Whirl up, sea—
Whirl your pointed pines.
Splash your great pines
On our rocks.
Hurl your green over us—
Cover us with your pools of fir.

A Lover’s Warning

A longing heart is torn by time and space
We yearn to fill. The gaping hole of strife
Bears wide our secret aching hiding place
To strikes against the heart that bears our life.

To banish thoughts of love? Alas, a feat.
For the mind eclipsed in forgetfulness
Attempts to fight the memory of heat:
That tender touch we long to repossess.

The memories creep back into the mind
Like insects crawling up the haunted walls
Of memory. Our pain and strife confined
To endless repetitions of their calls.

Let longing lover’s heed to warnings here,
To keep their beloved ones ever near.

A pained heart painted with colors of desire;
the depths of being, darkened without fire.
Gusts of rage fill holes in deep wounds;
lone thorn roses upon the soul blooms.

To be is to suffer the woes of despair
but not is to wither away in death’s lair.
Life’s hurt forever will have its presence;
a heavy weight on the unsteady conscience.

So hold on to the fragments of hopeful thoughts;
live in the moments when not all is lost.
Fight to float in the eye of the storm;
keep the heart beating, safe and warm.

Omni-man signals with his one last diamond finger,
“Approach, Dear Assange. We delight for your flash!”

But we know, silent reader, that it all is arranged.
These endorsements, the agents- the indictment itself.

Everything left unrevealed is a war-cry to all:
Liberate knowledge, be Free with the  Truth!

Hope be for anyone so brave to stick up that high,
may the lies be exposed as an ointment on truths.

My favorite is
Sasha Pivovarova
She's always so nice

She'll be off-duty
On my 19th birhtday, so
I think we'll hang out.

She's my favorite
Off-duty model for she's
Never off duty.

Plato believed that the future could be told
by listening to the lingering whispers of the wind.
between its howls and sighs and
its knuckles cracking on the branches
it mentions something,
the something to come
the something that envelopes us
like an iron blanket.

or so Plato says.
but every time i've opened my ear
it just grew cold and slightly stung
so i stopped trying to hear the something
that wouldn’t voice itself loudly enough.

yet, along came an orange-haired girl who claims she can hear the wind
and i watch her and she sings along with it
in words that sound like cello strings.
her arms sway leaflike in a breathing ballet
a combination of her and the something
and all i hear is its hushness.
but it lures my legs to sit
and it tempts my mouth to shut
and listen.

i don’t know if this girl actually understands Plato’s sacred windsong
i don’t know if it’s something that her mind composed
but i do know that her lungs seem fuller than mine ever have
because she breathes belief, something i’ve always exhaled
in my sarcastic search for Science’s future.