you're right there,
just waiting for me
i know you are,
you put it so plainly,
and i can clearly see
you're so sweet
and
i'm so tempted
as i stand here screaming out your name,
i know i can't have you
why must you do this to me, torture me so?
i love you, but you don't love me back
yes, you give me more,
but not what i want,
won't you cut me some slack? is this always going to be this way?
"no, it won't, one day things will be different,"
i hope to hear you say.

if I went backwards,



you'd find me underneath
those dim city streetlights

laughing with the other
kids on my block.



you'd find me at
the first funeral

and then the
second and third

staring ahead with
blank eyes and a
tear-stained face,

brown dirt on
my black shoes

and you'd never again
find me laughing at
the end of my block.



you'd find me
running, running,
always running

from the cops
from rival gangs
from foster homes
from mean kids

from my responsibilities
and my guilt and the truth
and eventually from my past

and I wouldn't slow down
until I collapsed.



you'd find me on a
pool table in a basement
with my first boyfriend
on top of me.

he whispered that
he loved me,
but the bruises
said otherwise.

I listened to his voice
and ignored his actions.



again, you'd find me
running, running,
always running

from my ex and his abuse
from my self-hatred
from my confusion
from more cops

and I wouldn't slow down
until I collapsed.



if I went backwards,
I would be running.

I'm still running.

if I go forward,
will I stop?

will I always
be running?

We hold these truths,
there is a Zebra tree on a tiny island
in Lake Wanaka on the relatively large island
called New Zealand.

Nation is not a valid variable to sort on.

So here, we sort worth on agreeing
we are equally
Natives of Earth. First yes.

More yeses follow.

Learn what you have done.
Know what you are doing.
Be good,
let the bruised flesh not rise in hot pride,

see we all are involved in evolving into ever
better,

so we think, perhaps,
others aboard my ark also think.

We are equal in this realm, each mind joined

junction branch root, not from
billions and billions of
Jahre zuvor,
წლების წინ
ts’lebis ts’in { Georgian script looks magic, eh}

Secrets in tongues died with the last word,
spoken toward unhearing ears,

… is it reality interrupting or
knocking needs gumming up the works…

--------


Field-wide signal, crisp and clear, some fell on idle minds,

that's fine  , signal how are you.

You say, responsibly, My side is winning.
No one ever asks what that means.

The field the world,
war is the only story, Walt imagined,
he was infected, Whitman,
with a known' opinion
-- some wise and well-known
-- being arisen from behind the ivied walls
- I heard this in passing,
- anonymous did not say this:
the function for the sublime is to free us from the slavery
of pleasure
- on another vector, I heard this:
the need to heal violence, forces life into idle words
used maliciously, in tests of conscience-useness.

Poverty never hears the highest minded reasons
for the states of mind attempted by the
most curious among us

--- empty of the wy. ha… I don' know I glanced away
stat tic… what's missing?
--- its like any other day, it ends with me entranced
by the play of winds with dust and smoke and water
droplets too light to fall,

I take instant HDR images as the time passes and the art
appears, as if for me alone,
I am the only mental
being seeing this,
I have proof,
I'll show you, someday, maybe…
but today,
I got took t' school, behind the gated mental institution,

geni-used magi-like instinct-gut spirit-vapor
-- rumor has it, I went mad
caused
by you or me, I can't say.

But just the other day, I was thinking, you may remember
my sunsets,
you would have noticed them
when you stole my weedeater.

--------

No school of the prophets foresaw my death,
so far as I may know,
I am by chance, bon chance,
living in lines of consequential events.
And my birth was a quirk of circumstances.

As special as any multi cellular creature,
if the statisticians are aiming at
the proper means of measuring.

There remain professors who teach man is the measure
of all things, wrong, in my opinion.

Ha. I said that. Like to Cambridge, it's image in my immaterial
realm where all things men agreed to use for ever after,

are similar in effect to the Ghostbusters Marshmallow role.

My fingerprint is less than nine points similar
to your fingerprint, no matter who you are.
We are equals in that regard,
our self is commonly unique, as we are.
Our kind.
We, the people of Earth. The native species,
Whumo Sapient Sapiens is us.
Knowers that know.
Thinkers that think we know. There is no
they
behind the curtain
knowing anything that  you may not know
as much
as you can swallow,
a bit per quantasec, after chewing fifty years.

In this medium,
it's me and you, object, subject, reject defect
if then or else
find that more perfect
union,
that knot that binds our minds in agreement,
this is that
which has no religious name, save good and plenty…

not the candy, but that's cool, I thought that, too.

We, me and you, since we think alike,
we could make up a mind and invite others

to take parts in grand epic dramas of ever
learning,
war never has arisen on a reason that reasons
rationally valanced toward life,
and that,
more abundantly…

Now, see those greedy folks,
look real
close,
see. You never see such a one, with a satisfied mind,
ever learning, never knowing everything,
happy as hell from a Sisyphean POV

A trip down
The memory lane
Of simpler times
And happier days
Rekindling those vibes
With a few pals of mine,
The old tales of summer
Jumping around,
Even in pain,
Chasing ice cream trucks
On our bikes
For our favourite flavours
The old tales of winter
Trying to look cool,
Cracking lame jokes
Exhaling,
What we used to pretend
Was smoke
This conversation was special
I was out of touch
But not out of time,
For the very first time

I stand at
the last divided capital in the world and it confuses me how the land I am from is still being owned by greed and discrimination
we sit at the cusp of the border and an elderly man sells us ice cream
I sit in your lap on the metal chairs,
admiring the history that lived before me
this man was watching knowing his life was in an echo of a torn country

complacency

he moved boxes around, cluttered in old ornaments and memory
the other side of us there were  children in a violin lesson
so unaware
of the wall
their parents wait for them in small conversations
an officer in blue parols with eyes that are hungry and glowing like a fox in the strangeness of night, preying,  feral, searching.

and the pendulum swings
swings to a stop
and the clock turns, still
but the batteries are out
but the clock turns still