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!

To be brief and important,
Skids on the treads of a mind in motion,
Recovery only to be found,
After the jolt, after the fact,
Flowing in one direction and so,
Abruptly turned toward a new sight,
Feeble minded enough to question,
It all; or shut it all out,
Locked up and entertained by,
Simplicity and singularity

While a howl rang and hung in the night's sky,
The clouds opened and surged inwards,
Thunder boomed magnificently,
Nature's wonderful horror,
Only a glimpse really into the heart,
The torrid splendor off coastal plains,
Might deluges and droughts,
Calculating Cosmos unifying existense,
Galactic accidents,
Mutations unique of the flesh,
Marbled temples with high ceilings,
Wiped off in an instant,
The LightningMan Cry,

There were deep pools of swirling grey,
Running along the borderline,
The child brought along his reel and soul,
He proceeded to set on the bank of,
One of the deepest pools,
And began to pray,
He started to remember all the mistakes,
They filled his lungs with self-loathing,
He wondered what his point was,
It filled his brain with worry,
He thought of his name,
It was like a cruel joke,
He remembered what he looked like on the outside,
It made his stomach churn,
He started to meditate to alleviate,
It made his heart beat slow,
A ring clamp had been binding it,
With concentration,
Silver electric flames rose up around the ring,
Turned it into a halo,
He forgot about the world and others,
He misplaced his own ego in the matter,
He even forgot that he was fishing,
And that was when he had a bite.

Good and evil,
Hot and Cold,
Right and wrong,
It must be told.
Right and left,
Life and death,
Time and space,
Take a breath.
Important and petty,
Same and different,
Unique and boring,
What rhyme scheme??
Easy and difficult,
Saint and devil,
Genius and idiot,
All opposite until…
Sane and insane,
Straightened and bent,
Creation and destruction,
Disagreeing just to be indifferent?
Health and sickness,
Yes and no,
Hate and love,
Time to grow
Content and contempt,
Stand and sit,
Empty and full,
Opposite.

I dreamt I was pushing a broken lightbuld into his eye for laughing at me,
I woke up this morning with scratches on my hand,
The pain swelled and sank back into my palm,
but it felt incredibly relieving,
"What am I doing here?"
The room didn't make any sense to me,
Was I being held captive?
The *******.
Do you think that he has any idea,
Could anyone be that slovenly,
Whatever I'm happier that I've ever been,
Besides the scratches in my hand,
They don't hurt as much as that *****.

There is this fly in my house right now,
Daring flights of fancy   brave aerial acrobatics,
As if sent from reincarnation of a past pest,
Someone who turned into a fly,
And accosting me in my bed-sheeted existence,
The dreary light of early day pouring in the room,
Late night pondering turning to late afternoon,
Awakening, to what?
To the fly that made me lose my pen,
To the simple, all powerful,
The fly laughed, rubbing his hands on the door frame,
  mocking me,
  making me lose my place,
  on the depths of the reality,
  Flying across my mind,
I tried to smash the ******* with my volumes,
Barbarous and cruel dives of absolute madness,
Obnoxious in the face hand waves,
dive bombs on the room,
slow enough to see, quick enough to flee,
     "You only live one day, and this is how you spend it?"

Riding down the stoic streets,
Whilst the shy blossoms indigo,
before the deluge of spirits,
Start trampling and parading,
After the long pandering lat night,
Mind and body pounding like a
funeral drum.
A single procession hugs the horizon
and kisses the waves lapping on
forgotten shores,
Tossing and turning,
pulling head strings to remember,
gulping it all,
and put it down intrinsic,
with a nuance of perfection.

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.

World will end this new year, like so many before it,
With people trying to better themselves in meager ways,
So they can achieve them. That’s no way to go about resolution.
Thinking that the whole world will be washed and turn over
A new leaf, the world will be the same place, and by your
Viewpoint of this, that could be good or a horrible thing.

“Looking” at things with every sense is the only way to grasp.

The world will still have war, death, disease, violence, hat…
The world will also still have peace, life, health, helping, love….
The world won’t be this shiny new place, but for those that
Achieve miraculous goals, whether resolutions, or out of the
Moment. Then those are the shiny bits of history for us.

They’re only heroes if they deny that they are heroes.

The world will end with people conflicted with themselves
And others. But hopefully content with that conflictedness.
Don’t idolize others and try to become them, create your
Own idolization, not self-centeredness. Create your own view.
Create your own culture and society. Create yourself.
Do what you want, as long as it doesn’t hurt yourself or others.

You’re you for the rest of your life, so you might want to…

Life's Dramaties, traumatizing moments,
Rally together with the inertia of time,
Just as the soul is expounded to its limits,
On the verge of reversing in,
Or gently tugged away/ violently combustion,

The maturity of a timeline,
as if entangled with the world around,
none are spared from eternal embrace,
cosmic or otherwise,
drawn into a twisting, churning,
vortex,
Tunnel...

Everything is creaking and shrieking,
A symphony of metals grinding
Woods swelling and
Floors bending under the weight,
Why haven’t I made a sound?

I just stepped outside and this is what I saw:
An armored truck brandishing controlled themes,
On a direct course head-on with a veiled rival,
Or so seen to be,
Malcolm X look-a-like strides with headgear,
Otherwise plugged in, turned up, and otherwise,
Shut down, turned away, failing to see on-coming traffic,
******* ******* clad and looking nervously around,
As the blaring eyesores turn hungrily around,
Nature is in quiet awe of the spectacle,
And the old madman squirms and twitches,
Taking long patient drags on his cigarette,
Knees swaying and with a look like he can't remember,
The last time he'd taken a ****.

With their tails flashing,
A brilliant white light,
Followed behind,
And was lost inside itself.

Their white shadow,
the soft bellied burial,
the creamy innards of bliss,
the silky crystal sphere,
existing inside and outside itself.

The wind blows the sheet in
Whispered movements,
many wings fluttering on the face,
from my pavilion under the parasol,
smells of woody incense fumes,
The grey of the sky,
Such charisma floating around,
Lofty bounds over this crowd,
Still insanity reins,
Silvered veins holding golden steel,
Who tells you this is real?

I knew something was up -- spinning fast,
She told me she loves him now – what a joke,
Then what did that mean – all those times she said it to me?
Illusion – just a three syllable lobotomy,
Swam in the circuits of my brain – reaction: infected
I began to figure it out – illusion’s never erased
The world is a bit less harsh – yearn for the simpler manifesto
Cured from the infection – I feel like a slab of cured ham
Walking tall amongst the grass – gazing into buildings and wondering what’s happening in there?
My bible’s soaking wet – I left the window open and it rained last night
It’s nothing that concerns me – the bible that I carved into all the way to Ezekiel 25:17
I’ve never hid anything in that niche – I just like the idea that I could hideout there
Now it’s drenched – the windowsill is swelled up and looks bad
Today I woke up and broke my routine – I actually wrote what I was thinking

Can I withstand the world
As it quakes beneath my feet?
Back to back with constant corrosion,
In the face of impending doom?

The motif of my life is
greenish-purple, no-one
likes that color,
nor understands its
taste.

What can I contribute but,
my simple words,
oblivious,
well really not caring,
of the reaction to it,
that is, that I wonder where these words
will lead?

I saw it all
and graced every moment,
There they all were,
Scattered across Gregorian isles,
The beauties beyond the bridge,
holding and caressing the sun-
drenched pavement,
Beset on all corners flesh of the-
purest sort,
The cackling ruffians in the parks,
conspicuous cigarettes barely holding
steady,
The yawn-screaming maintenance man,
in the back of the depot,
making faces at passersby.
The didwives walk swiftly,
buckling dirt under their scoured
limbs,
The fresh smell of the river,
with precarious logs that never
fall over,
The faces chisled in the walls,
Men whose catacombs belong,
Personally under the floor boards,
I met the modern day black-
smiths,
greased, and happy golden-red,
Behind, stuck in the surreal
rut,
Happily tailing and fireworking
as tickets fly in,
A walk home revealed all,
footsteps graced every patch,
Each one of comical saints,
tying invisible lines of
alternate reality.


"Excuse me,
I just wanted to say,
You look beautiful today."

Those sols,                                                                     Wings,
They shutter,                                                                 Magnificent,
In order,                                                                         Radiating feather,
To reconvene                                                                 Trailing stars,
On the scene.

Their folded,                                                                   Picturesque,
Ripe skin,                                                                        Flawless perfection,
No single,                                                                        Evolution,
Colour,                                                                            Has begun.
Cheeked tower,

Head; Neck;
Body curled,
Lotus legs,
Beneath,
Flaccid teeth.

The traffic was moving slowly,
With everyone listening to the same station,
Looking from one car to the next,
Seeing out past the back of each others skulls,
Beatnik priests,
In tattered regalia,
Dance with boards of wood,
Everyone wants to be someone else,
Why am I me,
Why aren't I?
Sometimes I feel predetermined
because it is rightfully biological,
to be unsatisfied with my soul,
eternally,
until I leave my prison,
or become enlightened,
when a voice rings out,
booming across the brozed moon,
whispers then falls silent,
a dazy haze of everything.

They found his head in the park this morning,
Samuel was decapitated like a king,
The trouble was that he was a fiend,
The best kind of **** you’ve ever seen,

The park where he played since his youth,
Wouldn’t have guessed it’s now his woodchip tomb,
It rolled off and plopped right there,
Everyone but the park rats were scared,

It was almost expected,
Not that surprising,
He lived off of stealing,
Must’ve ****** with the wrong guy,

When you look down the slide you can see,
The dent in the ground where Sammy’s head be,
Worlds collide and galaxies born,
At the same while,
Samuel’s head was torn,
From his body.

Bursting solar luminescence encircled,
A splendor that defies,
Both benign and devilish like a sultry storm,
Clouds that billow up,
Can't touch the flame that is your heart,
The core seeks and is lovelorn,
Seams are torn and passion felt,
I've thought of it for so long,
To think of something else would be mad,
Whenever I see the sun,
I think of you.

Listen to my mind wander,
Silhouetted footsteps
Echo through the doorway,
Smoke exhumes the body,
The trial is about to begin,
Carnivalesque a mockery,
The laughing ends with reality,
Seeing for the first time,
That the wandering footsteps,
Innocent intent,
Caused ripples in the tidepool,
Wings flapping,
Utter chaos,
Order within the universe,
Faithful to the fear.

Sam's head,
believed it could fly,
No one told him it couldn't,
One day it flew off,
And with Icarusque wings,
Clipped,
Pierced the resoluting skies,
Seeing all things possible,
At least trying,
Perfection found in failure,
to see the true light,
not understanding,
*ENLIGHTENMENT

The insane passage of time,
Has led me to this point,
Surroundings are stereo vibes,
The mystic beats,
Created in the caves,
All come blaring out,
They trumpet and stampede,
All along with swinging clashes,
Like a medieval battle,
The eternal battle that,
instead of sustaining injury,
created something anew,
gasping littered dust of wreckage,
O how much it means,
the begotten, the wretched, the poor all mingle under one star,
Dancing and pouring drink after
drink,
Commoting the alleys of the sky,
Calamitous in their guise,
Bring joy and confusion in their
wake,
Splashing on the shore,
a delicate overlapping embrace,
The past aggression forgotten,
With charred remains,
The ocean succeeds the
deadly flame.

As soon as I don’t know why I bother,
I go to a new page,
Will it be this one?
The one that lets me go to sleep,
Got a big day tomorrow.

I’ll be a lump and no one will talk to me,
And I’ll want to jump and no one will talk to me,
And I’ll save myself,
Through some meaningless medium

I used to like the world I woke up into,
It was a bright new day,
Now it seems like the world could end,
And I’m fine with that.

False and stupid
False and stupid
False and stupid
False ansd sutops
Faosle and stupsid

I’m not fit to be at the top of the food chain,
And neither is anyone else,
With our terrific sense of morality,
Utter false grace of immortality,
And our dedication to inhumanity,
Why not?

We weren't even close,
And neither was I.

Did you ever wonder why
clouds drift in the sky
have you ever felt the touch
filled up and throttled,
sombre like a key.
Did you ever see the rising tide,
reach past the mountainside,
has it ever made it past,
cast and crass,
would you ever be the same?

The addict is just a fool with misguided desires,
I'm just a cog in the unheard unified mechanism.

Welcome back to the rust bucket,
Welcome back to the **** bucket.

How incredibly suave Mr. Rivall
Those are the words of the woman
Made love to and fascinated with the writer,
She'll cause something to stir in me,
Vast and quiet scapes in my mind,
All pretenses are lost,
While I lay my being on hers.

Discarded heavenly ash that rains down,
Torched atoms from an immense body,
Collecting delicately on powdered reflecting floors,
Which catch radiant and brilliant aftermaths,
The chaos creating by destruction but never really changing,
Just flickering in the light as they grow weightless,
Everything silent nonsense now,
With pristine nothingness,
Brilliant colors dipping and moving with blatant blankness,
Such energy resides in the smallest speck,
Suspended in a ribbon of reality,
Nourished with tidbits of truth,
Until the intense instant of breaking off,
Particles erupting, igniting, into brightness.

And what does it mean,
To be truly empty,
Completely susceptible on all sides,
Would you sing in sick lunacy,
Trading glances with only,

A mirrored version of yourself,
would it all suddenly make sense,
In climactic waves,
Like piercing truth,
And when it sunk down,
Would you believe all those lies,

Taken away by deceit,
Searching the world to believe,
In something...

Then it hits into full spin,
And I'm at it again,
A craziness built up inside of me,
Is it me?
In this little...
Or is it better asking who are they,
Quietly and running along the edges,
Across seams of soaring skies,
Coming right and saying it,
What does it all mean?
Forgetting place in the line,
Trying to rationalize all the belief,
Asking who am I and who are you
Completely backwards,
Who am I to be asking?

The race to create,
Toe to heel,
Blamed on the strangest of scapegoats.

The race to create,
Genetic disposition,
A tutorial of the soul.

The different three legged race,
Wanting to be a dog and howl,
Like so many maniacs have done before.

The race to create,
Becomes the race to destroy,
To conform while being interestingly malleable,

The race to create,
Ultimately is the chance to forget,
To sleep consciously through an unutterable awakening.

That race to create,
Binds us all,
Never felt so intrinsically absurd and profound,

So human it makes me want to puke honey

Today I was born again,
To live in somebodies head,
I lived the way he would for a day,
But no more...
I'm out of spirit and I'm out of head,
Nothing short of a miracle,
I'm thankful for every breath I take,
Unlike the others,
I've died and come alive,
Encapsulated in the jar,
In that soulful sound,
Protruded in the absolute,
Thirst for knowledge.

Swinging waves of silent frequencies,
Traveled apparition over the festival,
The tremendous dot dot dot of apathy,
Everyone let go for that moment,
No one cared for the naked mortal flesh,
We all let loose something monstrous,
Something unique, dangerous and wonderful,
It became legend,
Always remembered in eye pieces,
Reality as the outside knew it,
Was a sick joke to us,
We’d witnessed a precipice of beauty,
From the serenity and delicacy of human compassion,
The grand leviathan we’d help create,
Something else entirely was found,
Blasted off into the cool, resounding night.

Well I hate to say it but I like it,
Just a whisp of wind through the bushes,
It comes and goes,
But one thing stays the same,
In my quiet ****** world,

I'd hate to be famous and stand out,
It means I was the loudest,
I'd rather live without attention,
Not in shadow but at my own volume,

See why O why would I want to peek out,
In the lowest point?
The generation that sees the End of Days,
Would they be by any definition,
Masters of their own destinos?

You can't breathe in this hollow tomb,
The town you live in is getting to you,
Then in a fire's ignite,
You can speak again.

The Kamel had no skin on his gums,
With outstretched hooves and saline eyes,
A rustic desert bending on the Horizon,
Boundlessly veering off course,
There he'll give eternally in the mirror,
(Trying to reflect)
Right before the show,
And he'd instantly need to know,
What was that?
Had his peak come and gone,
Without vision he'd have no clue,
When he'd know,
Or when they had known,
What had happened?
There he saw footprints in the snow,
Crossing over each other high up,
Beyond the intrusions and dials,
Joyfully drenched in fearful awareness,
Peacefully engaged with time,
Those moments that came to the Kamel's Head,
Where all was lost and fully known.

She was really shaken up man,
That familiar look you see in war photos,
Victims of crime wide eyed and bona fide,
Terror,
From the dirt on her cheek,
I could tell that she had just come,
From a hard dirt place,
Live cement; turpentine sick,
Her skin was greyshade and taut,
Stretched of the bone like a funeral drum,
Where she came from the sun must've shone silver,

I didn't have the heart to tell her,
The world that she found herself in now was,
In a different level all that it could be,
Considered even faker,
Cracked plastic benches with particle board lampposts,
Overhead the sky looks too far to be real,
To touch such beauty will turn mad madder,
Here, Where patriotic citizens keep to stoic sublimity,
Boy was her skin pale.

I saw that her soul was screaming,
Streaming overhead was a brilliant flash,
Something important was hung in the air,
Pungent renaissance, well needed,
Deserved to be debated,
But NEVERTHELESS!
Paw prints were in the snow behind us,
As we made our way through the deaf crowd,
They stood dumbfounded at our audacity.

The moral of the story is about the parameters that we asset to ourselves, what if it was dissolved? The ways we conduct ourselves is in a sense how the world around us functions. What we liken to ourselves, we liken to our environment. A person who is in a dangerous situation is brought there by dangerous behaviors begotten by themselves. The successful are beget by successful, the whimsical by the enchanted, the ferocious by the powerful and the harmless with the stale. There is room for eccentricities, but they only amount in the most absurd way into the protagonist’s predicament.’

Their eyes gleamed in the night,
perplexed, perpetuated, petrified,
gregarious fixtures devour their limelight,
Makeshift creations encircle their heads.
It was a real pain in their ***!
Why couldn't it all fly by?
Why couldn't the ***** lass be persuaded,
what would have happened to their dreams?
Dazzled and shattered on monotonous hallways,
exaggerated?

I’m beside myself looking across the parallel,
Searching for the right thing to say I take another bite,
Behind these eyes marks a change staring back,
While slitting the fruit from the vine,
Screams of **** pain and anguish almost entice,
The nectar repelling down its face like sweat,
It knows complete serenity.

I’m at the house of my ancestors,
And still the riddles on the wall,
Have remained branded, stained,
Aside from the surrounding proximity,
I can relax just this once,
The calm before the nuclear bomb,
Or maybe just a tantrum,
A regression by fate’s whim,
Who it will be is anyone’s guess,
Considering my current state of affairs,
I’m an O so likely candidate,
For ******* of the millennia.

Out beyond any world we could conceive,
There is a being, Omnireal, Superimposed,
Stands twenty feet tall, more or less,
Decreasing and increasing at will,
To suit the needs it possesses,
The being would be incredulous to us,
The existence of this being,
Is only existent because of omnirealism,
That is,The reality is given because of,
its own discretion, under emphatic atrophy,
an ouroboros, a colloquial spiral,
Reaching into the expansiveness to the
Entire Realm,
Existence Existing,
Existing on Existence,
Setting into a dreamtown land,
Now this being,
Since reality has befallen it,
How would the midset be,
Contained,
Realized,
Conceived,
Forthwith, the makings of its identity,
Intelligence, Conciousness, Mentality, Entirety,
Assembled in an enviornment,
of its own Omniworldlyness, otherworldly,
Yet still, concrete, immalleable, seething, breathing
Unable to make dramatic change,
Until the final moment,
Where in the end, reality caves in on itself,
Becoming reborn, reincarnate, Big Bang,
Into the same rhythm, echoing,
Reverberating into negating ripples.

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.

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.

The meek are in the pocket,
of the powerful,
The artist is in the pocket,
of the authority.
The authority; cops,
are in the pocket of the law,
The law is made up,
by politicians,
Their deceptive truths,
puppeteered by criminals; gangsters.
The ruthless tyrants are,
in the pocket of the
malnourished, emaciated, gaunt,
faceless demon,
Shriveled and terrifying,
pock marked arms outstretched,
Slithering up the back,
Recanted by the one,
Absolute wisdom,
Of the meek,
The beggars are in the pocket,
The vagabond fools and jesters,
The guru shaman mystic ascetics,
That journey,
Yet never set foot,
Whom hermitage,
Is a pilgrimage,
To where the Absence of mind,
Isn't Mindful,
It is just simplicity,
Sacrilegious ease,
The safety of the Pocket.

In them,
In the moment huh?
What does that mean,
Here you go,
  While being planned ahead,
A single glimpse on the horizon,
Made scorching hot out of lunacy,
The definition of loneliness incarnate,
Made real by the blooming horizon,
The feline’s tail disappears in the shadow,
  As you make your way towards it,
      Why not stay and let me hold you tight,
Glimpse of the light,
    The future seems so shaky,
Resting on a fulcrum point,
    There’s no way of measuring the intensity,
    In the downstrokes,
   Angrily this laden sadness,
Makeshift in moonlight desperation,
       Perfection never reached because,
       I splattered **** on the bowl,
    Then I turned around,
  Didn’t even see the tail,
     And started conversing lines that made no sense,
I just love the conditioned response,
     Keys chattering in the night
No one can hear but the wind and me,
     The desperation in my narrative,
What it will all amount to I cannot say,
Exceptionally dull in its futility,
          If only to impress the one I fell in love with,
   And stillll reminisce about to this moment,
                The artist’s daughter,
           Full of awkward sunshine and presumably
Already spoken for beauty,
      I was amazed to learn that,
Artists roamed this town camoflouged.

Cheers to the things that keep you up nights,
Here's to the things that make you feel truly alive,
The fascinating occurrence when,
Life and thought exist harmoniously,
moments during the timeline,
The resulting disposition is perfect union,
A wonderful shiver of oscillation,
between the Sensor and the Scenery,
Melting into the one,
Losing even the identity,
Becoming Zero,
Spiraling and imploding into the self nullity,
Then suddenly,
In radiant rupture,
The zero is and always has been,
Infinite.

From Tangiers, to Rome, to St. Bonifacius,
to the Alamo, to the great wide divide,
to the moon, to the stars, to the planets
make believe,
To the hearts of corrupt men,
to the mouths of babes,
to the sacrilege of Dodger stadium,
to the horn swallowed backings,
to the secret north,
to the abundant sand,
to the wild tranquil forest,
to the bars in lonesome towns,
to the sickly cries of organs,
to the carpets in the calls,
to the strumpets on the corner,
to the craters of the face,
to the markets and vultures.

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.

pages turn the world.
as in weight with a full load,
page turn and skin burn,
kingdoms of the wild,
all favor the queen,
She is to be followed,
By strange masses,
Covered in
pyre ash,

Holy riders of wind, crisp and grey,
Vanish over the clouds,
Derelict an missing limbs,
Somberly moving in collapsible
movement.
They tip-toe the equator,
between existence and chaos.

(Handwritten horribly)

Excuse The pen
I walked all this way,
And my pen is broke!

Thank you
I haven't had
A burst
Like this
in a long time

It took some
getting used to
but now I see

I can't believe
what you said
and you
probably
think I'm an
*******

Seriously,
No grudges,
you aren't
worth the
trouble
of remembering
hope you have a good life
but
knowing you
you'll
probably
end up
worthless
and
alone

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.