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.

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

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

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

green palms
exploding open
effortless
and concentric

spirograms
or feeling tissue
lifting an eye
to heat

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Geography, she is a Queen,
who's sovereign to Fate,
her jurisdiction facilitates
the bounds on which actors play.

Entanglement, or otherwise,
a soft impression left,
a silly thing to introduce,
a solemn thing to guise.

She is the master of the late,
she rises beneath the sun,
and yet, when all is said, and done,
she propitiates no name.

So whatever, winds the wit
that could match her own,
to take a leave, the actors bow,
and peregrinate home.

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.

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

met a stoner on the highway
who was crying like an angel
of grace, leavened
like the abacus of misery’s
loom, a fellow sun-washed
tarnished
goodness graced
ill-believer who
saw no distance in the stars
and burned his soul with needles,
coming down on a young child
eclipsing serial apocalypses
in calypso’s grace,
a *****,
or a *****, poisoned
on a long winter’s algebra
entering into a space of
infinite solitude within the held notion of all beings,
O Shadow,
oh strange manifest of worldly sin,
where is my friend, oh master of destinies,
what shape is he in? does the dream
of a lost dogs sorrow hypnotize
like the eyes of a sparrow,
shooting like an arrow from a
deep dark hello,
how does one to think?
know?

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.

With a hop, skip, and a bop
Over the puddles, under the monkey bars
Tam swung for a swing set
And landed to kick ****

With a slip, slide, and a bump
Down landed Timmy, landed quite far
When he turned his head, you'd bet
Timmy was in a slump

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.

On second thought
Should write this poem
Tomorrow morning

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.'

My dad introduced me to a shiatsu practitioner,
Shiatsu is:
Japanese acupressure.

The gentleman, named Fujikawa,
told me the body is mechanical.
Pain, he said as he pressurized and stretched me, is real.
“Real pain” was his phrase. He repeated it often.

Fellow reader,
take care of the body while you have health. The body is a gift from nature. In my own case, I grew up not exercising much. Exercise may be a missing part of your life. —

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

(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 desire is infinity
but limited in scope,
To the well-worn feathered being
t’hither gusts a hope.

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 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.

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)

The most important thing to practice
when changing oneself
is simply, calmly, and kindly
starting again.

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.

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

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.

The hummingbird ate nectar
As I watched from across the way
But, closer scrutiny revealed
There actually fluttered a moth.

Mark- the funny feeling of
Meaningless eons of time
Dressing up a fluffy insect
And confusing a wandering mind.

Look out your window
Onto the valley below,
How the sun capped peaks
Around you glow,
With no reservation
Does the sun's favor show,

What can I do when it rains?
Gather it into a box of rain?
The sun's shadow transpires to arch from the clouds, faintly, the raindrops themselves
Yikes! Let it flow, let it flow
As if a river were churning,
Note: the earth that turns streams

You can do anything,
My love,
Who ought to yearn for the heavens,
Throw away illusory shackles
Throw away your box of rain,
I love you so and it hurts to burn
In the fellowly outlines of your pain,

Your box of rain, it splinters outward
Like a rock in a pond, negative space had
Throw away the pain! It's not yours
And turn to face new rain
Hour by hour, yours
And with each drop you will grow.

Even though you are reading this in English
We really speak in different tongues,
Evidenced by difficulty in reading my words
Sitting next to the ease with which you write
Your own.

While a few close say that all is one
That's a good point, but kind of for fun,
There's a reason why we're separated by infinity
That-which-does-not-exist, fallen from the sun.

Any words you read: like strands of a double helix
Mirror is a good word, still too perfect
So pull my heart out, spit in your hands and rub it
It takes plasma to ignite a star.

At this point the poem has ended,
We all come and go alone.

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.

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

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

I am tired now after a quick days repast
Of waking up late and eventually getting to work
I drank
One cup of tea and three liters of water
And ate two sandwiches and twice I ate supper.

It is quite early in the morning now, and I have not allowed myself to put my parts back together after failing, just that daily task of
Not wasting time. But now, I retire.

She settles down now
And thinks,
"Let's face it, our mugs are pretty big,"
As she takes a sip of her coffee

The bird songs that circulate the street below
Are as impermanent as the flowers
On her window sill

Just by a numbers game, fast
These cries easily outlast empires
And she smiles to herself
As she puts on her coat to leave for work

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.

A while back I thought of us as flies trapped in sap
Some of us struggling towards the top for a breath
A stray wind freeing some of us finally

I'll probably always be impressed in sap
Honest to god, romantic love brings me back
Down to the bottom where it's dark

I don't mind all that much
Especially hearing the fluxuations in her voice
Why does it **** me? Also: why do I hear?

Everything fades fast as if covered in red velvet
I know the color will bleed soon
But drat, I always forget how pleasant that feels

:-(

How small an insect may appear
to a lump as large as me.
What if the whole world was an insect?
Would be I as small as me?

Then, would my life glide so fast
as a tiny ember's leap?
For things too small to grasp in hand
seem to me replete.

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

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.

Black blood drools
From the bleeding rooster
The tip of its beak
Lets feelings become super.

Etched in blots
Eternally a stone
Mighty soundless arches
Held up by keystone.

"Well?" flap volumes
Attract a foolish stare
"Can you find within me-
A jagged set of stairs?"

Close the cover nigh
And think about the pen
A dusty fellow punkin' head
Speaks through the bleeding hen.

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.

I

Salient soliloquies startle unemployed brokers breaking windsurf and almond joys against a heavenly myrtle, or
Shallow ponds of serendipity swallowing enormously at bandits who bait their breath as minutes retreat, or
this poetry is about reminders, or
Children hiding under ghosts evoking dead pools of drinking moss,
who dream of knowing silence

Who,
spreading dyes of crushed grass give scarecrows a purpose to perch,
In a land called Home,
In an outlet called intelligible,
during a shared history, which,
Under dissection,
startles earthworms from their native volumes now standing naked in the daylight,
The daylight, which is contained,
a specular cocoon or an inverted dome: the sky.

II

a pinwheel,
when spinning, is unsuspected of employing Nature’s most dangerous tools,
One of flatness, one of exuberance, jubilation,
of the dirt that falls upon ones clothes as one passes through the pines and pins of solitude,
solitude, which,
in a wave from the unknown, dispose of forgone longings through the greeting of a friend who remains a stranger until they’re gone.