Sugar is bad for you,
especially,
saccharine maple thoughts
that you cannot afford
due to the hazard
of overweight ego
dense with the aftertaste
of adipose fantasies
clogging the arterial bonds
that tether you
to solid ground

Stop the caramelized madness
from carbohydrating your soul
into victim obesity
causing the full
arrest of your spirit

The sweet is guilty,
distorted in mirrors,
a negative image
of a past feeling,
present reflection
born of the collision
of intentions and consequences

Desires aren't ripened tangerines
They do not fall off the tree when they are ready
They do not fertilize the roots below
They do not shrug off the sense of un-pickedness,
just like that,
Not like tangerines do.

Desires unspent are starving termites.
They bite into living bark
And burrow into the breathing deep
Past rings and rings of precious age.
They corrupt the tender core
And, soon, no new leaves grow
And no more fruit drops.

Rules, regulation and form, allows for the greatest accord.
A ruse, my elation, at the shore with the bravest of swords.
Let me explain, poetry should be like a storm, a war of the words.
But Treat every one like a worm: your encouraging your curse.
You can't move forward without inertia at your back.
It's just the set of rules that allow Us to teach that.
So yes, the form and regulations enable the greatest of sets.
But unless you use them you will just be a sadist at best.

When the soul seeks
the song frozen in time,
Divinity obliges by
sending a few echoes down my path.

They reverberate across
the blue champagne
waves of inertia
to awaken reminiscences
of our harmonic rhythm.

Moments flow syllable like
to find a meaning
between the lines etched
on destiny's canvas as
a presence converges into resonance.

Every word is amplified together into
honest understanding breaking apart
the rational mind icebergs
that predominate love.

Curious and uncomfortable
here is the tidiness, a lack of nostalgia,
a mutual waiting, spacing out,
reckoning a future past
that naturally would run its course.

All around still green and too gray
ruling a no man’s land
where to stand on toes,
holding my breath over the level
of time, when coming to a standstill
it always leaves his deepest mark.

Downsizing, justifying
what I have and what I have not.
Never I was left without my only gift
the carefulness of the loving sun,
that hint to refract inertia and will
for I live the light across.

If through one rainy night
It sounded like you changed it all.

Plip plop
Raindrop
Sliding down the window pane

Time doesn't stop
As it meets the blacktop
This liquid substance we call rain

The minutes they pass
Life's funny like that
How the world just keeps on turning

The moments, they don't last
Regardless of their impact
The clock keeps ticking, this I'm learning

i read
and re-read
your poems, over and over
i burn through them like cigarettes
rich, mellow, and solitary
risky, euphoric, and momentary
lots of people think they are bad for you,
ya know, that classic nicotine hate
but there are lots of things everyone does to get thru,
like loving someone in a different state...
but i know a chain smoker who is 82,
and have you seen jessica lange?
she's smokin' up in every frame
and she is not afraid
and he is not afraid
so i am not afraid
but i do smoke an awful lot these days....
and this turkish royal that hangs off my lips
has nothing on the gorgeousness of your semantics;
the genuine complexity of your consciousness
the only difference between you & cigarettes,
is that i'll eventually put smoking to rest
but my love for you? will stay the same
i could puff on your words for days,
and it doesn't even hurt

Can you leave
Until the mind does
You may have gone far
And mind in inertia
Forgets to look ahead
Got rid of proximity
But travel the distance
To and fro, everyday
Through the barren path
Rushing from one point to another
It’s the action in inaction
Mind’s in inertia
We may have moved
And the mind lies there
Are we far?

Blanket state
Sun rise, sun set, sun daze
Wide eye glimmer maw
Go swallow the sky whole
And trickle tar . . .
Over Death’s mongrel bone.

The doer without desire,
Who does not boast of his deed,
Who is ardent, enduring,
Untouched by triumph,
In failure untroubled:
He is a man of sattwa (the energy of inspiration)

The doer with desire,
Hot for the prize of vain glory,
Brutal, greedy and foul
In triumph too quick to rejoyce,
In failure despairing:
He is a man of fajas (the energy of action)

The indifferent doer
Whose heart is not in his deed,
Stupid and stubborn,
A cheat, and malicious,
The idle lover of delay,
Easily dejected:
He is a man of tamas (the energy of inertia).