submerged under peppermint bubbles
  cortex muddled by damp ears
I reach out and touch a flower
     as it whirlpools around intention

     in this manmade lake
I have made of myself an island
  limbs sinking and reappearing
  my face disappears
  and returns renewed

      this whole time I wasn't breathing
the drain excavates water
   for buoyed relics of responsibility
the weight of life
latches onto my exhale

         release         release         release

I will be whole in this lifetime

I rise with vestiges of beauty
     clinging to my essence
         freedom is assured

I could care less what you think of me. You are a small person in an ever-expanding universe. My reality is bigger than you, and your tiny world!

maggots transmute flesh to humus
make soil of living organism
reduce legacy to new origin
   leaving translucent threads
a baby's heartbeat resets
as spirit sits in waiting room
pitch black     soaking

under an ancestral dome of dementia
stars have forgotten their shine
   fallen out of place
shattered the illusion of enlightenment

good enough thunder laughs
its echo ripples through darkness
good enough               good enough
lightening strikes the same place twice
leaves scorched birthmark of miracle
and the cosmos joins in on the laughter

the baby cries
naked and afraid
vulnerable to all the fears of this world
failure, rejection, unfulfilled potential
danger lurking in every unknown

yet before depression or anxiety
there was love
four chambers murmering of invisible strands
and moist nothingness
of faint lights that felt familiar
shimmering fractals of reflection

past-life breakthroughs
are now present-life obstacles
purged of perspective
maggots dance the funky noodle
attempting a perfect circle
-this is integration
   post-waiting room
a glimpse into the cosmic joke

and the baby laughs
a thunderous chorus of stardust
  surrendering fear to the maggots
fiber twines its way
from heart to heart to heart
flashing a golden web of interconnectedness

the baby is you
   and I
and even before we learn to crawl
we are walking blessings
we should stop more often
and appreciate this birthmark of truth

in this present moment
I gift you- peace     love     and     understanding
that from flesh to humus
you are
    More Than Enough

And as the figs dried
   so did everything around them
a smaller harvest for the fall
a fall from grace since the spring

the roots did not know of destructive winds
  nor burning rays
   yet they shriveled all the same

how vain
  to expect one to know all
  to expect all to acquiesce to one

The perception of a thing is not necessarily it’s reality

behind what digit does greatness hide
for surely it is seen in mass
though mark it bold if self-proclaimed
a self-called victory is oft for last

and on what pedestal is greatness praised
enshrined and head bestowed with gold
or is it meek and humbly bred
unrecognized beneath the fold

in the sea's unwavering crash
in the sky's expanse unspared
in the ant's resilient march
all things great when uncompared

and can it be that we are great
perhaps in just one other's eyes
I know that I am full of it
why do you hide in plain disguise

And on the third day he rose
eyes red from creation
a sativa-induced resurrection

And though many searched for him
he was not there
he was already philosophy and smoke

Now, centuries later
millions roll themselves in his dogma
with hopes of getting high

A hermit burrows into its shell for the long haul. The long haul is everything- work, friends, entertainment, breath. Finds center amidst diameters small and wide, and focuses on that point. Internal. The rays are distilled. Winds come second hand. Emotions- stoic. The hermit is a rock to most. Sedimentary. Hard. Lifeless. The internal lights flicker with the spirit of ghosts. There is a gift a-brewing, being refined from the inside out for all to feast. What is a source without its own power? Power clings to the buttresses of the hermit's shell. Shell is the fuel that powers drive.
Crack!
The crack spreads.
Crack!
The crack divides other and self.
Crack!
The crack hemorrhages power- enough to feed a village.
Crack!
The crack becomes a gulf, floods the homes of all in range under the illusion of repurposing.

Will you change the upholstery once there's mold?

The crack is now a doorway. There is no in or out- just space.

Will you walk freely now?

Logic tries to guide me
I slip on fallacies
                                                                                   Intuition releases me
                                                                                   I float unsure

does God have a birthday

and if so how does it celebrate
when solar returns are no longer measurements of time
but simply passing monotonies
what's the flare when all the universe
holds no element of surprise
and candles are mere shadows of truth
sticks awaiting inspiration
exactly how many sticks would that be
and can all those light years
be blown out in a single breath
all the pomp and circumstance
seem rather menial
when your life's creation
numerates all of humanity
and all of nature
and all of imagination
but imagine this
imagine all of creation on one accord
if only for the blink of a star
and the harmonious ring of joy that would bring
for a diverse chorus of discord
to be in alignment
   for just a singular moment

I'm ******* **** uuuuuuuuup in the worst way!!!
almost forgot my mom's birthday
drowning in my own little misery
I think I really hate life
liquor seems to stick to me
**** wants to reminisce, dig up all my old ****
sitting in a cloud of smoke, dreaming of my old chick
nostalgic of past days
   wish this was my last day
...yea I wish this was my last day

Now it's daybreak
sun is on the rise again
hiding from the moon to keep the shadows from my irises
ignorance is bliss so I don't wanna see no evil
but I can't ignore a whole world full of people
I can't be blind to my own **** reflection
used to be good but I lost that connection
nother kid murdered, still I feel no connection
-----a common misconception

But can I fix my vision to become a visionary?
Can I find my purpose ******* her in missionary?
in a world full of things, if i buy a diamond ring, Does that mean love is eternal?
cuz that's kinda scary.
Is happiness an illusion cuz it doesn't last?
Is today just a mirage of the distant past?
if a circle always spins, when I do reach my end, Does that mean I was a point in a pile of ash?

the ever-distracting daydream is a form of presence
   says the window
my hand unconsciously crafts doodles
before averting back to words



if I were a poem
I would be everything
  in between the letters
unseen and often misunderstood
to feel me
    you would need to let go
of meaning
           float off paper
     beyond lines
through open airwaves
   don't try to read me
   I need to be heard

if I were a poem
            [wait what]

if I were a poem
            [yo, did you hear that]

if I were a poem
my stanzas would be disjointed puzzle pieces
horcruxes spread to different verses
each with a fractal of spirit
  but never the whole
put me together at the end
for the big picture
    I wouldn't make sense along the way
I would hold magic in my brokeness
enough power in my message to build
  ...and destroy
      ...and rebuild again

there would be so many gaps
you would wonder where the years went
  come and go as they please
I would only speak when silence requested
my composition would paint
           Surreal Renaissance Futurism
                     yea... make that make sense...

if I were a poem
I would allude to imaginary numbers
and friends
fictitious characters and places
just outside that window pane
            like [c'mon you saw that]

side-quest-obsessed
catch me on a tangent
lost in a daze
   days     hours     minutes     seconds
catch me relative
just like the hands of time

if I were a poem
I would require second chances
  over and over and over again
but I'd be worth it
  be worth the suspended disbelief
just for the amusement of it all

if I were a poem...

g@#dgvxdbyhix&*u@ggcuybbdjhgus$%

Sniffing magic from a Pokemon cartridge can be so fun

he met his mortality with trembling limbs
    and gnashing words
            fiercely independent
    and clutching at every loose strand
nothing was in his control

he cursed life and death
  in the same breath
because opportunity had never proven itself
         to him
and so he asked more of time

     demanded it
to bribe regret away
he lived a life unlived
but this was invisible to him
                                                   until the end

it all lay behind him now
flatlands and an apathetic sky

Home**
                                            heart
        ­  city
                                                          ­                               apple
                                                           ­        core
           burn
                                                            ­                      hellfire
fall
                           garden
                                                          ­                                                 well
                                             water
                                                           sky
          bottle
                                            ­                                  whiskey & ***
                                            drunk
           ­                                                                 ­                                             lost
            Found
staircase
                                ­                                   tears
                         relief
                                                          ­                           flood
                                               God
                                 ark
                                                             ­                                 promise
               broken
                                                          ­                glass
                                           ­    catastrophe
                                                     ­                                         connectedness
ONE

First:   define terms        with your gut

Second:   find the love between each syl.la.ble

Third:   share meaning with all

I wanna punch a hole in a hole
make the blackest black
crawl inside
   and sleep

this
     is not insomnia
        this is lust
   twisted into the most frustrating knot
             and dawned with the ugliest bow

lying in bed
I swear I can hear the ceiling crack
it is mocking me
   incessant cackling
        I wanna tear this ******* room apart
crumple walls and bury them beneath buckling kness

I cannot stay still
it's like I've been touched
   and left to dry
aroused
   then left to die

        this is no way to end

my bones are starving hyenas
the bed, a watering hole
there is a slumbering carcass next to me
its flies
   buzz tidings of sheep-filled fields
     ~utopias of sleep~

but I
   am surrounded by night
no stars               no sheep               no sleep
only silence
   but not dark enough
this hole is not dark enough

someone punch a hole in me
I need to get some sleep

On the sandy shore of a distant memory, Euclid picked up a stick and began tracing the outline of some vague shape. At the first vertices he was interrupted by a hissing sound. Looking down in horror, what initially appeared a stick slowly coiled around his forearm and sank its teeth into his veins. As he watched the ocean spread its depths, he felt the sharp pain of platelets separating from plasma. Euclid walked into the gaping void and awaited reunion. Waves folding around him , his last sight was of a naked woman; she had the curves of a triangle.

the moon is the grand architect
feel her pull in high tide
             feel her push when unsure
  on dark nights
  in urban scapes
   surrounded by artificial light

she still shines through
her blueprints are mystery
especially when ideas are new
   she is a slow reveal
     an inspired temptress
                    lean into this
press fingers into her curves

as she undresses
visibility is not always the goal
but when light reflects
it is inevitable

while we question her cycles
she is not afraid of the rebuild
       the versions we hold of each other
       died many moons ago

Woman birthed. Woman raised.
I am no biproduct
donating ***** does not make one a factor
back strained, she supported me like Atlas
sheltered me with wingspan like Daedalus
her love stronger than the Greek gods
Aphrodite was her apprentice
agape her creation
her love for me surpassed my love of self

beyond Montana’s yellow lines
there is a field
~a field of painted soles
     and laces rubber tread
~a field of ****** curls
     and fallen headlights
where kaleidoscope lenses
look onto twisted frames          like origami halos
where teddy bears hug stop signs like pickets
     fringed in anger
          runaway childhoods sleep cautionary tales
  
beyond Montana’s blushing acne
there are red cup melodies
     blasting from blacked out tints
          weaving blues notes through Rock & Rap
distant cries are drowned by Bass
     or maybe Bud (light)
a haze of teenage eyes
they might as well be ghost riders
whip game copped from GTA
these pubescents are a Vice to their City
blooming sidewalk sloths
like flowerbeds

beyond Montana
is a country of bar stools
   where bar tenders play therapists
        and therapists play coroners
precedents are shots of whiskey - taken to the head
and reflected in flooded eyes

beyond Montana
is a country of MADD mothers and SADD students
beyond Montana
is a country of unexpecting pedestrians
beyond Montana
is a field
~a field of wing-clipped snow angels

That field is Mariah's home now
and she challenges you to change
   yourself
        your friends
             your country
she challenges you to
**STOP DRUNK DRIVING

what came first:
          the inhale      or      the exhale
is the moment of transition
a peak or a valley

this is the question of birth and death
    of rebirth and culmination
the leaf whispered to the seedling
yet neither remembered first touch
  a mother's womb is its own ecosystem
       a dark moist vacuum

           regalia regalia

she wants to lie down
and stop feeding but everything
relies on her
   even if she is just a link
she must be the strongest one
stand up when others sit
spit conviction while others question
in the endless spinning
she must have her own orbit
she has always held tight to what she needs

needless to say
she has been both twig and tree
and she came first waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay
before any man

can creativity be measured
and who determines the standard
what of verses not seismic
enough to register
acrylic or oil
what magnitude does your canvas claim
before completion

enough blending and everything
becomes a mystery
I wonder how irrational gold is
when reduced to its primal essence
led through onyx and quartz
turquoise and amethyst
if you hold a rock to your head
does it speak in earth tongue

sine and cosine graphs
depict fluctuating vibration
but what of absolutes
in this consensual reality
mugwort produces flow
myrrh yields healing
sage is the end to a means
but only if added and divided correctly

            cast        cast        cast

     spell        spell        spell

all the signs are here
math is flat without magic
magic is elusive without math
still-
   not everything can be quantified
a digit holds no weight
detached from the hand
and so it is with mind and spirit

at the core of the universe
is an inexhaustible energy
its change is a currency everywhere
learn to count worth without
value or numbers
learn to create art without
pupil or ear
measurement exists on an alternate plane

moist moist  moist  moist MoiSt mOisT moIsT MOIST
now stop reading it, say it
                                                           moist
it's a weird word
------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------

a storm is coming
  and I can smell it, feel it
     MOIST
on my skin- slick
it wisps into my mouth
  dirt patches aren't meant to be stoic

the storm approaches from the north, northwest
I am headed that way- north, northwest- approaching it
we have not yet converged but I can feel it
    moist
it tastes of dry dirt
not local
       nomadic

the clouds are foreshadowing --- foreboding
  parting only to show more grey
we have yet to converge but I can feel it
the grey
           the parting
                          the moistness
I am not yet there but I can feel it
  wisping through me
     I am not meant to be stoic
       nomadic

the first d
                r
              o
                 p

                     refreshing
I can feel it. really feel it.
moist on my skin. weird.
the clouds are parting
lightening [effect]       thunder [effect]       convergence [effect]
I am the storm; its core
  moist
            grey
                    parting
       ­                          wisping
can you feel me
                            approaching...

the chaos king has orderd his
                                                             ­                                                          steps
                                                           ­   with
                   sporadic
                                                        ­                          rights
                                ­                         and
innumerable
                                                 ­                                                    lefts

have you ever died holding your breath,
waiting for something that will never come?




me either
BUT I have killed dreams
in sacrifice for 'what ifs'
prolonged disbelief in suspense of some higher yearning

before I ever understood disappointment
apathy taught me to stop reading into things
to stop adding assumptions
like context clues were definitive
I remember waiting behind windows
for a father to open doors
never realizing that silence was the answer
knocking trust down a peg
I forced self to be level- neutral
to accept the apology money
  in lieu of time
     and keep it pushing
for the dad who cried love but couldn't show it
the best way to mitigate loss
was to stop believing
to leave the subtext on read
but turn off the receipts
   the emotional investment was too taxing

I remember expecting forever
  of moments I didn't truly appreciate
never realizing that NOW
is the time to value
leaving relationships on read
is actually a sure way to disaster
    wanting to be understood
    without listening to understand
clarity hides in plain sight
waiting to be sought
but effort is a cycle of reciprocation
anything less is oxymoronic
like demanding everything from nothing

And that's the crux
now I expect nothing from everything
     the only way is up
and I'm grateful
because I can breath so much easier
releasing to the knowing unknown
so even when I die I can say reality owes me nothing
because each breath
was a dream unexpected