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.

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.

Felt like the steel tipped edges of a fake sword,
A young lover's sting, inclined to make one sob
And feel sorry

But no, not a word
Spoken 'gainst the face of the snob
Never a parry
Nor a word against sherry

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."

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."

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.

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

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.

Unwholesomeness at times erupts,
a simple thing to see it thus,
it clings to me and me to it,
for a place to stay another day.

So if I sit and let it pass,
as a friend I once 'hey'ed,
it will pass by, satisfied,
as a hat-off to a stranger 'bye.'

A fox lying languidly on a Persian rug
and a rabbit sits nearby
"Tell me a story," the rabbit asks
and out of his love, he does.

Two men lie across
a planet, and they
are curious.
What lies down?
Convinced of curiosity,
they dig through the
planet's core, only to
find themselves!

Rabbit squees,
jumps onto the fox as they
play through the night.
Thinly veiled truths excite
life hungry creatures.
They feed upon one another's company to celebrate.

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.

Read, sailors, read
Try your best to make blinking your only sleep
Time is so tightly wound that
All the blinking, crying birds could not fathom

You have been given a mighty, starstung ship
With sails so wide they could cover your reality
Use these sheets not to sleep, but
Fly them like monster kites

Rest, doves, rest
The fear that you feel at the bottom of your breast
Will be spat out like a pacifier
In time
On time, you'll glide into familiar arms

No farms could reach you there
You're no chicken, no better but
Your claws no longer scratch earth's flesh
Your hands have no need for dust

Peace, hawks, peace
All your empty handed armies have no hands
Softly stroking your mud won't do
It has taken its own shape
Of some concern to your mould

Speaking of which, moss grows soft
It has its own place but
Beds are for sleepers
You, friend, are a weeper

Time, patience, time
There is so much time you should not rush
Rather, be pushed by the hush
Come home to your family
A weary, winded traveler

Pull up a windmill
Grind up piecemeal
Some flesh cracks
and crystals don't relax

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

Solaris and symmetry
Half-darkened in the moon,
To eyesight gives sanity
To the heart, a single mind.

The ocean, yawning, is the beast,
Now simple majesty.
Its eyes, winking midst the slumber
Of the century.

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

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

Green to the eye
begets the visage: life-
Startlingly simple,
a color tells it all.

So ‘tis with the note
and the morning earth is smelly-
I ask,
by what happy accident
is everything made plain?

Like a dog bearing its belly
or a moth sleeping in daylight-
the unapparent thing of life
these words just cannot say.

Knitting aught to begin with an endless string,
but the thread that runs through must be twisted and taught
for the yarnball naught,
and the sweater yearns
the fleeceless expression of companionship  sought.

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.

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.

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
.

"Great goodness," said the scarecrow
To the white tailed dear
As she sidled by with her belly full of labor.

"When the next season comes your
Load will lighten onto the earth
To be legged upon another mother."

The doe says, "yes, the girl is due
In the days where streams start trickling again.
I'll have her hop like I do, I'll have her know the joys of big leaps."

"But what will you," said the scarecrow, "do
In the coming days of august spent,
For this is not your first labor but might
Well be the last?"

And the doe said, "yes, sweet scarecrow,
She is mine as I am old, but with her
My youth will grow long enough
Until I return to the earth to
Mother her."

"Good," said the scarecrow through a smile. "I'll watch your kin grow as your shape does, and ask of her the same question when the same time comes. Your love is not short!"

Is gold
All you poets slay me
Please take my hand in chaotic marriage
I am happier to love than I was before

Thanks, fellow Doritos babies
And anyone who came before
Also thanks to those that are youngest
Who I wish had more courage to write more

How high the sky flies when it is filled with winter rain clouds,
I feel like I'm inside an egg.

For some reason this runs my imagination,
to be inside a white shell, elation.

Stranger still is when this shell cracks open,
I can see the black sky behind.

In conclusion it's not only egg I love,
But also the egg's occlusion.

Funny thing it is to say,
I love cracking eggshells open.

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.

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.

The heart is a fickle thing.
Though warmth is in its nature,
what one counts as kind
the mind demands as tax.

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

Stop trying to throw a wrench in the machinery
You're just as much a cog, dawg
Love ya, sand

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.

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...

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.

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

I proffer a flower
for you to smile,
But for your heart,
you frown.

May it hide
on your shelf,
with the dust
and the sunrays.

Forget it,
the sweetness
was not cupped
to my ear.

A couple eastern settlers sat conversing.
"We have settled the Chams, the Aboriginies, and the Cherokee!"
And everyone nodded in agreement!
"We messed up. Pretty good," in reply.
And each man turned to their left to see who had spoken, only to see the backs of their own heads.

Alarmed by neck hairs, they began to chase one another, a race in a circle increasing in speed.
You see, they were beating themselves continuously, first with bayonets then with world trade!
Unfortunately, none of them made it home. All that running had starved them of water, and they got so thirsty they drank up all the alcohol.

You can't find the door if you're drunk, Socrates didn't write. Instead, he sat in helpless mild pleasure at the center; his head parroting around like an owl's.

I would laugh, Socrates didn't write, if only things ever ended.

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...

A glassblown apple
Built with my own breath,
Absolutely clear
With refraction betraying structure,

But a hell of a hassle
To carry to death,
It shatters more readily
Than amnions rupture,

So,

I am forced to conclude
That mine is missing the years
That dotted the mighty fruit
That I liken to constellations,

But unless I am *****
My teeth and fibers make tears
So to preserve the jute
I stare at red contemplation.

My thoughts return to burning frozen logs in the darkness by myself. It brings me a lot of pleasure to burn frozen wood, to see the cold water bubble out of the tightly dead fibers. Purity in destruction. Rebirth in combustion.

It reminds me of something I'd like everyone to know: I've seen the most haunted looking tree give golden leaves in fall. I like to think that even though it lead a dead, scared life, time has spun its rare sugars into ichor all the same.

That is why we must bleed. It defines us, makes us gnarled and twisted and ugly. But when the wheel rolls all the way, it pulls out the golden flax that we were spinning all along.

The murderers who loved the most, the thieves who stole in furious tears unbeknownst to themselves, they too bear golden leaves. I hope you see that too.

World's a big place. Not enough words to build a paper mâché of it. Live it for yourself. Most of all, love.

Goodnight.

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

A ******* smell
from good food, eyes
look at pastries
shaped like eggs

On the bench,
slouch and close eyes
And talk to mom,
feel the fans

Look for ship
out iron windows, see
green ferry slow,
people gather now

The water
Pulls and rises out,
The floor bounces
wood ship over water

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?

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

Position, at its utmost
buckles into meter,
losing originality,
condemning itself to fate.

His sister is Horizon,
annal of the past,
coming up to meet us at
the moment before dawn.

The records show that she has moved
but no one here has seen it,
no one can read semaphore
save the lovely moon.

And if we ask her for her word
she echoes back but silence,
so must we waste the evening
without accounting Highness.

Happy hips of roses
Dance here in the wind,
as I watch them grow
In my cold garden
'Neath the back yard swing.

My old window
looks sadly out my house,
The frame is blue
And the wall is stone
With gutters that creak and faint.

My whole world
Is a land of waterfalls,
Though it's sad
And though she's sad
What a beautiful pastel of paints.

Golden salamanders
Run underneath my porch,
And yonder far
Where thunder heads roam
I swear I see a dove.

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.

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.

What a mixture of life
from the eastern wall
all the way down
to the western shore
where the sailing boats
lie to depart shortly
into the vast seas beyond.

Hear the children scream
as their lives are burnt
in short by the master
wickerman who stands along
the wall.

The fire comes down into
their dreams at night where
they rest oblivious to their
ominous watchman.

And what is the wall
ask the tower guards
who can look down upon
the land and see it all

It is only a mountain
that has stood there since
before you remember;
only some see these structures
melt into the sea.

How far is the eastern
wall from the western shore?
Ask carefully, few men
have traveled the land
on foot

How many lives does this
world cradle?
Seek slowly, as only the
mothers who have held the
hands of many babies
know how fragile
all is.

If given the chance,
throw your self into
the ocean to rejoin
the endless blend of seasons

Otherwise, climb down
the eastern side of the
eastern wall into the
mute land where the
wind does not blow
and where the stars'
screaming is your only
company.

But if you gaze upon
all places and see that
you have nothing to say,
sit down upon the bay of life and
become the thunder
you once sought.

My maid,
a domestic woman,
stands in my doorway.
Her short fat legs
bend inward,
they are bruised.

My maid,
a domestic woman,
stands in my doorway
looking into my eyes,
she has brought groceries
for she cooks,
and she cooks so well
that I think of her children
who live in another country
who know her only by
white envelopes
filled with my cash.

At night,
I'll take my
socks off
and watch television,
then I look at
her and she is smiling
at her cellphone.