Feeling like aged bottles of wine. Tarty, tangy, ale and rye. Backwashed at the bottom, bared half inch of DNA collecting bacterium by the decade. Each floating strand archetypal on it’s own. Like separatist fans of gold, separatist fans of chrome. Extricate model minerals alter and contrast on their own. Earth maintenance, sustenance, nourishment and remotely beyond consternation.

A lacking ruinith; she know not currency.

A value made thus child; when met bereavement, ruthless and reaved.

Long gone; alas final crestfallen gives.

Impetus formith she grooves; in smirched tarnish banks we shall live.

Spaces distance themselves--
to isolate the purpose of longing.
A depth where memory forgets
itself...spaces backwashed
lucidly.
Genuine seeing sets in--as if a
searchlight disconnected from
its lighthouse...swimming toward
the horizon's conclusion.
Longingly, as it is to bleed and
be bled for...the exchange of the
heart's chalice.
Eyes are lit by the asking of
salvation...so many eyes...tenderly
placed for their hapless duration.
Spaces distance themselves--to
isolate the purpose of longing...it
is therefrom a genuine seeing sets
in.
How else may emotion unfold...how
else may this temple stand amidst
the wilderness?
A temple destined to die into life...
as life is irreducible from a genuine
seeing.

I watched the best minds of my generation sit and watch jersey shore
         on a Monday night high on cough syrup
         Contemplating hyphy at dawn
         In fear of the day they would break
         With tall teas and idiosyncrasies of language
         So profound as to make all but the most imbued  
         confounded
Who were busted ***** deep in under aged **** Bleeding
         on the locker room floors in the shade
         and hallways of eager decadence
         and busted again three years later
         in ancient palaces at Hanover
Who rolled on the floor in ecstasy giggling at the shapes
         Floating listlessly in a dream down the ski slopes of Rutland
         With out feeling in the face or hands, they laid down in the white
         Light of daybreak on the rooftops of yesterday
Who made YouTube videos getting ****** up the ***
         By black ***** and loving it with a wide grin
         Shamelessly braying and bucking in the languor
         and persistent fickle protest for want of identity
Who punched each other in the face with boxing gloves
         Because they never knew pain or love
         Drinking the backwashed dregs of glasses
         And smoking cigarette butts on midnight
         Soccer fields
Who saw the perspectives reverse and shorten only to lengthen again
         And then tried to explain their visions of foxes
         To angle-haired exuberant Norwegian pranksters
Who wondered what the meaning was while drunk on plastic *****
         Sitting on carpet with the lights out in the smell of socks
Who smashed stolen mugs against sheet rock walls leaving marks
         And left their lives for the machine shops of west Texas
         Only to return to Alabama in a drunken blur for more
Who jacked off during French classes on the hill and sold drugs
         To snitches for outrageous prices
Who begged for mercy from men and women less than them
        From fear of the dreaded blacked pock marked record
Who stole whole rows of over the counter drugs for a cheap high
         On Saturdays during winter months of seasonal depression
Who lived and loved more than they even knew before child days
         Ended and adult games began
         Only ever wanting truth and purity
         and sincerity
in sublime ether lights never quite understood

Screaming colors
at the blind.
Only falls on deaf ears.
Apparently.

My aura
be violent
with ya.

Like backwashed desires.
Regret.
From impulsivites.
Yesterday gave me.

All lost memories of lucid dreams.
Now hungry nightmares.
Staring back at me.
With the same doe eyes.
That used to call, mine.

A mother ignoring the cry of her baby.
A wife in a mans gear.
Heavy pan of pain, ignored to the smile from the smell of a paper.
Respect lost, control in hands of currency weight.

A lonely woman
With no dream or ambition.
The gift of child birth ,
Now the token of burden and regret.

Love painted in hate.
Smile cloaked in anger.
Subject to his satisfaction at night
Bearer of his weakness in the day

A girl deceived by love
now a mother stretched to the core
The love for lust
Backwashed in a pain that last

Memories are a reflection of the present
Caged by the decision to love
Chained to his lax
Hope of smile ... a matter of course

DREAM SEQUENCE

Flighty mind slowly taking it's toll,quest for simple rest having eluded even the best

Finding flowing rhythms a constant quest ,searching constantly for a moment's contentment

Minds energy backwashed onto a mellowing brain,we want but are left oppressed

Finding seclusion is the ultimate solution ,bodies needing this simple investment

Splashing memories make bad bedfellows ,mellowed mind traded for distressed

Daily drama deliberately dealt with ,caressing ourselves to crash,not wanting to be menaced

Fantasy fiddling on the edge with reality ,playing roundabout as our emotions are caressed

Create a phantom with pharmaceuticals with no guidelines to follow, searching for a method

Broad imaginations bridled must be put on idle to receive repose ,holding back becomes harder to accept

Wash away the wisdom of the day ,try to find that neutral space ,blacking out to much reality ,just needing the noises to be deafened . R.C.

This constantino ribbon
You managed to coil
Delicately around my heart
Makes for the perfect yoyo string
Guaranteed to hurt me
No matter what tricks you play
Sad thing is
I don't believe you intended
For any of this to happen
Yet here it is
The world's smallest violin
At your fingertips
As I watch you with him
Witnessing every chance
I wouldn't mind having
Get backwashed in ceramic
You and me
It'll never be
You're chasing something
I don't have a need for
That gratification of being
Somebody's little hero
I'm chasing a bigger role
As somebody's little world
I see your smile
I know the genuine imprint
It leaves on your face
But no matter how hard I hammer
I can't leave a dent
On that shutout heart
You forged around his hands
Maybe it's jealousy
So much more envy
Watching how all he has to do
Is look in an opposite direction
You'll be chasing his sight
Waiting for the recognition
You feel only he can give
You wonder why I never made a move
Why my chess pieces stayed
Ever so stationary
What's the point of playing
When you're at a different table
Playing monopoly
With him owning the board
Already won
Without ever giving anyone
A chance to roll the dice
It'll never be
Its all too familiar to me
I'm no one's anything
Just a man idle as a pawn
Easily cast aside
To get to the King
I'll never reach the other side
Stuck on the middle row
Of this board we play on
Maybe I need to play cards
Give up on my usual efforts
All that happens is a broken pawn
Worn out from too many uses
No chance at becoming
That King I know I could be
Its not in the cards for me
Yet again proven wrong
My heart's too worthless
To find momentary satisfaction
Giving way to closer examination
Finding the deeper veins
Hold more riches
Then those seen
With the naked eye
It'll never be
Not at least for me