someplace else would
have brought the rose.

but not Caen.

Caen made every
guest bring a
bottle, the answer
to Caen's confusion.

blast off, years off.

tears off.

land.

little bits of cheese stain couch-top

                        as if that kind of thing


                    ever mattered.

Happiness is a pursuit long forgotten,
As men seek material wealth.
Happiness is a need always sought,
Yet men think more money means wealth.

Happiness is an emblem unknown,
Yet it sits in plain view,
With it's meaning, not shown,
As the bluster and cold looks of men dressed in black,
Walk streets in dark-fit tone.

Structure steals from nature,
Denying old flow,
Of stream water in endless cycles;
Instead they ask you to row.

"Left, right, left, right, left, right,
Correct!" "Please choose a side,
As it is your souls we collect."

Your spirits, your mind, and what makes you human,
Will be taken from flow a thousand years old,
And told just what to do.

Told just what to do,
By you, and you only;
As choice is clear advocate,
Of an existing reality,
Which sifts with the tides of the dead and the dying,
Despite all illusions, you've stopped with you're trying.

'Fish door,' chants Cochrane. 'Fish door, fish door, yea.'
Most jobs don't come with a box of surreal. Or allow you a bowl of cereal.
This job is different.

because you sit
in the truth and
wonder if you've
been lying to your
-self all your red
-light life.

'Time is a created thing,"
so it's my fault I'm waiting
for work. One thing I need
to surgically remove from
my head is the idea that
being at work is like talking
on the phone all day because
someone has told you to,
while life keeps calling on
the other line and you're
too busy to answer. I get
sad often. I go to bed sad,
wake up sad, feel alright
at points throughout the
day (depending), return
home, feel sad, and
wonder if the 't' in
'satisfied' could be
replaced in my life.

'sad-isfied.'

if I'm not broken,
don't fix me.

to describe you
would be like
trying to make
the tail wag the
dog.

futile, but ah, why
the hell not.

wake up!
it's time to
conquer this
country like the
Nazis never could.

you will be the second
whoriffic plot twist.

art
is life

digested.

There were photographs
of a last effort hung with
dignity across the cracked
and dusty hallways of my
mind. I wasn't sure who had
painted them, save for the
initials at the bottom right
of each work. A scrawled,
"definitely not Picasso.

I'm definitely not Picasso."

Some times
I feel like I'm masking me
with

me.

It's not fake
but
it's a mask
and I molded it

several seconds ago

and I wear it
pretending I'm the same person

several seconds later.

flip me over and
find my serial
number.

redeem the
warranty
and believe
me, please.

txt it: *pls

you are a candlelit
dinner with the universe
itself.

you know that,
right?

the shape of a body in a photograph can be slanted
like a monk on acid laughing at the fact that he already knows
and this feels no different to his everyday happy glance.

he was worried
until he realized
your birth

was his birth
and your birth

I mask that
empty stomach.

it's so speakless, you lucky *******.
I couldn't tell you half my terrors
half my bliss
half my stupid ghastly lovely other ****.

so that is why this poem stands both with me
and alone.

sometimes I wonder
if your lack of
communication
is because I blind
you with the light
of my vision like I
blind myself.

you are an

artful

      equation.

   equatorial
                        warmth.

     breadth

                 of  

                      theres-nowhere-else-I'd-rather-be.

     ( I
         Love
                 You )

writing poems about
odes about
codes about
nothing

sitting still
except the feel
of fingers typing
something

oh
give it up.

These fields move,
Like the surface of the sun.
The task of living life,
Is never truly done.

When one life does pass,
The world does not stand still,
Instead it moves much faster,
After swallowing a pill.

When you smell what you smell,
See what you see,
Breath what you breath,
Be what you be,
There is a stop-loss for words,
A cessation of power,
A deafening silence,
A collapsing old tower.

When you do what you do,
Touch what you touch,
Feel what you feel,
Add others as such,
Love comes with ease,
Hate without reason,
Like without leave,
And you acknowledge no season.

As the end grows much nearer,
The lyrics grow clearer.
The chorus dies out,
But with one final pout.

You feel but gravity,
Asserting its force.
You touch but depravity,
In its natural course.

You get lost in her eyes,
A trance of deep caring.
You forget all the lies,
Your heart, it mends tearing.

a ***** strip
mall just about
ready to commit
suicide.

The misty counter
reminds my cloud
of rainy day breath
that

Today
is overcast
with a chance
of..
just wait a minute,
Be patient.

you're on
my mind
as often
as I am

everything.

goodbye
for
now.

we're all made out of

would.

chapter comes to close---                          Kazzah!

                        you're nowhere near the end.




                                                                                            *this is still the prologue.

The way you, you
is a lasting record of
what the world is made
of, according to the
part of me that really
can't see past the
love you afford my
essence.