We forget our mortality,
We forgot our morality,
We forgo our rights,
We live as blights,
We drink,
We sink,
We are missing a link,
We have no luck,
We have no buck,
We live in a digital world,
We watched our toilet as it swirled,
“Vapid and insipid has life become,”
We wait and succumb,
We long for an era past,
We know it doesn’t last,

Yet…

Forgotten mortality and morality, with our forgone rights and remembered blights, and sink in drink, there’s the link. We have luck and then we buck (we give no ****). Our digital world, swirled.
We become,
and then we succumb,
to a past that…
won’t…

last.

do we you or i live life? I think so

we live life and experience things like the cosmos – nebula's, constellations and galaxies the speckled white backdrop of purple green on a black satin sky at night – so magnificent

we live life and experience things like that hobo – cold and homeless an image of pure sadness we look at the wretch and feel despair – he smiles, his shallow and sickly eyes say the opposite. So we wonder what is his story, his history – a mask

we live life and experience things like a rainbow – an optical illusion that has no end and no beginning, it is infinite and we reach and reach and grasp and grasp and and we never get a grip – a mirage

we live life and experience things like children – inebriated adults proclaiming a grin of innocence and a smile of sweetness in small form – we cling to our youth, much like the rainbow or the lion seeking his prey we hunt for it – its momentary *

we live life and experience things like exhilaration – riding a roller coaster, a high speed car chase – watching a man land on the moon, falling in love, and the times when childlike excitement fill our bodies – *the escape

life is so magnificent, who we are behind the mask, how we see a mirage, and its momentary fleeting passing, and our escape –**living for the escape.

Bubble gum, bubble gum, in a dish
i
un-wrap
the tightly wrapped satiny
Paper Package
-- and savor
every sweet taste
Of juicy fruit- and bubbly deliciousness
Wetting my mouth and
AWakening my
wanting tastebuds.

Roll it on my tongue,
blow gently, and
pop, there's that bubbly bubble
gum on my face.

My intention was not chivalrous,
It was entirely amorous,
So by letting you pass,
My intention was to look at your ***
And so…
You gave me a show.

And what an *** – it was.
As I let you pass – it does.
Some things to me.
I slap my knee
And I say: Oh Boy!
Such a joy!

And now that I reflect,
I realize it was the object,
Of something near perfect,
When I pulled away I nearly wrecked,
All because I was rubbernecked.

Even your thighs,
Gave me highs,
They gave me sighs.

So what is chivalry?
It’s men letting you pass,
Only to look at your ***,
And you don’t sass,
Because chivalry
Is not rivalry.

And what an *** – it was.
As I let you pass – it does.
Some things to me.
I slap my knee
And I say: Oh Boy!
Such a joy!

We hold the door,
At the store,
You’re the decor.
We stare at your ***,
And we let you pass.

You jog across the street,
My eyes aren’t discrete,
They just watch your ***,
As you jog pass,
Your round ****,
Perfect and plump.

Tightly wound in those gray pants
But I stare and I don’t just glance,
Your *** is what I desire,
Your *** is what I admire,
Your *** is what I’m chivalrous – for,
Your *** is what I’m amorous – for.

its a gas station on a long desert road apparitions of wavy heat (steam from boiling water) emanating from the pavement converging with the skyline breaking the horizon – the ramblers in the distance
they lap at the *** of disparity (the savior for now) this road this pump – invisible if not the saving grace of the traveler
clinging to the dethreading strings of hope, unravelling ball of yarn of blind faith and compassion that if the doors closed there would be an awakening within memories dreams visions – but its invisible, an aura a transparent silhouette – no marks no chips in the fabric of this world, no cause, no direction, just there.
lets be direct I’m the gas station – a seed of a dandelion swimming in a sea of concrete waiting for the hardening world to enclose me into a capsule a capsule run by cogs, I’m one of the cogs, but when the sprocket snaps, the machine goes on – an ironic metaphor a poorly written one (waiting for the sprocket to snap) to think I’m the only ironic metaphor is arrogant  – lest i find the other- or the other finds me.

adventures
unforgettable adventures

watch the subject thru
the view
finder, click and whirr
and we stir (up some trouble)
and capture that adventure.

set worries aside, let serendipity be our
guide

i hear them again - persistent and near, the echo fills my ear (again and again and again) it's sharp, piercing, and booming within a single second - now begins the blaring whir of the banshee (she screams, wails on a mission of violent peace)

the ghosts fervently float away - the banshee gets nearer and nearer and nearer, her screams snatched by the buildings around her, kicked like a soccer ball, building to building (vertical hopscotch, the whirring wail of the banshee)

the banshee silenced, her wailing replaced with deafening flashes - the ghosts have gone, graciously escaping the fervent frequency of the banshees hi-fi to a sanctuary beneath the clamoring scape of black jacks and yellow hacks

emanating exhaustion and trepidation, the ghastly ghosts gather to regain their ecto - the banshees betrayed by their blasted blaring wail - the ghosts are gone.

Looking out the fishbowl;
The bumbling bees, buzzing to serve the ravenous queen.

it blooms, withers and dies - so depressing.
it drinks, withers and dies - so sad.
it basks in the sunlight, withers and dies - so apt.
it glows radiant colors, and fragrance  - so unforgettable.

the first flower
your first flower
the epitome of a profound perfection
this flower was given life, nurtured and chosen
to match your beauty
and fill your heart with a memory.
and fill your eyes with tears of joy.
this flower of yours is from me...
-its o.k. if i were a flower that withers and dies if i knew i was your perfect bloom.

Girl from wherever,
You appeared with a coffee in hand,
At my table
So we talked,
and we walked.

My friends were infatuated,
Their pupils dilated
I’m sure one even masturbated,
to a dirtier, devious you, locked in his mind
But you were too pure for me to.

Your eyes were big and brown,
Big and brown, I could see in your house
Through those big brown window-eyes
I saw love, pain, sadness, and reflections
Of a time that you longed for.

Your skin was soft with a suntan,
But it wasn’t a suntan,
it was a piece of perfect toast,
it was wheat bread,
smooth and a light dark.

One night we talked,
You on the floor, me on the couch
We danced, we sang and we laughed,
But you were leaving the next day,
I had nothing to say, but thank you.

You told me you were the perfect match
For me, a man of Pisces,
“I don’t believe in that,” I said,
But really, I think there is something to it,
We decided we would be perfectly matched.

Oh, but you were leaving the next day,
And I went to sleep, with you in my arms
You were a girl from wherever, my norwegian wood,
I was a pisces that was too clever, but you understood,
Goodbye girl from wherever, my norwegian wood.

I think back to that day, those days,
And I wonder what you’re doing,
Ha, funny thing,
I don’t remember your name,
but you’re my norwegian wood.

i wither...
                                                       ­         ~away
i float from my consciousness, watching myself listen
to endless dribble of the ignorant pro-tagonist of life.

the limitless waves of gray faberic framing the brown bald
and blonde hedgehogs poking their heads up to electrify their
deaf ears and blind eyes – blind eyes
to the world of a real mind.

-they cant see as i see – this life (of theirs) means as much as the DIRT holding the ground of the ghosts in wooden boxes under the rocks
mouths moving words flying
silly tongues flapping – saying nothing – begging for nothing while across the gray,
dull words of hip-hop and pop don’t stop…
contradicting the history of blood and turmoil

ridiculing the bowtie wrapped around the neck of authority – maneuvering the black and white pieces of a chess board  - an antiquated system crumbling – the backbone of an elephant standing tall while ignoring the memory of those dishonored by them – they forget – the ever-forgetting elephant no!
the ignorant elephants whose eyes have been gutted by its own tail – these elephants don’t wail
i wail, scream, howl and groan I weep (inwardly) as I stand cold, engulfed in smoke and smog. I scoff, scowl, and scorn openly inwardly at the treachery and horror that life brings

forgetful is that elephant that kindness is not weakness warmth is not love and a smile is not always real – gripping clawing scratching grabbing clutching to a life that means nothing – than recycled water in the perpetual flow of a ****** river
theyweep theycry theybeg theydie

and they are faded...
…into memories – and the gray infinite abyss of the blue collar drone.

outside, the glow of flame fills my hands – wind chimes (it gently tugs at my shirt)
the night sky chirps, clouds roll along the moon’s illumination – the hefty oak tree (casts a small shadow) it wrestles with whirling winds
the smoke saturates my skin - a familiar sin
experiencing life, while puffing death - the enigma of being human.

Wind whistling Dixie
Through the door,
Singing the same ol’ tune of old,
And the whistling is cold

Brush strokes caress the canvass, coating it with colors
magenta-cyan-purple-seafoam-gray-and-orange-like

-beyond those colors-

This painting is a story drawn from the choices of the artist
sad scenes, happy times, blatant in the backdrop(the mural)
each choice, stroke, and color morphs the painting
into what the artist wants to see

As an onlooker watches, in kaleidoscope glasses,
the onlookers experiences shape that gazed upon

What makes this painting a masterpiece is not the color choices
not the strokes,
not the canvass,
not the onlooker,
not the artist...
but the image of you
energizing happy times and transforming sad scenes in the mural

Scenes of young love,
strolling the park hand-in-hand,
strolling the park with younger us's,
strolling the park as we mature and ripen,
together as two grapes left on a stem,
always by my side,
always by your side

-a thought of you is a thought of me-

Even as we age and crumble (bonded like ancient clay)
we will always hold together,
like ancient clay

One pair of people,
two seeds in an apple,
our union is that of leaf and tree,
honey and bee,
just as you and me,
we're one thought on all minds in this...
unfinished masterpiece of our life.

With ever-bounding enthusiasm, an enthralled, elated group of people embarked,
Not to visit a vast, vibrant land, but to colonize a capacious continent,
Imperial insatiability was inferred upon imagining an inventive future,
Latent with lustful leering upon the land, we, yes we, left for liberty.

With eyes of fire, souls of greed, arms of thunder,
We filched their land, stole their food, killed their eagle,
We shattered their culture, scorned their ways, and dared to call them savages,
We drenched our freedom-land, with the blood of natives.

We are the land of the brave in a prose penned by a poet,
Being brave we brutally butchered, under the guise of our liberty,
Barbarous is our embellished bravery; reckless is the loss of life,
A lost liberty echoes with the laughter of the ghosts of irony.

In a ****** battlefield lies dead our liberty, once free, once brave,
Imprisoned in a stunning story of sorrow, liberty shall we never know?
Freedom foregone is never forgotten, simply a freed freedom,
The bravery lost was passed to the savage souls we seized in the name of liberty.

I have seen, I have seen, I have seen all I need to –

The illuminating ideas rolling gently from your lips, caressing my mind,
vivifying my thoughts, reviving lost electrons, electrifying burnt out neurons –
charging my mind, challenging my intellect, changing my perspective – there is no Starry Night, no Mona Lisa, no Shakespeare sonnet, no Ginsburg “Howl,” no Ezra Pound on a black bough, that likens to the magnificence of your words, the radiance of your smile, the wonderment of your eyes, or the fun of your laugh. There was nothing special about the moments before, not the jester, nor a stunning sunset, but something charmed happened after the jester exited stage right, a simple phrase, uttered from your lips, the what matters not, just the swift insight that I was in awe. Never have I been in awe before, a new experience, that never faded, that stuck with me for the days to come as I wander aimlessly dreaming of the greener experiences you will open me to. I leave myself unguarded, there are no masks, no sad howling mask of despair, no happy grinning mask of cheer, just me, open to you, your ideas, your enlightenment. Paint, draw, sketch, mold me into who I should be for you, I am your canvas, you are my artist, this will be a masterpiece that will hang on the walls of museums, in the halls of temples to come, to put people in bewilderment as they rub their eyes for they have seen all there is to see now.  

– nothing can compare to what I have now seen, life has meaning, and it’s before me, in your eyes, your smile, your mind, your you.

The pen – it carefully places ink to the paper,
scratching as playfully as a puppy.
The tip, pronounced is its curvy bust,
the perfect legs walk on the paper,
printing the playful passages.

The prose – Provided in a plethora of ways,
pleasantly, like a prairie powdered in snow,
painfully, like a poke in the eye,
perfect, with prodigious pentameter,
popular – as the personification of a paper-person.

The person – is a *****.

the comet shoots through the vastness, the starkness, the blackness- splashed with shades unimaginable (radiant), your apex- no longer in an aphelion, feel the warmth of the sun, see the smiling ring, unstoppable pull, dissipating the cold, the tail ignites the night sky (colorful smudges drifting) strikes the corona and dissolves into your heat.
i'm a comet stuck in your orbit – and when you melt me, it’s the prettiest thing imaginable.

I was falling,
I was failing,
To understand,
The why of anything,
Then epiphany came and told me:

“Behold life!
Magnificence…
In all directions,
In all objects,
In all people.
Open the drapes and,
See the…
Magnificent,
Majestic,
Malleability,
Of the…
Kaleidoscope.”

Mister Kerouac,
that’s all I can fathom as I sit
at my desk weaving my hacky
sack between my fingers.

This old hacky sack has seen
much, it’s a handmade ball of
beans, the leather is worn, the
stitches are torn the logo is faded,
but I never waited to fade it
off my shoeless foot.

It’s like you,
simple
yet
Profound,
is the right word
for what goes on
in your head, in
your hacky sack.

But as I sit here, thinking…
I only know you as a photo
a dismal,
content,
forceful,
thoughtful,
imaginative,
smoking,
cool­
black and white
photo.

Yet your ideas resonate throughout my head…
I think of a flower nodding to a canyon,
I think of a man sitting in a black and white
chair, in a black and white room, wearing a
black and white shirt, smoking a black and white
cigarette, drinking a black and white glass of
scotch, writing with black ink on white paper.

The thoughts and pondering wandering to
the black and white respective pen and paper,
or the click & clack of your black and white
fingers depressing on your black and white
typewriter.

So I can only come to one conclusion,
you’re not just a black and white photo,
doing black and white things
in a black and white world,
you’re an idea. And although
the image is black and white
you’re the color, sparsely
pouring over the world with
the colored ink spatter
from the place in your
hacky sack.

the wilds - my eyes focus on a fragmented figment a magnificent magnification of my dreams, it’s enigmatic, electrifying, enchanting - bogged in a dismal murky muck of lost hope, worn splendor, a broken down, lonely deserted caboose waiting for a jolt, i watch my happiness, & my fulfillment steam away as i grow rusty and dilapidated - forgotten about - but as this fragmented figment magnifies magnificently, i feel the warmth, melting my heart of rusted metal, and loosening the hinges on the doors, as the figment enters the doors, i feel fear and terror, but blissfulness and amorous, i will be rebuilt again, and you’re the one, rebuilding my heart, my soul, and this dilapidated metal frame. Shape me and break the smoldering mold for me to be yours, so i am just that, yours.

“Mumble-mumble,
bumbling stumble…”
You utter and stutter.

“What?”

I sputter,
and out you flutter.

Living in me is pain
and its known – the wretches of
wretches, are just wretches,

– Remember that! –

The pain of a hundred needles
thrusting into the brain of a miserable
lonely man, prickly pine needles
sit restless in the cavernous
flesh sphere – tears falling from
the glassy entrances to misery.
It doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop –
The torment goes on and on –
No release, no breaks no freedom –
Its constant and persistent, the torture
of falling naked into a cactus over
and over again.
The plight of the sad man –
Is the treacherous trek
that is all too familiar
as the road turns and ascends
the blindness sets in –
the sunsets, the moon snuffed out by the clouds
filling the night sky.
The sad man reaches the peak –
His destiny brightly lit by the frowning sun
Nothing lets him stop, he is forced
to continue, seeing, hearing,
feeling, tasting the tears forming
and falling from the thought of
meeting another anguish-latent destiny –
The wretch of a wretch is just this sad man.

let’s stay-up all night – immerse ourselves with one another
let’s play all night – we touch without touching
let’s kiss all night – lock our lips and throw away the key
let’s lay all night – on the hood of my ford (or the floor of the beach)
let’s stay-up all night – and fall asleep under the warmth of the sun (or the coziness of the covers)
let’s talk all night – and dream the same dream
let’s live all night – for every night we live

Music is the meaning of this monster called life.

- riddles of rock and rap -

- beautiful ballads -

- sightless sounds -

- lyrics of lonesome love -

music makes my memory magical.

- I think I love music.

Lemmings living lusciously in tiny boxes all the same – splashes of color
the whirring buzz of a paved path lures them like fish to their shiny frames
drab claims to a cube – clickty clack,
guffaw guffaw goes the lemming in cube 102
cube 104 pounds and releases, click click click, whirring slides overwhelm the brain of the lemming.
Beep beep beep,
ring ring ring,
millions of delicate digital lemmings walking off cliffs
plummeting to their pasteurized expiration
glued to more tiny shiny brightly lit boxes wanting verbosity and novelty
superficial thoughts grasp until every little living lemming wanders into the last chest,
the box made of satin, and silk, hammered shut and dropped into a rectangle mounded with dirt.
What comes next – nothing but more lemmings living in smaller boxes to their expiration dates

There is something fresh and poetic,
With a blind man eating his walking stick.

Standing at a bus stop on a thirty degree day,
Wrinkled face, open mouth, hair of gray.

Dark sunglasses, fingerless gloves,
worn-out shoes, and that coat he loves,

Just eating his walking stick,
And I drive by, just that quick.

I was at a bar,
Against my will,
I don’t drink…
Alcohol.

The people laughing,
Hollering, Wallowing,
And swallowing the
Brew to a counterfeit
Reality…
A reality of invincibility,
A reality of incomprehension,
A reality of  abstract visions,
A reality of indiscipline,
A reality of the minds,
A reality of blurriness,
A reality of sheer…
UTTER Stupidity.

They stutter and stumble,
They rock and ****,
They slam and slam
More brewed bogus
Reality.

They call it an escape,
But while in that faux-reality
They forget;
There is no reality
More genuine,
More intricate,
More perplexing,
More marvelous,
More sobering,
Than one within sobriety,
Made from all
Natural ingredients.

The rumblings of traffic resonate muffled behind me I sit in my century old chair accompanied by my century old mind. A ding of the magic bell follows the crack and jolt of the muffled horn – muffled by the palpable self-ignited tension that a choice is near or already washed-out. The toot of the train tempered by the windows and drapes yanks me out of the cloud I sit upon watching myself perplex about a choice an unfamiliar choice. Which is it, the flower for me, or the flower that waits? Which cactus do I drink the water from – both will ***** me, but ripped from their home the cacti will cry inconsolably. Vague metaphors faced by a conundrum that isn’t humdrum my veins filled with uncertainty until I look to the cacti again

I have seen, I have seen, I have seen all I need to –

The illuminating ideas rolling gently from your lips, caressing my mind,

vivifying my thoughts, reviving lost electrons, electrifying burnt out neurons –

charging my mind, challenging my intellect, changing my perspective – there is no Starry Night, no Mona Lisa, no Shakespeare sonnet, no Ginsburg “Howl,” no Ezra Pound on a black bough, that likens to the magnificence of your words, the radiance of your smile, the wonderment of your eyes, or the fun of your laugh. There was nothing special about the moments before, not the jester, nor a stunning sunset, but something charmed happened after the jester exited stage right, a simple phrase, uttered from your lips, the what matters not, just the swift insight that I was in awe. Never have I been in awe before, a new experience, that never faded, that stuck with me for the days to come as I wander aimlessly dreaming of the greener experiences you will open me to. I leave myself unguarded, there are no masks, no sad howling mask of despair, no happy grinning mask of cheer, just me, open to you, your ideas, your enlightenment. Paint, draw, sketch, mold me into who I should be for you, I am your canvas, you are my artist, this will be a masterpiece that will hang on the walls of museums, in the halls of temples to come, to put people in bewilderment as they rub their eyes for they have seen all there is to see now.

– nothing can compare to what I have now seen, life has meaning, and it’s before me, in your eyes, your smile, your mind, your you.

This old man
rolled his thumb
in the door
of a beehive
while diddling
his knick
knack
into this shoe as
he sat at heaven’s
gate
knocking with the
spine of a
dying dog
chewing on
a bad bag of
bones.

I woke up today,
I went outside with my camera,
I broke the threshold,
And I entered a yard of memories,
I saw a house,
A house full of rooms,
A house with shingles of thoughts,
A house with rooms of memories,
A house with windows of portraits,
A house of past conversations,
A house that is not just a house,
But an awareness,
A memory,
A time,
A place,
A notion,
There it stood, in the garden,
Why I went outside,
In the white snow,
A solitary leaf,
On a solitary stem,
Green as green can be,
Sticking thru the cordon of snow,
I went to take a picture,
And it didn’t work,
Because I was still in a dream,
Then I heard my mothers voice,
Singing to me, “Steven, come inside.”
I miss my mother,
Her voice,
Her laugh,
Her smile,
Then I realized, as I enter a solace,
That my forever is her forever,
She is the lone bright green leaf,
Amongst the cordon of white snow,
In front of the house,
She is the vivid picture,
A picture that lives in my mind,
A snapshot with no negative,
The only one,
Her consciousness and soul no longer live in my reality,
She lives in my mind, my dreams, and my thoughts,
She will live as long as I do.

I crossed the sea of stopped cars,
as I stepped onto the street,
I saw you
a ghost – The ghost of the past,
a past like any other, teeming with moments
of silence, and regretful comments.

You smiled, it was your happy smile,
– Like your Cheshire cat smile.
and that smile I hadn’t seen in a while.
you held open the door, for me or for you,
but I kept walking, the path interrupted and
our serendipity foiled by the devil’s siren
again.

“She thought up I should be with you…
but it’s time to face the truth…
I will never…
be…
with you.” Sang the song playing in my ears.

So I looked back, a lonely street, a sad past,
and you…
were gone.

I have a confession: I miss you and I have since that day,
that you went to Saturn and orbited away,
and I haven’t seen you since that day,
until today,
and I couldn’t say,
a **** word.

But there you were, smiling, holding a door open,
where you really there?
or
was everything in vain
that day on 4th & Main?

I write, I read, I watch
I hear, I see, I say…
“This twang of red
and a coda so blue.”

The sad song of
mystery and delight,
The rain trickles;
The strings hum as
the bell chimes
The crescendo, the tenor

Now the strings deepen
more illusion and enigma
all sewn into a song,
no, not a song, a
Composition.

The hallowed teak instrument
walks the artist thru a gateway
of eerie astonishment to
sound not written, and words
not heard, but words spoken
with sound.



And we fall… into paradox.



the aquarium.

The dogs are barking,
I wonder what they’re saying,
“It’s cold out here, let me in!”
That’s what I would be screamin’.

Maybe they’re having a philosophical debate
About how to get a checkmate?

Dogs playing pool, poker and chess,
I like it when dogs do human things,
Because humans do dog things,
And call themselves civilized.

But what do I know anyway?
Because today is the day,
The dogs barked a conversation,
And I lacked the comprehension
To know what they’re saying.

Cigarettes before ashes
Flame before smoke
Monkey before man

But…

What…

If –

The ashes made the smoke flame on the mans cigarette, smoked by a monkey?
A world downside up
Less-sense
And                 sense-non

That was incomprehensible & reprehensible!

It was defiable & insatiable!



“Nonsensical!” I scream.

My mind wanders to the black sack that is a white square of wet and dry ink.



“I think this is lesdyxia.” –



GO AWAY red squiggles! I know of what I write; it’s in my site, remember?
We had this talk on a walk, or was it that walk on a talk?
I forget, FORget, forGET!

“What will I write?”
I blame this ink spilling sword of truth, but it would break in a stone.

This is Ourworld

Sunset,
Cool breeze on a warm day
Dips in the bay
Are some of life's treasures

I take certain measures
To relax and let the day engulf me
Never-ending days
With you
Is my life's treasure

And so while I lay here dozing
I'm only dozing to dream of
My treasure

With your smile and  awkward glances I know in the silence I'm your treasure too

-The Never Cared for Man Alone-

Time ever moves, I was born in an ever moving time –
From then, I have been here, in existence, alone –
Tormented by loving alone –
No roses to smell in my place –
The dust clouds bloom as the stampede races towards me -

Converged in a cloud of dust and a thousand ravaged souls,
Crushing the useless existence of a loveless, unloved man alone –
When the dust settles, the unloved man is gone –
There is nothing but hundreds of shavings of torn paper, lingering to be picked up in the graceful arms of the breeze, never to be seen or cared for again, the never cared for man alone –

Like the tumble **** stumbling drunkenly across the depressing
landscape of a deserted desert town, gray and dreary –
The air smells of sadness and death, the air is heavy and moist
Filled with the tears of a single tormented soul, loveless and unloved –
The man blows away, pages gone, memories gone, just another man –
Another man who suffered thru agonizing pain of being –
“and like that he is gone and forgotten,” I am gone, and forgotten.

“Mumble-mumble,
bumbling stumble…”
You utter and stutter.

“What?”

I sputter,
   and out you flutter.

Sitting at a bus stop,
No reason but to people spy,
I pop a cough drop
Loosen my tie.

Then a man sits down,
I nod,
He has a frown,
What a clod.

“Never seen you here before.”
“Never been here before.”
“Waiting for the bus?”
“No, watching.”
“Why?”
“Because I can.”

Because I can do what I want,
Because I’m not you,
Because I can do it how I want,
Because I do.

Because I wear jeans,
Because I have a scar,
Because I have the means,
Because I don’t like that star.

Because that bird says so,
Because the sky is blue,
Because the wind is about to blow,
Because I do.

Because I’m young,
Because you’re old,
Because I have a tongue,
Because I’m bold.

Because I am,
Because you are,
Because I like spam,
Because I have a cigar.

Because because,
Because I buzz,
Because I have withdraws,
Because I does.

Silly clown
paintings litter
the wall of
the blessed
shame…
of Jesus with
a .38 revolver
riding on a horse
of midnight.

i tried to write a poem today about how you make me feel,
and i  couldn't put it into words

- it was unwordable -

my absolute lack of verbosity and eloquence left no solace - just a sticky shimmering mess of words splattered, scattered with horrible verbs and even worse poeticness...
needless to say you give me such inspiration that my mind just veers left when directed right, all because you

- you make me melt -

and fall apart.

and with a touch i make your body tremor and mind falter - together we make the universe twirl, i can feel it, the breakdown of words is my mind spinning around your universe, your works, you're everything the barriers broken, my words fly and float in the pace of our romance, lost...

**- and my brain just broke -

Music measures four for time,
A beat each second,
It can turn on a dime,
But a missed beat, I reckon,
Is nothing shy of a crime.

A tediously perfect,
Machine tinkered to tick,
Yet it's imperfect,
Because sometimes it will stick...
And that missed beat is a crime.

Call it an ***** or movement,
A heart, brain or gear,
But let's make an improvement,
And don't miss a beat my dear,
It's a crime in any event.

Don't measure your music - it's time spent,
There is no point watching,
Your watch or winding your movement,
The gears, springs, sprockets, and teeth,
Will wear and there is no cent,
That can be spent,
To stop. The slow-
-ing,
Or
Creep-
-ing,
Of your movement, measured music, or
Your time...
Because it's a crime,
To miss a beat.

“Mumble-mumble,
bumbling stumble…”
You utter and stutter.

“What?”

I sputter,
and out you flutter.

“Space, the final frontier…”
Click.
“Dun da da da dum…”
Click.
“…own lifetime, Doctor Sam Becket…”
Click.
“Toll of hurricane sandy…”
Click.
“Hook elementary…”
Click.
“It’s like a towel, it’s like a shammy, it’s like a spon…”
Click.
“…ons. To boldly go where no one has gone before.”

I un-boldly went full circle, and today the world is supposed to end…

like a drunken purple jellyfish bouncing on the ocean floor wall to wall (endless bobbing thoughts weaving back and forth) creating a computational machine (driven by emotion) the spark ignites, the babblings continue, rapidly, fervently (my words my mouth) numb, unable to express anything, say anything all I can do is gaze upon you with a witless smile who knows where I am, hearing you, not listening, all because you smiled at me, and I was chocolate silently dying in a beam of sun on a bright day in may

i soaked in this splendid moment last night.

The light shone down upon you brilliantly.
there was a spark in your eye
and your nervous smile raised your cheeks
you closed your eyes, I closed mine
and we shared the most splendid sixty seconds
Our first kiss.
I find no words, just a feeling
call it …
butterflies,
flutterflies,
anxious
nervous
fear.
but my dear,
I want that splendid sixty seconds we shared
to be my last first kiss.