I don't really know you.
The sparse details scattered across
Days unremembered yet unforgotten
Are but small glimpses to a life
Beyond my knowledge.

The true nature of your heart lies
Between the sunrise atop bumper crops
And the sky that holds it illusionary,
Yet the orange glow shines through my window
Every morning since our meeting.

Eastward drifts my soul,
Beckoned regardless of wakefulness;
Foreign things kept in choice vocabulary
Run away to from the moon
To only be considered there of--

Do I know you...?

I know how you went about your day when you
Woke up with a weight in your belly,
Groggy eyes squinted in sorrow and sleeplessness;
A tired mind running on hamster wheels with
Thoughts organized in bedhead disapproval,
Feigning extraterrestrial happiness
With bookwork and a cup of coffee,
Topped off with a bad taste in your mouth
And a blunt headache that didn't go away-

I know the monotonous capital of existence,
The placemat of our truths walked upon
Without a sole by the hustle imposed;
Drudgery felt like clockwork in the digital a.m
Shining neon "Go! Go! Go!" and you go,
"go. go. go..."

As I have gone...
As we have gone together...
As we'll have come before and since,
In shared moments of stasis every morning
We rise-

I will not forget how you greeted the day,
Not to yourself or your love or your household
But to myself and blessed others in those morning hours,
Knowledgeable and fierce,
Optimistically aware of every day past and upcoming,
Guiding the times as if set to sculpture

-Arisen is the phoenix at dawn,
Flamed feathers spawn the day
As we greet the nighttime gone;
I don't know you,

Not really, anyway.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
As I would for you.
As we are one. As we are unity.

As we enjoy the same fruit.
As we enjoy spinning,
As we enjoy twirling,
Our eyes blind to the direction of the world.
Our eyes blind to the walls,
The ceiling.
The floors.
Every step.
Every turn.
Not afraid of where we'll end up, or what the world thinks of us.
Alas, we are blind, our eyelids dropped.
As we cannot see the world, the world cannot see us.

We enjoy closing the page, we enjoy the story.
And as the words may be over, the way we perceive them still exists.
Swelling,
Inside us like a growing storm.
Trembling.
Waiting.
For the time to pop out, to flood our thoughts and perceptions, Trickling down our ideas,
like dew on a pure and calm morning.

We enjoy the pigment staining the canvas for the last time,
Until the next.
Until the next time our creativity burts out of us,
Until the next time we have something to say.
Until the next time our brush subtly scraps across the cloth,
Not making a sound.
Until the next time the colored gel glides across,
Transforming into whatever we perceive it as.
Until the next time a smile is plastered across,
Until the next time a masterpiece is completed.

We enjoy stepping onto the grass, the day having been done,
Our toils having been endured.
Our house just ahead,
Our home.
The place we feel safest.
The place we belong.
The place we read.
The place we write.
The place we cook.
The place we sing.
The place we dance.

The place the rooms combine to make our home, just as
We combine to make one. Just as we combine to make unity.

carry on from the beginning
we are the alive poets society
words said by another  
all we believe in is each other

secretive language all our own
passionate words among loving tales
writing words, raptureously flowing
others left completely unknowing

O captain, my captain
guide us in the ways of words
careful now, do not reveal
for they are our only seal

the only initiation
is contributing a verse
in a poem called living
or this play unforgiving

our pens speak like our tongues
writing what we wish we could say
undercover we stay, quietly
we are the alive poets society

carpe diem

I pay my ticket to enter the giant
concrete staircase on the periphery
of the bay of San Francisco.

***** Mays and other boyhood
heroes would do their magic
along this shore for so many years.

Now that I no longer feel the
baseball enthrallment–
because my body cannot see
itself moving with such speed and grace–
I dream of a different crowd.

Homer pitching the ball,
as someone must start the play;
Lao Tsu striking with wood
at what moves so fast it
can barely be seen.

Such hollow sound as ball
is soul-bound into the ether
of the Psalms. Emily
Dickinson snags the high hit.

The onomatopoeiac crowd
lifts its unified heart to
the resounding cheer of
Walt Whitman on grassy
outfield of bliss.

This warm day in the concrete
hang-out, I see in the concrete
dug-out such heavy hitters
lined up for a quick swat at glory.

Maybe something soothing
in between the innings–
an oriole or an Indian foot dance,
while I dream of dancing in my sox.