like
a speaker being blown out.
Tonight, the sailors drink moonshine.

Gotta fancy fantasy
Gonna roll out of bed one day,
kidnap this kid in a car and roll off
into a sunset with $5000 in the
bank and two guitars in the back.
No drugs allowed, buddy,
but I ain't gonna tell you that.
Gotta make you love life again, yes I do,
gonna show you how pretty the world am, yes will do.

(I)
Here on top of a windy mountain path,
you will pass by, and if I could, unspeaker
I would give you my coat.

(II)
Here, up so high, where the sky brushes cheeks
cold blades, mountain dew
falls, sprinkles on your shins,
celebrated by the cold refresher,
I will owe you, I will owe you the newest.

(III)**
Luminous danger dragon fly,
addle bright as your might, you've given me nostalgia,
Has it been that long? Wind might not tell you
it takes millions years to fill in that
one
shining
hiney.

Jimena Hubbard was a poor lovely boy
Who grew up in the countryside
Rocks in his fists
He squeezed them hard
His muscles did the twists
And now his hands quietly wave away mists
A fish out of water
He wandered with otters
With berries and kittens
The world was his fodder
Then Jimena Hubbard met Hummina Bubbard
And Hummina Bubbard is now Hummina
Hubbard

So are
Martina
Lunesta
And Farina Hubbards
Through their old folks ponds
They swam and they ran
In their mouths, crabapples
And in their fists, rocks
They played in the dirt
And tied hair into knots
Then Martina
Lunesta
And Farina Hubbard
As grains do sway
Untied their knots
Now Jimena and Hummina
Rest in the soil
Three daisies in place
Where their love once toiled.

Dimes times, dimes times
A little better off than Lennie's pennies
Grimes threw thymes, fines
For thin lines
Into the giving ***,

Crime slimes, crime slimes
Poorer than peeling off ***** pauper
Wines and dines, limes
For fat kinds,
Into the waiting rot

Mines mine, mines mine
Sames the games we've all been playing
Shines sharp pines, rhein
Same all the time,
Unto the wading well
.

UHm, let's see
This one time in high school a girl liked me
Cute, small, played sports
                        (^ yeah ^)
Knew about this for four months
Flirted with her all along

Homecoming came around
didn't grab the bull by the horns
Asked pretty late
so she said no

My high school was loaded
had an all concrete and brick courtyard
I remember popped ketchup packets
and boys shooting bottle caps at each other

Now the graduating class is really uncool.

I don't say that to be ironic either.
they make really bad rap videos
literally a line:
"Polo's and Sperry's is all we wearies,"
Would have rather asked a girl out
late to homecoming.

Went to the General Store today
it was named
FAST & EASY
Must have been tongue in cheek
I went in and the general manager
was eating corned beef from the can

Went in to buy a pack of cigs
for a friend
Was assaulted by
            Bob's Country Made Molasses
            Dried Baby Alligator Heads
            A Candy Counter
            Antique ? Furniture
                        no judgement, just not sure
            A ***** bathroom
                        ******* offering on the wall, nice

Walked out of the general store today
FA -T & EASY
            looks like the neon turned on
What a place, I like it a lot
Or maybe it's just the warm Florida air

(I)
So concretey, these jungles
but not like this
Glass shards shoot up 45 stories
only to have tarp covered markets
populated by shouters

Oh, Powerpuff Girls on backpacks
one green
one purple
one pink
And 10 dollar Gucci bags
these people have it made
Four blocks from the world stock exchange
these people have it made

(II)
You ain't had won ton noodle soup
Or chicken feet
Or shrimp stuffed eggplant
Or food from Chinese franchise Pizza Huts
which happens to be an escargot joint
What does that say about US?
hopefully not much

(III)
Red taxis between every other car
Double decker busses
more common than city pigeons
Still the city finds time for trees
whiskery ents rising out of
ancient volcanic soil

You would think it's a city full of sin
Seven million souls, what-
that's higher than I can count
It's not
Everyone here is cute and wrinkly
Confucian
except for the young
These people have it made

(IV)
In this city, you're expected to stay
home with mom and dad
As they get cute and wrinkly
you're to return the love
Confucian
these people have it made
11 seated dinners
these people have it made

(V)*
Here in this ancient city
the gravestones dot the hills
coat the hills
And then the cremation jars bury the hills
(yes, they're dead)
cough*

Here's how a Chinese name is structured:
[family name] [given name]
Confucianism
and then these names fade too
These people have it made
but it's alright.

A dark night
Hilltop
Circle garden
Below, the city ornaments
The winter rain, above
Nearby homes
Wait
For light rain

Where the poet trees:
vapor, moss
Apparent that age
snow is yet to fall

sigh*
Ahh, the violinist is finally tired
Here he comes now off the roof
And the sky retires with him
Spinning him as was sooth

South blow the winds
Returning the seeds of plants
While off in distance
Lights are flickering off

The crows have disappeared
Not that you could see them at night
And even the dogs have stopped barking
We've all gone to bed

A baby brook gurgles nearby
Me? I'm by the fire
Watching frozen logs burn
Constructing a funeral pyre

The great backwoods bear fair
Was right next to the dollar tree,
I went in with a can of peas
And bought a bear for free.
At first I thought "this bear's a blast!"
Until he tore up the carpet,
Now he's in my pantry
And - wait, where's my pet?

Now you're asking me why
The bear is still here
I've been asking him the same
But I don't think he can hears.
In all honesty I don't mind the beast
The best I can do is bear.
I can wait for rest so
We'll count this as a test.

All the almonds in the jar
Lightly salted, butter by the bar
Garlic in the pantry, bread on the stove
Tomato's in the oven
Kitchen overload

How do I eat food?
Food?
Food.
A mumble jumble bumble of
Living feud, oil me up
I'm about to dive in because I have no other choice.
Yup, this is a wall.
So empty stomached my eyes sink in
Pretty soon I might stink thin
Fast.
Fast?
How do I fast healthily?

Mental overload
Time is worn thin
What silly shadows dance just out of sight?
Did I just see that?
Is reality just a fabric's delight?
Oh, I'll please me, it was just the light.

I went to Old Saint Rick today
And here's what he had to say:

Two poems a day to keep the sadness away
     - one to laugh at
     - one to keep my ailments thin

Two songs to sing to keep my voice loud and proud
     - one to practice vibrato
     - one to make my voice crack

Two good acts to keep my feet on the ground
     - one hello to a stranger
     - one to keep cash away from fingers

And he said bananas and vegetables wouldn't hurt either.

I'm glad I listened when I saw Saint Rick,
because his handwriting, uh, isn't that chic.