Let's pull those knees close,
and think of childhood.
We were fragile beings of light.
Now we're heavy black glasshouses
throwing skipping rocks in the dark.
I wish I went to sleep-away camp,
like all the cool kids.
I could skip rocks,
and learn slip knots,
and maybe how to swim.
Sit by campfire
and tell scary stories,
and spill my first kiss
as the truth in a guts game.
"It was third grade.
She was a ******* girl-
and we wanted to practice
for our shared boy crush.
Baby tongues danced
and I just liked it more than I should have."
And then someone would
douse the flames
with a bucket of lake water,
to put an end to the horror.
Today she's having a baby,
and we haven't spoken
since grade school.
I wonder if she ever reads my poetry.
The kids would have teased me.
Or perhaps never believe me.
The holes keep getting bigger.
They let the light in from outside.
Let's let our knees go.

You crystal ballroom, all windows and walls, sewing light like seed over everything you touch.
Glass eyed stare, hands growing like they're getting away with something.
Everything you love is a trick of the light.
Everything it touches feels just like you.
Hiding heads under street-lamps like sin is some sort of choice we make, like growing is something to be done in silence.
They say that people in glasshouses shouldn't throw pebbles, but how can you expect to let people in if you can't even get out?

My grandmother looks straight though me, thoughts locked in, hands clamped around her bag of dead friends like holding them tight enough could bring them back. 
She tells me how full of life I am. I want to tell her how we all carry echoes around in our pockets but I don't think she'd understand.

And I just want to call you. Hand you everything I have like:
'Here's the dirt from under my nails. Call it apology. I hope it finally makes something grow'
'Here's that poem I never finished. Here's to hallelujah. Here's to all your leaving'
'Here's my storm cloud. Here's my salt spray.  Here's my window all dusted and bruised. I don't know how else to tell you that I have loved you in all four seasons'.

Everything you love will one day become sandstorm, cliff face, the blunt edge of a knife.
One day it won't be you holding the match.

Everything you love will turn back to dust
Everything you love will turn back to light

belle's rose, wilting one petal at a time
the creation of adam, gods hand yet to touch yours
you're 0.8 seconds away
from descrying the back of their head disappear into the distance
one last time; one heartbeat away
the inception of an everlasting process; the decay.

languished simply, because of the life left within
shoulders slouched, so as to crease what's in between
you let out a sigh
struggling to pick broken shards off the austere snow;
blotching blood stains so diluted by what your eyes let go
you realize what's so undoubtedly you; an overflow.

an overflow of musing so raw, each drop a crystallized sapphire kernel
burgeoning beanstalk in the hearts of every passerby
all led to the glasshouses you once vowed to unfalteringly stand by the refracting light dilating naked memories; an open invitation to pry
you lack distrust that things could ever go awry; they do.

stubborn; you never learn;
you live in denial, waiting for their return
your presence incomplete; the twinkle in your eyes masking your defeat
your glasshouses broken and beat; slow deplete
repeat repeat repeat

you fight shy of taking up space
last row corner seat, you almost always leave without a trace
your voice too mild to return an echo, your soul leaking too gentle to show
you long for warmth, yet you leave behind nothing to embrace. you know.

a paradox on your own; you're a daunting dilemma
you can love into thin air, hushed or acapella
your burning eternal, yet you soothe all fire
hollowing for your world, but there's nothing you desire

your heart's been plucked from the souls you've warmed
only to be left astray in the cold
yet you pick the pieces less frozen and hand it over for them to hold

obscure; oblivious, and obedient
to everyone but your own
you're fighting battles; for everywhere but home

withering and drifting
brittle dust in the breeze

worn out to the extreme
bittersweet; free

potpourri

p o t p o u r r i

Karmageddon


Even the innocent will rejoice.

Not because of dead fish belly

up In the river lay-by where they

almost learned to swim between

excrement releases from the

overflowing septic tanks due to

detergents prohibiting bacteria

disintegrating untreated faeces.


Not because their linen sheets

got flecked with particles of red

dust which was supposedly last

time attributed to a desert storm

in the Sahara transported by the

Sirocco then relayed to La Mistral

and eventually becoming alias before

making a landfall on their island coast.


Not because of a cumulus congestus

which replaced nimbus casting a dark

shadow on their glasshouses where

unripened tomatoes would have to

be fried green without the wild Paris

mushrooms which are impossible to

distinguish from blackberries growing

in hedgerows by the roadsides.


The innocent will rejoice because

despite they being the common

denominator to a pyrrhic solution

the final equation will end with a

mere = an aspiration of majorities

which had gone unheeded by all

of those who had been manipulating

figures on the hypothenuse square to

deceive those of their lesser neighbours.

Brussels Sprouting had a Franco
German mushroom philosophy
avec their nocturnal germination
procedure und horse **** which
prevented consumer unawareness
of devious productivity methods
until The British exposed them by
throwing stones at their glasshouses.

time is very cruel
for when there is only
memories
we have no memory..

it is like a duel
in monty python
my mind disappearing
come back!

come back i yell
i will bite your ***
o i recall
but not feel..

ii



!!i left my banjo
i did not care
how i savoured
el vino

i slept right beside
the sea
in the summer
i remember

the sss
as it swept
the hot night
gentle dawn´s caress..

iii

to the long and exacting
beach road
to cognac coffee and backgammon
i recall a viking mouth open

wake up drinking and laughing
arguing with everyone
scratch and laugh
b is fighting

iii


fit..so i dug holes
it
i
and what-not..

effing bricks
effing and
effing that
ef..

i painted
i panted
o my pants
blue

and white
but kept clear
of cement
r

loved the cement
wagon
and backgammon
i liked diamonds

and rust
bean soup
the bus
and backgammon..

the cinema was some fun
i did the garbage truck
i cleaned the beach
b and i

worked at the museum
there was scant electric
and we slept 25
in the old cobblers house..

i picked tomatoes
and emptied the glasshouses
we treasured
i had some charming land ladies..

who fed and doted upon me
c
with her snowy long braids
she would cry-mikali..

lo there was bean soup
we shared the fire
and she would remember
an old lover..

i studied a single tear
descend her cheek
i had one old room
over the sea..

the bars were open
23 hours a day
bean soup was cheap
good bean soup..