The unsaid is silence.
The unsaid makes everything so tense.
The unsaid shows that I’m just dense
In the head with no consequence,
Except for being held inside the fence
Of the unsaid, and its silence.

The unsaid lingers overhead.
The unsaid comes back alone instead.
The unsaid makes my eyes turn red
When I can’t seem to find comfort in my own bed
Because the unsaid kills all that is sacred.

The unsaid is regret.
The unsaid is falling with no net.
The unsaid is pain met
With endless time endlessly wet
From the tears over the unsaid and the regret.

The unsaid is me.
The unsaid is her, not we.
The unsaid is not meant to be.

I am Private and he is mine.
  I see him follow in the feet of the other men  
  when his white eyes are turned so is his face  
  he sits in an aisle behind a glass too straight  
  I call to him but the glass is too thick  
  I am he and he is I so how can the separation be stopped  
  my heart is pattering and he sees it  
  a small bird wakes in the nest  
  eyes open  
  the cold salt  

It is all over yet only to those who remember  
  there is always the now if the then was kept forgotten  
  the then is me and he is the now  
  the others stand around us with long hair
  one has white eyes and skin too cool  
  he is dead and standing
most stand in lines straight on forever  
  some turn around in small shuffles  
  some glance over one shoulder slowly  
  those most eat and drink and eat and drink and eat and drink  
  there is nothing to eat no space to turn and no features to see  
  we look and move and eat to go  
  the one with the white eyes and the skin too cool knows but cannot die fully  
  he first scared me and now he is here
we are here and there  
  he and I  
  the one with the skin too cool too  
  the small bird cries out on the edge of the nest as the wind whips around  
  it cannot fall so alone  
  we cannot see it fall  
  there is no space and nothing to eat  
  the white eyes drift away with no movement  
  they seem to be searching

We sit now  
  although surrounded there is no one around  
  the glass is too thick 
  I can hear the thoughts of the others and he can hear their actions
  the walls seem to go on forever
  forever blocking the light
  his light
  the whites of his eyes signaling recognition and reflection  
  the light allows his sight to see me through the glass  
  he is mine  
  he is not dead  
  I am he  
  the cold salt  
  the pattering heart holds me still and devours me
  I am not dead  
  take that heart away from me so I do not wrench it from you  
  the others look on and see nothing for there is nothing  
  it is only in my pattering heart  
  the bird sees something on the ground in the shape of a open heart  
  the bird falls to the other  
  the cold salt

Before I felt him  
  I tried to save him but the glass was too thick  
  the aisle was too crowded before and now it is too  
  everyone dressed in their best black but wearing nothing of meaning  
  they are the same the others  
  I patter at the one sided glass  
  he cannot hear me  
  the darkness of the shadow hides me from him  
  the shadow of the cross deafens him to the birds song  
  I am he and I cannot hear me  
  I pray for the book under the aisle to be true  
  I pray he will see me soon  
  I pray my prayers are needless  
  he wants his pattering heart  
  I want the cold salt on the cheeks of the best black dressed    
  the bird has no cold salt left    
  the fall took them away  
  the heart shaped ground stopped the cold salt forever
before the men and the women were together and now they are the same  
  the one man with the white eyes moves closer  
  I like his skin too cool  
  the buildings mixed and separated them  
  together was complicated  
  together and alone was complex  
  he is large  
  yet there is space for me  
  when he is I cannot be touched  
  no one knows he is dead and I am alive  
  they do not remember  
  that small bird feels another    
  the cold salt and skin too cool

I am still alone but with him alive  
  here is where I can see him  
  this place too small is where I wait  
  I saw him in the rain and fell to him  
  the bird fell to the pattering heart  
  he is still down there  
  his skin too cool and his eyes too white  
  I want those eyes  
  they smile up at me through the lighted glass even  
  the skin too cool reaches me and I am fed  
  there is no food but his skin  
  there is no sight but his eyes  
  he is the smile   
 I am the happiness  
  I am him  
  the bird smiled on the way to the heart shaped ground  
  it hit the ground and the cold salt stopped  
  the cold salt
the ground hits
  the pattering of my heart beats all the louder against his one sided glass  
  now illuminated
  the light warms his heart and cold salt 
  it patters in time with the rain   harder and harder like the ground the bird hits 
  over and over until his patters with mine 
  he is me
  he is mine 
  his cold salt 
  I miss those 
  I lose them to rain down on him and he feels their sound 
  he is not the smile now 
  I feel his heart pattering 
  mine patters the hardest against his glass too thick and too straight now lit 
  in this room too small surrounded by the others but without him I am alone 
 I am his happiness 
  I want his skin too cool and eyes too white 
  I am his smile 
  the cold salt and the skin and the eyes and the smile are me
he was lost to me one too many times
  my not dead man was kept hidden behind a glass too thick and too straight 
  I cannot see what is hidden even though I am hiding 
  the others sway now   there is no room in here to move 
  the ground is gone 
  the small bird sings 
  he is mine 
  he looked up when I first pattered on the glass 
  he saw nothing 
  he was not going to then without the light 
  now the cold salt illuminates the pattering heart 
  his cold salt
  
I am sitting at the top of a building in the rain 
  the rain falls just as the bird and my heart 
  the ground fast approaches 
  a glass too straight through which I see him 
  he is alone in his room 
  the one with the skin too cool 
  his heart now pattering through his wrists 
  it falls and patters like mine did and does for him here 
  I want my skin too cool
the best dressed do not want to really see him 
  they do not want to see me 
  so they remember 
  I am in a room too small wanting his skin too cool
the others with the long hair carry ropes in their hands or a gun or a bottle 
  we are all in a room together but cannot fit 
  there is no room 
  there is no light 
  the aisle is now empty and the glass is still too thick 
  I am he 
  I walk 
  the cold salt drops 
  I am not dead until we are all dead 
  he is dead the room was too small and could fit no one 
  the small bird loved his skin too cool 
  the man sees the small bird jump for him 
  I am the bird 
  I am the man 
  he is me 
  he is mine 
  I have his skin too cool and now pattering heart  I am here 
  the cold salt falls now with his smile and my happiness



Private, he my friend.
He mine.
See.
  He come back to me even now.
  I don’t have to tell him anything, he knows.
  They all looked at me, but to him I say nothing, nothing needs to be said.
  He reached safety and came back for me.
  His love penetrated, and now mine patters even more.
  I cried cold tears when I saw him fall.
They never left my cheeks and he dried them.
  I see him in my room and play with him like all friends.
  The church glass was the last place I saw him.
  Wet with rain from my tears he was a bird, broken and small.
  Sundays were hard for him and me.
  I had love for him in the pattering of my heart.
  I tell him that over and over now, and he understands.
  He my friend.
  The one I only have tears for anymore, even after the rainy day took them from me;
  after his body reminded me of the small bird on the ground under the nests.
  He did not come back to the school or to his home, but to me.
  I am his pattering heart, only fully opened now.
  I don’t have to explain that the men and priest made me into this.
  They took my love and warred against it.
  They told me to feel this and not that.
  Love was red and boys were blue.
  Now I know why the stained glass which separated me and him was all colors.
  Now I’ll be on the lookout.
  I tell Private what a new winter this shall be, another one to warm my cool skin.
  We’ll be warm together, Private.
  Private.
  I don’t remember the verses of the Lord.
  The black book under the pews, those hated aisles, have no rememory to me.
  All is he, and he is mine.
  We would be one again, you tell me in my room late at night.
  Private came back to me by falling, like the baby birds on the farm under the nests too high.
  You warm my skin and catch my tears.
  You got close and I am now.
  When you fell I wanted to lay with you and now I can.
  My pattering heart and its contents now flow freely from the arms longing to hold you again.
  I am close. 
  I should have been close then.
  I wanted to.
  Nowhere I had lain in peace since the rain and the fall.
  Now I can lie like the birds and their young.
  He come back to me, Private, my friend, and he is mine.

there is no greater joy
than conversing with a stranger,
completely bereft of
inhibition and
experience;
there is no greater joy
than conversing with a lover,
completely sure of
trust and mutual
fragility;
there is no greater joy
than conversing with the wind,
completely sound in
your mind and
thoughts.

See me.
More than the imagined in your mind,
   more than the prescription from their lies,
   do not let them create me without your vision.

See me.
My body stripped bare of its coverings,
   my body stripped down to the simplest from,
   let me be sculpted so in your thoughts.

See me.
And do not fear my vulnerability,
   and do not shut me out of your mind,
   for fear of my passion and your calm.

Understand me.
Through your eyes gazing without fail,
   through your eyes I will fear no evil,
   only hear the softest sigh of love and sight.

my soul breaths.

it rises and falls as the
red tides do
on the western shore.

my soul breaths,
just as the leaves
of the deciduous must
redden and fall.

my soul breaths,
the songs of the lonely
mournfully
whispered over the piano.

my soul breaths.
unique.
inevitable.
longing.
universal.

You fight the right fight
Praying to God the world won’t bite
You in the *** and send
You running back home.

I fight the right fight
Knowing the people will sight
My weaknesses and exploit
It to their own ends.

We both fight for the rights
Of others in our minds, but the truth blights
The efforts of our actions like a cancer
Destroys our plight from within.

So you go back to your God who
Fails to answer your calls so you are through
With the lies and find power in
You, the person, and transcend.

So I go home to my dogs who
Stare at me saying we told you so
Come back down here with the rims and the hoes
But I say no, and transcend.

We both are the ones who transcend,
Hoping the violence, the hate, and the hunger will end,
Now knowing we are the souls of the popular trend,
To transcend.

Men are ******* each other over with no waiting,
Yet we still can pass proposition eight, the hating
Inspires new generations of children by baiting
Them with lies, telling them that it’s not too late
To save themselves from the others, standing on soap crates
Preaching God and the morals while the kid decorates
His pages with blood and his sorrows, writing straight
But thinking he thinks sideways, and the pressure’s too great
To overcome because the hate won’t let him live at a normal rate,
His heart beats on a different beat, not rap or country, but he creates
Music of the soul that transcends the forced ideals he ate
Directly from the mouth of the pressures, the hate,
And does not give up even in the most dire of straights
Not giving in to what some old man describes as a fate
Not of his own choosing, telling him who to date, don’t gyrate
Those hips it could be ****, so he grows up under an ******
Of false appearances and flawed beliefs, never feeling he can escape
From the hate, isn’t it great, this world we so decorate
And doesn’t it frustrate that no one can relate
That he’s on a never ending track on a train full of freight
In order to power an engine of hate, sating
His thirst for individuality by the fires that proclamate
His burned identity and when given the chance to extricate
Himself from the chaos of the tracks, it just exacerbates
Everything around him, all the hate reanimated
To the point where eighteen is the same as eighty
All he needs is a bullet, a gun, and some potassium nitrate
To stop the violence and state as his own mandate
That he is free from the belated strangers berating
Him for eating off another man’s plate
****** over by the hate, but wait,
It’s too late.

Emergency exit,
The escape for the desperate,
Afraid of where they are,
Panic fills the mind of the desperate,
Finding the thoughts they thought
Were left behind, the past is wrought
With steal and lies, too strong to be forgot,
Shame stays within,
Rising up in emergency situations, to those now needing an exit.
The desperate are too high on the drug
Of the mind, me myself and I, and shrug
Off the responsibility of helping others, stop cleaning the rug
Of the man, to find an exit away and emerge better.
Attempts made to forget,
But the desperate know the consequences
Of the situation, of the emergency, a repeated sequence
Of violence and death, so the desperate don’t have the sense
To help others find the emergency exit, just them.
Weakness clings,
So while the desperate survive and climb
They are really being propelled by the crime
Of the dead members and minds they left behind
Stop the violence, the meekness, and exit from the emergency,
Accept the past and make the person, whole.

i need to leave
this place of mine
land of eternal sunshine.
i must get out
as the free men shout,
lest my imagination be bereaved.

so i travel to the banks
of the Mississippi and sing softly
the songs of Hughes and Wheatley.
i travel to the shores
of the Atlantic and hear cries upon the moors
of Pope and the Bard, ships who sank.

but i hesitate at the grave
of Da Vinci in le Val de Loire
and think of my final hour.
i hesitate at the end
of a journey well spent to contend
that life without love one cannot save.

Stay, go.
Hi, goodbye.
Words like ice
Falling into a fire,
Disappearing.
Saying little,
Meaning much to
Me, but you don’t
Know.
Words that seemed
Too simple, but they
Are what I know
Miss, you.
Now it’s just hi,
Missing the meaning,
The emotion,
The spark in you.
Those eyes now
Say nothing and now
I am nothing.
Now it is just
Goodbye.

I would
Cite the sources
Of the sights we saw, the
Kites sited on the south sea,
The lights
From the starts which lit
The surroundings of our lives, the
Luster in living
From sea to coast to city
With only the
Sails and
Seals for our company, the
Sensation of being lost
In the surreal hills and
Limitless mountains
Of us,
Were it not that
The source of my sadness now
Was not the very same
Which made
The kites fly higher,
The starts burn brighter, and
The sea seem endless.

Tremulous,
I sit.
Tireless,
my eyes stare.
The phone lies in a spotlight,
spotted syllables scratching into the
recorder, strengthening my fear,
turning the treacherous waters
of conversation into
Terrifying chasms
where there is no light
to guide me, no Northern star for me
to follow,
strive for;
no star to free me
from the fear I can’t see, it’s hidden,
beneath plastic layers pulled together with numbers and signals,
communicating all of the moments
of my future.
So I sit,
tremulous,
staring at the phone;
tired.

carry
your memories
in a glass box.
read
your thoughts
aloud and shout.
throw
your ideas
without regard to gravity.
help
your hands
to feel unknown shapes.
open
your mind
to the infinite and
truly it will be,
your soul,
free.

trust me* she assured
in the fading glow as though
trust came tied with thoroughly tested
knots intertwined with love.

hear me she pleaded
as the past abruptly revealed
itself in the present and communications
became pantomimes in the dark.

help me she screamed
to the night stars who shone
glowering at her lusterless attempts
to be elevated and live.

hi, its me I whispered
to her as the sun crept through
the morning curtains and caused
her smile to glow.

I was meant to wander,
which ever way seemed fonder,
not left or right or straight,
never lost to a chosen fate.

I was mean to wander,
the mind constantly moving,
ever here, ever yonder,
with her and he, proving
to no one anything.

I was meant to wander,
but men stopped thinking
of the possibilities they squander
our of love, sinking
out of love everywhere.

I was mean to wander,
my heart is left to ponder,
those who risk to love
without approval from above.

I hear the ocean,
the crashing of waves on ravaged shores,
the power of currents flowing
on towards new worlds.

I know this power,
the veil made of vast bodies,
one of ******* and the other of war
both of frontiers unexplored.

I hear the ocean
and know its power
of fear and hope,
for waves ebb and flow.

I bear witness
to the eternal duality of the oceans’ existence  
and wonder
whether we are any different.

Perspective:
What does this word mean?
Is it simply
A word?
Or does its definition
Proliferate, grow,
Create an infinite amount of definitions,
Of windows into the People
Open to the winds that threaten
To rearrange the word,
Its definition,
And even the
Person.
Thus, it is better
For perspective
To remain
Undefined
And safe behind the steel bars
In the steel trap that is
The mind of the Person
To create the
Strength of
Perspective in People.

solace; We
took it from our parents
and the time We
never had to spend in
sadness; We
thanked no one for
it although such luck
was surely not from ideas
suppressed; We
lived and wasted that
life on the paltry
which We thought without
struggle; We
believed in ignorance
and reasoned through excuse
that We were beyond
such; We
are the inheritors of
the world and yet We can't
claim one bit is because of our
success.

He sat straight.
His elder siblings had made him
old, early.

He sat straight.
The military had taught him
to be tall,
brave,
in the face of danger and fear.

He sat straight.
His wife had loved him,
loves him, will always
love
him and stay by his side.

He sat straight.
The Times had told him
money was tough,
success was
transitory,
and business impossible.

He sat straight.
His partner had promised him
everything was fine
and legal and
safe,
but was caught.

He sat straight.
The judge had declared him
to be
guilty
of all charges.

He stood straight.
The rope would free him
and his world
and the army
and his wife from the
shame,
his shame.

He stood straight,
with air underneath
and the ground calling his name.

Melodies
mumbled through the corrosive
coating of plastic
pieces jammed directly into
damaged ear drums.

Songs
strained across beats
berating the mesmerized
mentality of awesome into the
auto-tuned automatons.

Notes
numbingly droned on rhythms
righteous in their
thinking that all problems are
part of the present past.

Words
are what brings the perfunctory lives of
people to a stop,
singularly holding onto
hell in lines and
living in the storing
of stories for
future generations to remember,
regardless of race gender or class,
creed religion or background.

Poetry, the
truly precious example of
earnest men and women
wearing their lives on paper
lined suits
strengthened by the emotional bodies
broken and bled for ink and
imagery, is capable of
capturing the base of humanity while
hearkening to the Immortal and his
ill-mentioned brother, is made
material by man and
meaning more to each whom
enter the world left
when they began, is
perfection without ever needing to
win, is love
without ever having to
hear the other speak, is everlasting and forever
evolving just as
all life does.

I read somewhere that time
          or their time or her time so
      this magnificent quote, i thought
  was not the same to any one person
    and when i came across
            i should take my time
        how my time was different from your time
                  caught on a crisp autumn breeze and no more
                slip by the most fluidly, scarves
              and live for the times that seem to
                    subject to time than am I.

What don’t you know about life
That I might be able to
Ponder, guess, describe, relate?
Why does my voice, the lilting phrases
Put in places left over from
Some overlooked template, matter?
Written words tell only what
Resides, stirring morosely, in
Time. Tell of the ticking away
Thoughts which
Long to perpetuate
And be looked upon again,
Known again.

Remember E’s?
Or smiley faces and stickers?
Simple signs of approval
not A’s.
When Acceptable was okay
and Excellent was amazing?
Arts and crafts, science and math,
everything taught to the child
not to the grade.
Now we are obsessed with the A,
without the memory of E’s.
A, B, C, D…then F?
Whatever happened to E?
Was it lost with
our Energy, our Excitement,
our in-Experience?
Did they get rid of it to get rid of Us,
the Individual, the kid?
Changing our Efforts from Excitement
to Acceptance.
Engaging our stresses not our minds,
so simple to accomplish without E’s.
So I’ll shoot for an E,
a sticker or stamp
and say to A, ‘oh I didn’t expect you, hey’.

Ineffable

I’ll say this about it

Ineffable

Before they die they want to
Do this
Do that
Go here
Go to the moon
Eat all
See all
Kiss.
Before I die I want to learn why
They live
And go
And eat
And experience,
So that I may
Too
Travel and
Accomplish and
Love
With them and
Then
Die
With them,
All.