Without no clout,
Is it al we’re here to do,
Passersby in the doorway,
Don’t even say hello,

Leave without a word,
Is everyone so strange,
That the silence,
Becomes normal,

You’re too sensitive,
You just wouldn’t understand,
The plight,
Of living without a clout,
A nameless face,
Standing on the edge,
Looking down and seeing,
What the hell am I trying to see,
If not for the immensity of self,
I’d extinguish,
Is there some way to make you,
Understand the plight,
Of living without flight,
A nameless being trapped inside,
A conscious reliving,
Retelling of someone else’s life,
This is not me talking at all,
This is not the world moving past,
This is just the untouchable,
Reaching out,
For something of substance,
I hope you understand,
I plead that I don’t offend,
To live without a clout is hard,
To live in the clouds,
In the mountains,
A hermit permit,
Something of a dream,
With colored horizons to dine on,
With sympathetic ears on the wind,
With simple living it is much harder,
To feel the humdrum doldrums of,
Mild, dramatic existence,
Meandering,
Wandering like an aesetic,
Draped in holy flesh,
Constantly revolving around the same players,
The same feelings,
That are never the same,
Trying to find the words to say,
To make it all worth while,
To stop and say wait,
This was all just for this.

There was a rolling hill,
The fog disappeared behind it,
As the sultry apparition floated,
Past the lamp post,
The striking flame of beauty,
Shone a-glimpsed,
Curtly,
Playfully,
Wistful,
Strolled onwards up the hill,
To gaze over the darkened grass,
The multitudes of inference,
The dazzling emptiness of night,
The peace of the buzzing insects,
Sweetly,
Softly,
Calmly,
All there was,
Was over that hill,
On the other side,
Waiting,
Breathing,
Tired,
The land stretched,
Ethereal ghosts played above,
In the clouds,
They shook loose the pinset,
The rush of water hit her face.

The Ecuadorians sit languishingly in the stairwell,
Staring at their cell phones,
The bizarre circus of humanity is about to begin,
As I wade through the perpetual crowd,
To dive in the back,
To my unknown fate,
There are characters,
Waned and waxed figures,
They caress trinkets,
They ****** their egos,
They stretch their forlorned backs,
They stroke their everlasting devices,
They return day after day,
There I am,
Making due with the,
Space,
I’ll stand and see,
If being personable,
Really makes a difference.

If it doesn’t,
I shall be a hermit,
Permit,
I will delude to the hills,
To a town far away,
To the ocean,
To the many faces,
Torn from pages,
Of someone else’s yearbooks,
To the anonymity of pure intension,
I’ll curl on my back every night,
Waiting for the end,
Content in the bleakness,
For what’s the point anymore,
The rugs have been pulled,
Time and blood spilt,
Salvation waits in the word,
The solitary significance that,
Arises from the perfect form,
The daring unrest of the thought,
The silly unkempt ruling,
The turbulence of being,
Ripples across ages,
Hoping to hold dear,
The image so clear,
No matter foolish sages,
This was all just the ends to a mean.

These are our times,
Each of us in our cyber shells,
Stagnantly appealed to atrophy,
Sailing in search of the long
                Lost spirit,
That one gleam in our existence,
That esteemed ambrosia,
Callused palms,
          Achin’ back
Stars shooting themselves,
Through our wings.

We can dance on moonlight,
We can sing right to the earth,
We can move atop,
          Saunter into the horizon
Yet we safely sit nestled,
Afraid of our neighbors,
A new paranoia,
McCarthyism eat your heart out,
          They’ll ban freedom,
          They’ll root us out,
If only we could come together,
I fear,
That no one is left,
To live as,
The fearless had.
That the once,
Benevolent virtue,
Of being human,
In all that horrid splendor,
Has washed away,
The spirit left on the shore,
Waving.

I haven’t seen anything,
Like the Ol’ Seraphim saw,
Or the Ol’ Duluoz saw,
O has it all been lost,
Somehow the latency has produced,
A grand homogenized pile of ****.
With everyone afraid of the shadow,
Imagined,
Looming overhead,
Heating the backs,
Tearing at the truth at heart,
The sight unbearable,
People try to be people.

The impact of what had happened,
Now riding the rails,
Still on the course,
This wild horse will take,

Things will always change,
There are truisms to be had,
Dissolved into the land,
I hope for a band to come out,

A real group,
A bunch of people all there,
Out there,
In here,
Over there,
Everywhere,
That can think,
Feel,
See,
Be seen,
Communicate,
Chanting,
Silently,
Beheaded,
Buddha-fied,
Chr­istly,
Godliness,
They are bare,
Naked,
Covered in the filth,
Of pure humanity,
Celebrating breath,
Creating something,
It wouldn’t all have to make sense,
Some of it may be hard to follow,
--misinterpreted—
Partitioned as pure nonsense,
The lama lama ding blah blah,
Could come off as that fevored,
Sought after rhythms,
Straight ahead to the main destiny,
That inevitable fortitude,
Caught in the clouds,
Foretold by the unseen Unknown,
Chaos imbedded in our skin,
Slinking off,
Erupting into the cosmos,
Connecting our bemused souls,
Like the rain toppling down the mountain,
No picture can encapsulate
This mosaic of mankind,
But this is our time,
Right here and now,
While the whole thing is still moving,
Almost tripping over its own feet,
As it has always done,
The sigh of relief when,
In the blindest revelation,
In the darkest caves of ignorance,
In the coursing waters,
In the towering worlds here,
Even the truest of falsehoods,
Makes the whole thing called life,
Worth a ****.























Drawing in Dawn:

The sight of it,
The sun,
Being birthed,
From the womb,
Of the Horizon.

I draw a breath,
As I watch,
Reminiscent of,
The Moon,
Entangled in,
The eternal,
Nightly web.

The forces,
The push and pull,
Waves in,
Counter balance,
Like the,
Drawing in of,
Embrace,
The pull of,
Ever drawing time.























The dusty rag tumbled down the mountain,
Only to be shunned by everyone,
Destitute in absolute desolation,
Roaming as it had always done.

Then it came to rest beside the grove,
In an inlet that rang with melodious wonder,
It became awashed by the world’s beauty,
Lost in the splendor of it all.

Time passed faster as the grace seeped in,
The pores of its flesh inflated, elated,
The flash of fiery thunder roared,
The sand fell onto its back, and dust returned.

Time had come to move on and break aloof,
From the fortitude and pleasure allotted,
For the call of the wind was too great,
To ignore for any longer.

I would like to pontificate like that mad ones,
Like the predecessors that eluded me,
And my concurrent mad generation,
The system and analysis may have differentiated,
Deteriorated by becoming Behemoth,
The beat ones,
They still exist,
They wear
An auspicious mask,
An ethereal cloth,
A vivacious sole to the shoes,
Those brand new shoes,
Jack bought after he came down from Desolation,
To where I selfishly want to traverse,
Some time spent,
Alone,
Sitting holding my **** in my hand,
The other held to my chest,
Palm outward to the world,
Inclusive vibes working their magic,
To travel through the ages,
To greet the mad sages,
To feel the smaller world of the past,
Immense in difference,
Eerily similar that it hasn’t changed,
Since then.

Under the guise that there could be a group,
A saying,
A path or a system,
Or lack thereof,
Or the most holy of disciplines,
Or of the tyrannical free verse,
O of the makings of man,
O of the make believes of man,
Constantly flowing and winding,
The river we all flow through,
Some paddle,
Some lay on their backs and careen,
Heads tucked away below,
Under the guise,
Deprived of identity,
Yet given one by the mass hysteria,
The glowing moths under the streetlamp,
That cascade with the wind,
That dance to the holy rhythm,
O that holy rhythm,
O that holy dance,
O that wondrous make believes,
How easily the rock is swayed,
Submerged in the water.

By and by the world doesn’t make sense,
Though it turns,
It doesn’t pass,
While it encircles and trances,
It never escapes,
It isn’t truly free,
It isn’t even controlled,
Would the world learn from its mistakes?