Bamboo sticks
Touching river stone
Producing echoes
To accompany the thundering
Of waterfall!

Verdant mosses swiftly spreading
Over rocks soft-foot treading

Little turtle-necked boletus
Escaping the soils clutches
Drinking the sun’s warm light

Dripping trickles of water pure
Tongue flooding
Mind filling
Forest’s music undying

Sentry eyes peering over
Folia of twig entangled arms
Scanning the ground below
For movement to break
The forest silence

I've been working
very hard
on expanding my vocabulary
beyond "I'm sorry."
"I don't know."
and the usual gib-gab
that us gibs often gab,
but the more I think about it
the more I find resolve
in the conclusion that
what really needs to be said
is beyond words,
and any representation
of me
on any medium
is only a fragment.

And there,
they're right.
I know why I hate the fact that
I love to look at mirrors.
Keeping my shards to myself.
My fragmented sentences,
I often forget,
can still light fires
in places
other
than here.

Because there exists,
and I'm sorry.

Night's dappled brow
Celestial round-about dances
Giving way to vast memory

Curtains, veils of virtual vice

So, gaze through the ****** intermix
of positional latency,
nano-notions lost in frantic phantasm,
requisites of an idle, unhealed mind.
Draw the virtual screen curtains open,
bring forth the lustful images to
feed the circuitous appetite, lurking
front-row-presence, at the keys.

Unknown, undertones
of desirability, poses in patient wait,
online implication of fallen ways,
predication of unveiling moments.
As any-time-**** pours its spill
of sickest gratification behind
the curtain tab selective viewing.

It is someone’s child the glides on rails
of drawn conclusions, through windows
where drapes of cyber mindlessness
hang on dank walls of seedy buildings.
The ***** grinder always plays the tune
to which monkeys happily dance,
in a world where Neanderthals hang out,
unperturbed with new technology.

The night’s quiet hold,
The tree’s uninterrupted shadows,
The moist breeze breathing,
All these things,
Act as my cloister,
To hide me away from the superficial world
Surrounding me in daylight.

Here,
In the night,
I take off the facade,
Of a happy, content child of society.

Here,
In the night,
I am myself;
A silent, dark ****,
Sullen and reserved,
Laconic in conversation,
Uninteresting.

The night’s quiet hold,
The tree’s uninterrupted shadows,
The moist breeze breathing,
All these things,
Act as my cloister.

Come, when the pale moon like a petal
Floats in the pearly dusk of spring,
Come with outstretched arms to take me,
Come with lips pursed up to cling.
Come, for life is a frail moth flying
Caught in the web of the years that pass,
And soon we two,so warm and eager,
Will be as the gray stones in the grass.

The gold moth did not love him
So, gorgeous, she flew away.
But the gray moth circled the flame
       Until the break of day.
And then, with wings like a dead desire,
She fell, fire-caught, into the flame.