Weather it's raining or sunny,
windy or warm,
thunderous or tempered
inside a storm.

Weather its humid or hazy
ice or jet stream
cyclones or lightening    
Its part of the scheme.

Weather its snowflakes or low clouds
drizzles or mist
smog or showers  
inside of skies kiss

Weather its mountainous beauty
fog or deep freeze.
It doesn't matter cause I feel loves breeze.

StarBG © 2017

the stream
lies ever so calmly
gently rippling with the wind

the wind
echoes and howls
a point of no return

pink beauty,
will you ever
return to me again?

(b.d.s.)

kiss the loneliness your heart feels
the forever pain
that is really not forever
it’s okay
if you used to love a bed
a home
that isn’t there anymore
it’s okay
to feel small  
it’s okay
to hate yourself
the longing you feel
needs a smile
and your kisses
will make you realize
the different existences
that were once a broken home
sad and hurt
are not just an innocent human
a soul full of wonder
a moment moving slowly
that leaves your arms
not so lonely
anymore

it is better to forget the lonely
to stop holding the form’s presence
in sadness
in a hope that seems to be constantly
far from the surface
but comes in
tasting like water
instead of blood
looking like a lovely warmth
and perfection
that can only be found through tears
and a certain touch
aching fingers
outside the breadth of the home
reaching closer
to a new, sure death
changing into kind, sweet branches
that quietly beckon stronger reasons
for living
and finally
your bones will believe
that they exist to be soft
under their flesh
and that dreams are able to actually
exist outside of despair
outside of rain
and outside of fear and blood

It's dark and the light leaks out
like the change in my pockets;
like the blood from her nose;
like knowledge from my head.

And I can feel myself being
  swallowed by this systematic
long dark. I cannot remove myself,
  a gut-worm in the lower-mantle
belly. Watching video-cassettes of
  my birthday. I don't know what
happened to my birthday video.
  I don't know what happened to
my parents or what I did to happen
  to them.

The light leaks, again, and I
choke on my celebri-thoughts;
mentally-******* to the
waves I'd give on a book tour
or studio lot. Talking about some
movie that made some money,
somewhere in Santa Fe or L.A.

The news is channeling my president:
a swollen man that is the physical representation
that a lot of American people are parasitic;
lovers in racism, xenophobia, transphobia, Islamophobia,
homophobia; scared of everything except the 'straight-talking'
magnate they put in office. Not playing president; playing God.

I'd hate to get political, though. I'd hate to ramble on
and on about something I don't know enough about to
**** myself over. I can feel myself picking up steam.
I can feel myself getting redundant but embracing the
bruised ego and poor technique. Loving the entrails
spilling out of the splits of my fingertips;
more beautiful than the brains I bashed on the sidewalks
of old Morgantown. Morgantown, a town so kind you
are gently destroyed by its over-crowded masses,
dying to be different or drunk -- I suppose that's not very
different than most places.

But let's get back to these trees that I haven't even talked about.
Let's get back to the kitchen table with the hollowed hard-drive,
with wires and cords flopping to the sides, like a
gutted spaghetti eater with poor stomach acid.
How terrible. I'll never forgive myself for that last line.

I feel so rudderless. So cynical with a touch of cliche.
I keep pushing back that age for success, thinking
that I have the luxury of choosing. My vocabulary is
limited. My intelligence is assumed; probably a void,
where delusions manifest and asian **** rewinds and plays,
  rewinds and plays.

R~, a name so vibrant,
Teeming with endless vitality,
She was named to flow through the ripples of the stream.

Lacing within the folds of clear liquid,
Weaving through the movement,
Breathing in, out.

Unconstrained, forever free, traveling with currents.
Spilling, gushing out from the motion,
Rising above to disappear,
Breathing in, out.

Formulating in little crystal droplets,
Swirling into cotton candy in the sky.
Transforming into birds, fish, happy things.
Breathing in, out.

Shapes churning into sudden wisps of thick gray,
Consuming brightness, leaving darkness.
Deafening booms of anger, bursting streaks of blinding white.

Pouring from the sky, endless invisible beads,
Heavy, weighing the petals of flowers down,
Collecting in pools of reflection.
The soft pitter-patter, a lullaby to the ear,
Falling once again upon the stream,
Merging with the currents of energy,
then slowing to a calm,
Breathing in, out.

Oh so vibrant,
Teeming with endless vitality,
Flowing through the ripples of the stream.

A plastic bag is snagged in the branches where I can't reach to stop its crackled song. The bag is an *****—its kidney? Stomach? Heart?—of the thing that's dying. The thing's given pills and powders, and graveyards are robbed to replace its parts. When it dies, it'll be brought to the taxidermist to be stuffed, and its stiffened corpse will be strung in lights—a beacon for people to arrive, two-by-two, and scoop out the void from behind its glass eyes. And when the void has been doled around, the dead will shuck, jive, and shuffle step to plastic song.

Divine timing
Unraveling self-fulfilling prophecies of satisfaction
Indecision, action-packed
Clarity, spinning out and hiding in eternity
Destroying me, creating my stability
I am not and will never again or anymore be sorry that I’m free
Running directly into me
I exist in and of all time-spaces simultaneously

when I am barely there,
awake nearly and turn
back in toward sleep
all yellow-black,
and

and when my brain twitches
dogwise
in the yellow-black motes and
it’s Sunday morning
in the place
where my brain is choosing
                                                       sleep

in that place my brain it will
pivot
through the globe and scheme of all things;

wheel and vector the whereabouts
of where about you might be
in its

(little globe
                        and
     little scheme)

and just there below sleep it will

pivot


about your smell,
there where it seeps up--

it will pivot
                  about you,          still
for you are--                  still
the music

and the fulcrum. still

                                  of my sleep

-dc

There’s a silverback haze
on the shallow face
of the Rockwell Ridge
folded brow
puzzled chin
and dark hollow eyes
keeping watch
over the lilies
and crane flies
and will of the wisp

Rust brown ravens
and fisher kings
delight
in the reeds off north bend
(chased by the terraced streams!)
youth blades engrain
on the favoured
and historic
Banka Memorial

Mustard
and pumpkin skies
are clipped
by a call from
the resident loon
the sounds of Buddha Bar
piercing the silence
and shaping the afternoon chord

It’s a time to make way (stream side)
seems the anuran are courting