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?

The morning fast approaching
Leaves no time behind,
Just as gravity’s keep has swayed
Yet another tides the day.

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.

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

The rivers start in mountains
and travel under roads
until they come to holding places
between here and the sun.

The sun starts way before us,
before then I don't know,
but travels onward after us,
to places as of yet unknown.

The places seem to move to me,
but to me place is here.
Places really don't make sense,
and to that I drink a beer.

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

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.

Nothing belongs to me,
And that is my war,
Myself condemning myself,
So far from the world,
far from Life.

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

"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!"

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?

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.

Seeks silently the slithering sheik
Blubbering boldly at Benedict babies
Oiling only bones of old
Drying slowly dilated sloans

What senses arise from beyond the fold?
On the otherside of incidence
What cold wind blows?
Only, I know if only I knew
Otherwise, widely I would pour out through you

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

What should I say to you,
Other soul,
Who sparks a funny feeling in my heart

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 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.

Dispose of them properly!
It might get caught
On the neck of some poor soul.

They are recyclable!
I prefer ones soft,
The ones polymers are made of.

Wear them loosely!
They aren't good for skin,
Besides these masks get sweaty.

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

Poems kept at home
for family doors, spouses and pets,
Western style houses,
brick on four sides,
wooden style window shutters
open to dry air.

There are always poems you'll never write,
never read,
never know,
the difference is the trodden path
between the ruined stones.

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

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.

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

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.

the universe is a resting place
for those defeated souls
who dwell in the security
of departing the unknown

(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.

A handful of the rosary:

One for the bell,

One for the crow that flew the town,
upon the spire’s clattering ring.

One for the herb
meant to freshen the room,

One for the beating moth,

One for the well-worn apparatus
that keys keep hidden for the host.

I assure you, lover
The fabric of this universe ripples with pain
And like a flailing fetal flea, you drew up the rain
Retention of water, a pool you retain

Words have no daggers, and all of mine missed your head
Offer no nepenthe, lest you miss the bread
I'd offer you unity, but you heard that discourse
Love with mad force, or love not (at) all

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

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

the lost conspire
for some oblong heresy:
the earth says must,
yet the heavens desist.

so long to hope,
or so they say,
that which leaves the soul
for better judgement.

or heaven yet
might visit your doorstep
and send you a sign
in the shape of a smile.

Of all the friendly shrews I've met,
they've come and gone to my regret,
but by their pace I think I see,
their means of immortality.

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
.

That the body is a man,
that I do not know.
The body, rearing, is a Titan;
sand, its simple subject.

A baby, dying, upon its birth?
Tis' truth, we're blind to see.
A baby tells you with its eyes:
a soul can only know.

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

Cinnabar
prods the person
to sunlight, trade, and time,
The civiliz’d do celebrate
what made the empire fine.

What schoolchildren adore in school
is what to all is heir,
The knowledge of practicality
made from the bursting bone.

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

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.

The sultan kept
A mad desert storm
Sealed away in his bottle
Upon a silken belt.

I bought it from him
For a soul and two pence
My right eye,
a good crossbow,
And a loyal eastern gent.

I fell upon a
merciless jungle
That was filled with
Bodiless masses,

And uncorked the storm
Upon the bird like faces
Then they were swept away.

Why, do you ask?
So I could rule a sandy kingdom.
How does it look?
Like an ocean filled with glass.

A bottle I keep around my waist...
Within it a sandy storm...

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

That's the animation!
- that captures the heart
and flourishes a bloom.
Pity though,
for I see it not,
and must dwell upon a Who.

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.

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

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.

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 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.

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 ******.

By the grace of Neptune, and the humor of heaven,
We are free to carry on erroneously.
To the unsounding ailing, time has no meaning,
And in reality, indeed, presence is fleeting.

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.

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.