Outstretched
And
Exposed
To find
Yourself
In
The
Chasm.

Displaced
Consciousness
As if
A Phantom.

Holding your soul,
Close to your body.

Rolling
Into
A Cocoon
Of
Newly
Spun
String.

Rolling, rolling, rolling...
To where?

Towards
Undetectable
Cosmos.

Unending,
Then crystalizing
Over sudden sunsets,
Infinitely,
Across the horizon.

Moving towards
Abstractions
Faster,
As concrete
Fails to set
Within them.

Swept up
On the stairwell
Of a helix,
Waiting to
See where
It ends.

Caught up
In the never-ending
Space of Obscurity
That sometimes seems
Forbidden.

My tears draw the
aerial view of a thick
wood, where the hands
of a ghost, carved an
easel whose flavour
brims my mouth with
crimson and purple.
Inspiration.
My tears draw the
shattered background
of a blurred photo of
green patches hanging
on an empty road.
Grief.
My tears draw branches
of olive trees kissing the
foam of the sea of sigh and
whispers.
Melancholy.
My tears draw palm lines.
They read long life
and well being.
Betrayal.
My tears draw the shape
of his eyes, wide open on
my consistency, as vibrant
as a melody of an arcane
chant, the fingerprints of
his protective gestures,
the circle of fire of his
embrace.
Love.

The human suffering is my life's project
How could I ever turn my back on it

All the images of loss I had painted
On my own cold concrete Berlin wall
Paintbrush dipped into a catalog color
"Dark ocean of despair"
Smearing it cautiously on the rough surface
Protecting the still innocent from the ricochets

Oh the number of books that I had written
About another restless soul stuck in limbo
Circling the globe on a boat called "Oblivion"
I shoot them into my not so public library in the sky
Riding on the back of a spark flying from my sympathetic heart
Only to allow their sad glow to forever illuminate the top of my head

An archive of movies stored in a chamber of my heart
Categorized into natural human disasters
All written and directed by me
Starring every soul that ever exposed itself to mine
On a hot sticky night with a glass of wine
In a dusty desert wearing dark green uniform
On the grassy banks of a beautiful European canal
Their silent cries for help are the soundtrack of my life
The shot of an unfallen tear I could never cut out

The pain of a life lived internally,
A bag of beautiful intentions bursting at the seams
Are the substance of the blanket I cover myself with
When I try to fall asleep
Who would I be without it?

An artist with eyes wide open
sees art spoken
the silence between words and phrases
Illuminates the ideas
within.

They live out thousands of lives
in the confines of one
a commentator, a spectator
yet living and being
and seeing all
no matter how small.

breathing in the darkness and light
meditating on intricacies
Like that of a flower
held by a *****
eternity shivers
Possessed by their grasp
caught between pain and rapture
the pen stains the page with ink
Blessed be the imagination in which they sink
and swim
these poets that are skin
and soul
eyes that travel and unravel
mysteries that we shall never see
places and faces between you and me

The depth of field
and focus of which
can never be seen
the poet is dreamer.

The dream the dream the dream! I write like Liz Hand. The dark underbelly of the city. Not just people dying. All of it. Every city has one. All are the same. The dark 3am beat. Put my poem in your book. My dream of it. An artist painting an artist painting an artist  painting an artist...


The big young potentially dangerous Russian stood in front of me. He thought what he had to say is important. He gave my soldier friend a note. Read it he said, it's says what they thinks about me. I nearly fight Ivan. He thinks I'm a banker and rich. I say Bro, I fly planes and write books. Dead it!, he tells my pal. My poem is about it because it's real.