Pulled from a shelf and myself on a lounge,
I sit with the brittle paged book.
Try as I might, my immersion is dashed
From the sounds of dinner cooked.

My will delivers a writ to read,
My mind runs to and fro,
The television demands my attention.
Progress, none will flow.

Instead, I sit with prose,
And write a poem on the fixation.
Five minutes have passed; The T.V. now dull.
Finally, I receive my satiation.

Literature brings me a power,
I forever fail to describe.
As I push my glasses up my nose,
It's my own voice I inscribe.

You see I was I was
reading this book right
this real great book
and i had it in my hands
and im seeing this scene
that its describing
im not gonna go into the details
right now per se but im seeing it
in my head, you know
you know like how when
youre reading the words
but not really because they
are becoming blurred
and the picture just
kinda appears
in your brain
like you are living it,
like you are actually there
but you can't be
its just something that you see
without eyes
it blooms and engulfs the inside
of your mind
it opens the door and enters calmly
and makes it self at home, like a
painting on the wall
or or
like a number youve been meaning to call
do you see what im saying?

so that got me thinking, hear me out
you can imagine anything, yes i know duh
the pictures can sprout and bloom
become overgrown and be trimmed
maintained or treated with disdain
or with some good ole TLC,
really anything you want
a home a gnome a crystal phone
in Rome trapped on the wrong end of a honed
pearly white bone,
what does it mean oh let me tell you
i havent got a clue not one
but what about
a light you were shown when you were
younger but somehow still aware
that what you really need is somewhere
out there
or in there I should say,
does that mean something or does it
only hold significance because its your memory
of what you did when you were young
because right now you arent moving you arent seeing
anything you are just there with a blank stare
and if you measured the time that was lost
in this state it would be sad it would be
disappointing yeah if you watched it from the side
but from my view its fantastic i see lights
in different colors and see crystal worlds and
different others, thoughts borne of differing
mothers from different places
but all the same
down the same path
from the same origin,
its all really a walk down the map
to find your own x
but thats a discussion for another day
but as i was saying it could lead
to so many different places
filled with beautiful faces and cases
left shattered and broken on the ground
and everything is sound and safe
but then there is a clap or a pop
and bam you are awake, aware
that you were stuck staring into thin air
trying to see shapes  
awake awake awake
and then its all gone like an old song
that youve forgotten the words too
but sounds so so so so
familiar,
you know?

I'm basically a poet that likes to read fast,
I won't perform it unless I'm formally asked,
I'm finally devoted to the universal cast,
I could leave if I was promoted but that would come last.

When my fingers run cold
With a shade of juniper blue;
Like crusts of frost were on my fingertips
They shiver like gentle ripples in a pool

Toss me a book from the Alcove
And set my world ablaze
Take me to inspired sunsets;
Let me relinquish the icy glaze

As my body chills to the marrow, Let
The powers of our mind forget
The scalding freeze, but instead set
The mind free from all that threat.

Let us read then, in the Alcove,
Hunched in wool blankets,
As we ride from reality’s icy world
Into our fantastical sunset.

Wanderer of worlds,
Nomad and refugee,
Harvester of dreams,
Sequestered from agony,
Home looms ever closer,
March on inexorably,
This is where the sidewalk ends,
And where you need to be

In the quiet space,
Between chapter three and four.
For now, there’s magic
Between these lines.
A point that is
Often ignored.