A poet is a wind child
who can only play with that favorite toy,
a crystal bead of sweat that
springs forth from the mind.

To accept another plaything
would be slumberous, shadowy surrender,
so poet: don't stray far from
the shade of an old Oak Tree.

For some sparrow hands which
are washed with clarity can unpen with a key,
A shy horse with a black coat
And a star upon his brow.

His muscles strong against
the dark night and pulsing roads and travelers not known,
his hooves will kick 'gainst the earth
for the reigns o' your own sweat.

It'll be a while now until
The day comes and with it your eyesight,
still wander on forth with a candlestick
as you do in infant fatigues.

There is family watching you
over the dimlit alleys of abandoned streets,
who await you willingly-
and for the ringing of horse bells.

Some time set aside for a long-distance friend,
Sound like a prayer,
An indulgence in friendship, but food for the soul

Perhaps the pansies know the thing
which makes them rather happy,
By happy, hap, that I mean
which, pointless, might say poppies

Though a struggle, pleasure none
may these plants endure,
The universe turns a fledgling care
as on the path one trudges

For what upon the earth does press
the setting for the story,
But the careless ease of poppies
passing on a day

Shadow of care-free joy
Harmony-
draw feet into earth,
Where sharp stones
in the pass,
Weather
by the softer side.

Fragments of blue
in an azure field,
an uncertainty conspired
by white folks,
green lanterns.

Exhale
conflagration,
contemplate,
reminisce.

Humor at the fold,
blues as the answer.
Feel sad,
wait a while-
answer when called.

By mirror I saw her as my own,
she sat undressed, pity slouched,
makeup putting on, then,
by ice we were separate,
man I alone in she,
riga mortis and she dies,
I say -
no! stay back!

as my throat holds,
I am left alone in blue,
black water besides
my earthen trail,
yet all I see is you.

For all the things to dress up as,
one is prettiest when doomed,
let tragedy beautify,
and caution follow soon.

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

Kindness may be a simple vanity,
I know some of you may struggle with this-
I do too, and to this I can't demur.
When I was young this was not a question in my mind,
And though I was not particularly kind, I was simple,
It was only after I decided to try to change myself,
No matter the cost...
That I was made aware of the darkness within.

On the bright side, however,
Some artists have made it abundantly clear to me:
In great failure comes simplicity.
And others say that the truth is that we are our own masters,
and that it doesn't matter how much time we have left,
only what we do with it.
So pessimism may be handy.
"Let heaven come slowly..." - Emily Dickinson

Some prayers can be heard but not spoken
Same goes for answers, too
All that's left then, is when will is broken
Where I can finally wait for morning dew

Witness them as tides
Still some last forever, find
Time with no empire

Oh sadness I now do invite
to dine with me whenever she pleases,
for I understand her loneliness,
therefor, let her be with me.

Oh sadness I now do trust,
for nothing more she wants but this,
to know another soul, to wit,
a name which satisfies memory.

Oh but sadness I now not know,
for what is her utmost depth,
do I trust myself to hold civility
when she at herself is best?

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.

The bandied craft of time
So gentle and limitlessly insane,
To be out of the mind,
within,
and in between too,
To have punctured the void with great rapidity.
We speak no language.
We know no lust.
And always, with the longing…

As Cupid’s arrow strikes the ladder
and rains down mists of distrust
on the Garden of today,
We are here to uphold the law
in the Sphinx’s eyes-
We are in between.
We are worth.

How great the space when without us,
how far stars seem to be,
when you, me, and the whole world by
parts just cyclically.

Are greetings sorrow
til tomorrow?
Are parents here to be?
Is absence kinder,
desire blind
to sheer simplicity?

Something immense, beyond the scope,
helps me here to see,
only the things I am shown
to not belong to me.

You are the sunshine of my days.
Are you aware?
Of how significant you are?
The world spends days dazing into great space, whose volume would send a key clattering against itself!
So what's the point?
I'm glad you're reading this.
I'm glad to say: hey you!

Yeah you,
you're doing well,

don't doubt it for a second.

Mother Mary with her tilted head
suggests,
with her Posture,
the light that illuminates her shawl.

Like a leaf tilted by the weight
of water,
the sky demands Enough and speaks,
easy words.

For a time, when the world is silent,
not even
a mystic experience could perfume
the inventory of delight.

Even the light is hollow bubbles.

There's a season for this,
There's a season for that,
What would I miss
If I didn't have that?

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.

green palms
exploding open
effortless
and concentric

spirograms
or feeling tissue
lifting an eye
to heat

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.

The ocean is sad,
her winds are
like a desert's
but about nothing.

At night on the beach,
the waves come
crawling in from
loneliness
as does the wind.

For a mote, I think
of how glad
I am
to greet them
after their journeys.

The ocean is so ugly,
so full of grayness
and despair,
were it not for
the sky that
stretches above,
the ocean would
not be worth seeing.

She fills my heart
with love
because of her space,
but the salty water
stings my eyes.

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)

Albeit
a renown tosses about the town,
an equal silence returns it.

A rerun,
that’s all this is -
the only way to explain the misplaced,
cross-laced habit of the orphaned matter
that knick-knacks the ankles of abode,

By the hair of the dog and the rising sun,
purity is in the coo-coo announcing the arrival
of the Monarch,
and with it the madness like the kissing of two petals,
in the break of a wave and also in the Sun,
and in all poetry of people.

I’m leaving all the time.
I chase the part
only to see it off
into the heavens-
while me,
here,
crude,
continues disillusionment.
You will never be mine.

boem
da wurd get put in da field
big ol grammar
big nemeanin
we say gud ting
or say Emotshun
du not mattuh
boem sez

Maybe the story is clear,
most well while you're here,
maybe there's something to say
while you're in for a stay.

Take up a chair at
the bottom of the stairs,
it was time
you owed him a visit-

and a story,
of your travels,
in the fall,

and a story,
shall unravel,
revels small.

He won't mind
your perpendicular phrases,
or the way your jaw adjusts.
It's not long for a visitor here,
not the way he elicits dust.
Not long for a visitor here,
your time on earth he trusts.

Seems to be so long ago
that life was to be celebrated,
with ones that love you, and you they,
with the whole world looking on.

But passing by that etched frame,
where once warmth emanated from within,
now brings a bigger picture in,
one away from the easel.

For nature was not a place to stay,
to warm the hands and sleep the day,
and to carry on in no peculiar manner
is to mosey on another way.

Commonness of the flowers  -
virtuous insignificance,
invoking visions of royalty
for ants, and snails, and such,

How trivially contests mankind,
what costumes their children wear,
while, silently, a bulbous sun
sidles across the sky.

a laughing minion,
waving all limbs,
rolls in a personal
rolls-royce carriage,
waving bye-bye
to every object,
oblivious as anybody
laughing at nothing.

Solitude
over many hours
is like a parade of many insects
of different species,
each a self,
each of a face unknown.

A passing mark,
like a comet, itself
from a distant source,
recognizes that it has no house
here, among the homes.

Patrons sit in a Chinese restaurant,
They look like quilts.
The subjects of anonymity. Trees bent down heavy with fruit for their families.
Rich with memory, they are the royalty of fortune, having found
nothing perfect, but something adequate
that makes sense of the wild
Of city towns and streets. They hold close to each other,
like jackets in this coming winter weather.

I see people
who wax and wane,
who are once kind, but then come to doubt themselves.
Perhaps there is no such thing as Love.
But, if there is, it comes and leaves souls untouched. Gentle thing?

I imagine people go entire lives without warmth, who were shunted so, so as to subsist on merry blows.

Would a loving God clapse her hands down in Law? Be there some poor chap who fits the bill, t’would be one who is the master of none.

Retribution is a troubling thing.

All my action to today
was to be looked at, how insane.
Like living all one's life at hame,
the soul gets tried, the soul's a slave.

The weaning oner is sad to see,
like an old friend, leaves it be:
all the world of soulful toil,
all the riches of simple soil.

How complicated it be to beg,
from door to door, for subsistence:
to become a dog of shame,
following in friendship's wake.

My affection,
Playful-
In grace and trust,
I long for thee
for my cruel truncheon.

Whose swinging ruse,
a lighting crack,
Brings swift joy-
     which hope employs.

But what cruelty,
what miserly soul,
Whose weak mind knowest
the bestest of thee!

On one hand...

Begging for forgiveness
is the best thing I can do,
for a heart is not the newest thing:
I weep and so can you.

Still I wonder how I lost,
though grief is swept away,
another world is all the same,
the risk is here adhered.

On the other..

Deeply do I slumber
within your numbing grasp,
feel without the antennae
the casual and the crass.

Experience has taught me
one should tremble yet,
my enemy's destroyer
is warming me just yet.

It’s tough to be kind
when one is alone,
for life seems best
when shared with the other;

To cherish the story
of one not your own
is a pure devotion
to the living heart.

We pity those mortals
who have tasks at hand,
who, if they turn the leaflet,
must do so within the lap of an hour.

For the gods who abode in wilderness
attain the aspects of midges,
and fruit that strikes the barren floor
must return by way of mold,

And the idyllic breath of trees
is tainted by those of spiders,
who pass the day by hanging web
and small talking with their cohort.

Water, which does run its course
in magnificent reprisal
of the solidity of dust and mornings
that come crashing down on morrow,

Must take its penitence in life,
locked by pen and reed,
in its return trip to the sea, it meets
all possibility.

All foolery turns to error
when sung within a hymn,
we mistake that grave thing, Time
amidst the company of ghosts.

Home for the holidays
And even though I have woken up late every day
My mom has waited for me to go out to lunch

I wander under hour
watchful of demise
listless as the sunrise
fouled upon a set.

I watch for your demise
and ponder why do mine?
Would I ever knew ye,
Mine would sunder yet.

I am lonely, and lonely, as a feeling,
seems to mean so much to me,
so long as it is pleasing.

I am lonely, as lonely as a friend,
who has lost his way among the meadows
where playmates were just a moment ago.

I am lonely, as one surrounded by dusk,
where all the little trees and things
now seem drear and blue.

Sometimes I get mad at spiders,
forgetting that they are, what?
Simple beings like myself,
who live and squat in simple huts.

My better part of sanity
says I'm right in thinking this,
but all my learning tells me thus:
that they are spiders! Let them rust.

The arms of eternity open,
like a sentimental bolero played
at some in-between place,
they open lazily
and incandescently,
encircling the comically and silently raging,

Poetically, and gently,
the phantom draws her wings towards forgetfulness -
at the eye of the temple -
distant,
full of guidance
and potential.
The profound silence of bitter lives.

The great big sea
perpetually bewilders.
The unreasoning wind
gives us the flower and the bee.

What alien law
does the wild ranger keep?
Or, alien to the tongue,
to give it a name, sleep.

Sorry tonight,
the road was long and dark
And I could not see my friend,
or at least her face, in my mind’s eye.
Sorry, I guess, for being numb and devoid,
and yet my apology is a feeling,
thus I hope yet.

It’s been so long that I do not mind lying,
though by truth I had better yet set that down,
for I can’t keep track of myself, a mess I’ve already become.

Yet things are not so bad, not so barren as the tough vine,
I wake up every morning and, bless fate, I have a means to follow, that means within my heart. Were that means ever to die, may my heart beat again that I may reform some new means, one away from fate, one made within the realm of honesty, where my agency resides.

A bullseye of velvet,
Ventricular,
Soft on the spot.
In bounding,
Sacred.

Devotion is what?
Tis’ hellish? Be free!
But, by the binding?
A shudder, tis’ breeze.

Talk works best when certainty’s aside,
so the company’s address is wavered.
The message, therefor, a matter of formality,
and the meaning, made direct.

Such is the secret of telepathy,
of the mountain mouse’s cherade,
What would the owner of the Place
do sooner than trivialize?

Farting felicity -
How long gone, now a
distant star in space-
as a gurgling brook of
heavenly murmurs, disquiet
thrumming combo, turned
crescent flesh, brutal and subdued until,
one socializes, recombines,
and altruism visits, presides, provides.

Carpi, digitorum, and flexors,
metacarpals, index, and fingertips
dangle a top for a gambler's game,
and, with it, the fate of outcome, and
woe for the long-begotten soul,
the soul drab in its rag, robe, and *****,
whose wealth subtracts as it doth add,
and a wise fool realizes -
Time and grace,
Love and death,
departure and arrival,
is but ******.

That animal who judges
wraps itself with weight,
who sees, blindly, its own versions
of that notion, fate.

If divinity had a plan,
t'would not be 'fore the flowers,
proceeded, wrecklessly, to 'pense
their friend, the baby worm.

What is there, then, to say,
that company should need?
Pray, perhaps, a happy rain,
or a day with which to wait?

Illustrious visage
offering everything of your spectral body up
to the eyes of mortals.
A revenant memory,
poetry incarnate,
a heart of bliss testifying
through simple presence
the adversity of life
in her monstrous majesty.
It is you who
guides us
from one hollow to the next,
you who
tells a secret,
when cradled by the void.