Is
It wrong
That the thing
I miss when you're gone
Is the television's dull hum
The silence is lonely, but the absence is relief
That I can walk down into the kitchen without akward words or my *** getting grabbed

I
Turned on
NPR
And I felt at ease
More at home at night on my own
Than I've felt in a long time, am I so wrong if I

Can't
Say that
I'm upset
Somehow lost when you
Aren't at home in the evening hours?

And
That I'm
Not upset
That I don't have to
Justify every move and twitch
That I prefer to talk to the man who I can't judge?

If
It is
Wrong for me
To think like I do
(Though you do claim to read my mind)

I'm
Not sure
I can show
You who I am now

loss of ego immortal wound
loss of possessions
greed
identity
bohemian hallways crumble
souls escape through backbends
spiders build webs
as Lucy learns to walk on legs

an eye is opening
showing us as one
becomes infinity
escapes zero
precedes the binary
in the absence of (time)
the crucial slit makes here/there
omnipupil primes the present

3 6 9 ...
5 8 13 ...
17 19 23 ...
everything you want
nothing how it seems

The sky is a river
Silver hairs decorate it’s crown:
A ruby here, an opal there
Whisks of sunlight everywhere

Golden hues, baby blues
The sunset gives us clues
But how do we search for what
We have yet to know?

What do you think
snail shells, cow bells &
the sublime of our milky way
all have in common?

A sequence in numbers
that lead me back to you

Rage
is
a form
of blindness
of discarding one
of needs, wants and self interest
replaced with hatred and selective deafness of facts

My
hands
were not
big enough
to hold all your grief
and sew your broken parts together,
my hands were only big enough
to caress your skin,
showing me
just how
you
bled

The Searching Yeti and UFO/
Stocked home love of youth and foe/
mysteries of deep, songs that bellow/
I'm waving wheat surrounding crop circle/
and I Am The Bed with Fibonacci flower
holding  on to summer showers


The hot oil tuned in chopped green thyme/
wrinkled strips sandy brown sugared lines/
tossed on foul fried, lemon and vinegar /
long or short  grain I'll be the same integer/
I Am The Bed of rice soaked in what you savor

The breath of air/
Vibration! Everywhere?
Pitter Patter Crescendo Flare...
Ready for rivers of precipitation /
before Pen and Paper dissemination /
I Am The Bed dried wide open
Streaming to the notion ocean.