The streets are fresh
with the withering flesh
of sensuous conversation.
Tiny bits of floating fragments,
plump and succulent,
pass stranger’s ears,
plain to hear
even though I fear
few could ever take them in.
This is the reality in which
I drown just to swim,
a sea of unclear sounds
and half *** observations
made to clutter my notebook.

The cloud covered sky
obscures the alluring
white light glow.

The cool moist air
gently moves
the pre-winter tree leaves
that have already
lost their blooms.

The autumnal red
bush wears
berry colored leaves.

The nighttime’s
seasonal identity
flows freely
on time’s
sharply shaped arrow
that always
flees from me.

(campfire poetry) WE ARE FIRE, WE COULD BE WATER

Flickering, fluttering, licking all it touches
Through another log it goes;
Spreading warmth, consuming everything,
Atoms and particles
Splitting and shifting in throes.

Fascination, energy at its purest.
An open flame, made malleable
By the hands that feed it or quench it.
There is no greater exhibition
Of something as infallible
In its awe-inspiring might
It is an eternal fight
Between that which is to be consumed
And that which is to be construed
Into something new, and different.

And so, we are one with the element
That awes us and terrifies us at the same time.
Our life is built
On the graveyard of our ancestry;
Our homes are powered
Through the sacrificial burning of past lives.
The food we eat is life from our perspective,
Yet it is death itself for all else.
The trees we cut down, the animals we torture,
The lives we take, the populations we uproot;
Our way of life is an endless reenactment
Of an ant being crushed by a boot
No life is sacred, all can be loot.

We are fire, we could be water;
A more gentle element than most.
A soothing, balming agency
Like the overachiever who dares not boast.
Both are harmful in excess,
Both can be destructive,
Only one is restorative.

And so, we choose to be fire;
We torch, burn, consume,
Until all that is around us
Transitions to its post-human state.
A lifeless mass of black and grey,
An emotionless, bottomless decay.

Alas, as these ruminations grind to a halt,
I find myself desperately looking for the fault
That has created the chasm that brought us here.
Where exactly did we go wrong?
How did we go from being masters of our fate
To this dark, ominous presence
That shrouds all there is?

The Renaissance, the Enlightenment,
and all the revolutions that were and will be;
The great men and women who dedicated their lives
For a better future.
To you, we should apologise - although it wasn't all in vain,
There still is a thousand-mile journey
One that has not gone very far.

And so, we choose to be fire,
When we could be water...

To be a caged animal
and illicit stares
of shared despair
while trying to
clear the air here
of that ***** stench.

The populace passes
by my caged display
as I try to play
pretending that my pain
is not so real.

I dress myself up
in nice new things
watching how
the other animals swing.

Reality shows,
sports events,
and other
things
obfuscate
how human beings
isolate themselves.

My cage expands
to fit all my pretty things,
while my mind shrinks
and stinks of sinking fools
who are also drowning
in their own stool.

Everyone is watching
Some humans are deducing
Singing, humming in their mind
Surrounded by flesh and bones
Neurons and skull
The true me bears a hat
Reliability buries mind control
The higher consciousness
belongs to astrophysicien

Your body is a vehicle and
you are driven by many influences.
You sit inside a vessel with a vast palette of buttons and a huge wheel.
A passenger sits beside you and both of you rotate the wheel.
The car is secretly controlled by an other force.
The one who has real influence to stop the other force has the potential to become complete.
Sincerely, Joy
But one thing's sure
The end.

just once I looked
out of the oval window
high in the sky
To see tiny figures below
making dances out of the
snake-line of car lights

It was all flat,
and blackness swooned in over
the view,
A reflection showing back to me
all the hairs that stood their ground

a place
has no more meaning, no connection
  with itself
   rather I
who sees with desperate eyes
toward each
possible
turn

It is a dream of colors
working in the real world
while I walk to work.

I look in to the water
and see a cool pool
of aquatic colors
clear to blue
and whatever
tint or hue
that swims or sinks
into my view
or merely lies underneath
this wet sheet.

I walk along the sidewalk
seeing cement gray,
wooden brown,
and grassy green,
falling behind me.

Red brick buildings,
and one poor onyx
colored car
with a black tape bandage
to match the
paint job.

One pale poetic friend,
and one brown skinned
friendly stranger.

One cloudless sky,
turquoise
then turning to
the darker night hue.

And journey’s end
find me soaking in
rain water
that becomes
a reflecting pool
of everything
I am looking at.