These are the woods in which I grew up,
There stood a tree in the middle,
The branches swerved and galloped with the wind,
It seemed to talk sometimes and was helped with the air,
The breath of all earth,
Stretched far out to the mountains and oceans,
Cometh unto this forest and rustles the leaves,

I can climb it, but I choose to admire it from the stump,
Juxtaposed next to it,
There the bark seems to swirl,
The trunk breathes with every passing second,
As the leaves glisten and whistle in the light of this day,
From here the breathe comes easy,
In the woods where I grew up,

The words of the ancients whistled through the pores,
The spark was ignited,
There stood the sweet nectar,
There was the divine beauty,
The stillness and the natural swaying,
Of the cosmos.

He took the series of images as a bad omen,
He whisked up the dust
From ache soaken boots,
From a long painful journey,
He crossed through the desperate world,
This world which is confused,
This world that feels the burning scent of chaos,
The world that has birthed the unknown,
The world where reluctance begins at birth,
The site of a cosmic reaction,
Far growing,
Yet we haven’t left the dark ages,
Where the horizon beats constantly,
And the tides roll in,
And the only ones we have to blame are ourselves,
We curse and spat,
In each other’s eyes,
We’ll poke and ****,
With itchy fingers,
Trying to unearth disaster,

What had become of the lost November?
Where are they?
Where have the people that understood gone to,
Where is the Bukowski voice heard,
In this day and age,
Where did the true humans go?
The spirits still chant and riot,
Glowing in there,
With a mistiful, sorrowful song,
That I will never get to know,
Different times,
Different filigrees surround different lives,
In these trying times.

Earthen desires,
these are diamonds,
that shield our veiled eyes,
trance like sheathed sward,
hidden in the mantle,
a top the mountain,
creatures lurk atop,
Deviled in the mist,
splattered in Lumios,
The crone and spit;
they really are a horrorshow,
Straggling around,
hovering,
hurtling toward,
**Unknown Territory!

You have the roundest head I've
ever seen,
Defensive,
It looks like a baldspot but it isn't,
The soft pulsing of the room,
Sit sweet,
melodious,
cacaphony via 80 dollar
made in Indonesia,
Staring deep within the wooden casket,
to find out,
just where it came from,
There are people that
treat this world as if
they lived in a prison,
those that are not,
conscious of the concept, realism
they'll never truly understand,
that it is all a prison and ****,
a cacophony of rightness
and wrongness.

The light ever draped,
over shadow's shoulder,
the comforting caress,
of wonderful abandonment,
wrought for not,
want less.

An imagined being,
The mitigated reality,
Beset on all sides,
Makes you wither,
in comparison,
to the deception,
To enhance the enviournment aboutnd,
that fits upon themselves the wworld,
Under watch,
kept under lock and key,
the universal truths,
hidden under their *******,
the single timeless entity,
That turns the world over,
in onto itself,
keels into oblivion,
touching back to the abdominal,
fact that it retaliates,
fought behind reason,
Love behind common sense,
The world undone,
By the limitless one,
The being that lasts,
Something,
Beauty,
In repetition,
Found to be prevalent,
In excessive inquiry,
What's and Who's and Why's,
It means no difference,
When facts speak for themselves,
Examples are found in the outside,
Shuddering ample reflections
In the tide pool,
Spiraling.

I sat down after being told,
by the old hungry *****,
Not to worry but there was,
a better spot then this one,
Of course,
The pedistals that sit outside,
occupational windows,
That familiar unknown feeling,
O That town they call Dinky,
There sat a confusing aura,
the pious religious freak said aura,
he talked and gave change,
yet the skull girl,
you could tell,
didn't want any of it,
The scene was joined by Tank,
His armada pockets full,
towering and proclaiming,
fits of oratory rage,
them ******* in Washington.
He saw us and scared the poor muertos,
The friends she was waiting for came and fled with them,
I lumbered after her under duress to myself,
breaking Tank's train of thought
I'm sure,
To tell her sincere,
There are normal people here,
To which her friend said after
they'd gained distance,
"   You must have a target on your back or something!"

Is it wrong to feel compassion,
for rebellion,
       for upheaval,
             for revolution,
protests and marches for causes;
gone to the psychedelic winds,
in place come capitalistic mentions,
nominations to the greater things.
Is it futile to believe,
in the triumphs of the few,
         against the many,
having meaning,
          mentality.
      the art of living,
  of flowing upstream,
against wishes of authority,
       the understand,
              but duty dictates,
      otherwise.
The people have the right,
       but not the motivation,
    to enact and will,
          through the teeth of,
                 the oppressors.
We all feel weak,
    yet the power struggle cont.
                                                  (end of page. arrow)
Throughout time,
       Proving ourselves,
Making it through the day,
    Has amounted to the probability,
         The chance we took,
Have we flopped?
         Are we on the floor?
                  Are we able to recover?
Even fatalistically.
        Has anything changed?
Since the works of the older
Generation?
Do we,
     Does our are,
         mean the same as,
       Their output.
   It sounds softer, more real,
Tangible and timeless.
Now our mentality has moved to
A lull
Our enlightenment has
darkented,
Our meaning has,
diluted,
And we feel the numbing venom,
of the very real dream,
of how the world ought to be.

10/23/13