There were dividing lines
between Springfield
and Mariners Gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union

it was all
the reason
for being;
alive and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
hell bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals

camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the Pleasant Street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be hell to pay!”)

there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours

it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage

A Friday night of imbued strangers
Streets full of all walks of people
Mostly staggered and tipsy
Haggered and narrow minded
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping  alcohol inside their veins

A Friday night of rejection and temptation
I couldn't give my cash to enter a joint
Thoroughly rejecting a norm construct
Unhumbled and judgmental
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping  alcohol inside their veins

A Friday night of inspiration and joy
Where I saw a mirror of myself on the streets
Vagabound souls sat begging for a today
Justice and truth prevails
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping  alcohol inside their veins

A Friday night of me sat on the ground
At the entrance of a busy closed shop
Begging for the homeless soul as people sneer
The abuse and hate ejected
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping  alcohol inside their veins

A Friday night of broken promises
When all they do is try to have ******
People set traps of unfriendly gesture
The rotten and pompous society
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping  alcohol inside their veins

A Friday night of me wooing the drunk
Melodious symphony of "change please"
Negativity beakers but we made money baibe
A reflection of minimalism
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping  alcohol inside their veins

A Friday night of concluded perception
Their souls touched me, they can go back a time
They try but have no strength within
Sour love was the wound that brought them hassle
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping  alcohol inside their veins

It's not a Friday night anymore, the dawn smiles
I have a warm home and access to facilities
They have no options and crack is their hope
Police huddles and societal direct abuse
As they sing a song for strangers to listen
For your smile and talk can be the only hope they got

She's a clumsy little human.
Broken beakers, test tubes,
Plates, glassware, door handles,
The antlers of that showpiece deer,
Her bed, her favourite pencil.

Through seventeen (and a half) years of clumsiness
The universe, it's always whispered to her
"However careful you might try to be
Sometimes things, they'll fall out of your clumsy hands
Never on purpose, no satisfactory reason
Leaving you with melancholy ruins.

Sometimes things, they can be fixed
With a little glue and a lot of patience
So fix them before they're lost and
Be ever more careful thereon.
But sometimes things, they can't be fixed
Not with glue nor with patience
And broken they will forever be
So sweep up the pieces gently and
Cast them away sans regret."

She's a clumsy little human.
Broken beakers, test tubes,
Plates, glassware, door handles,
The antlers of that showpiece deer,
Her bed, her favourite pencil,
Trust, hearts and friendships.

We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:

babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.

That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.

We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:

butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.

We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.

the rat ******* has been re-purposed
(conscripted in a somewhat fodder task)
brandishing irons
and quarter lines
coiled and unwavering
insidious and cunning
pent up and fired
in  his dripping shoes
and peel back skin

wheel bug and hookworm
are stolid in his wake
(all bursting grossly at the buckle!)
the heel on task;
slithering and rogue
merciless and coy
resolute and contemptuous
with his cotton mat
and quick ready quill

pungi and clapper
raise the clever snake
(croker sacks and wicker backs
dot the gasoline rainbow)
carnival barkers and kraken
(lewd in the distance)
taunting and vile
with their red beakers
and deep purple hearts

cicada and louse
high on alert
(ready to wreak havoc in the hog wallows)
the perverse cornered rat
snapping and soiled
foaming and inflamed
lurking and primed
inside his carefully crafted plan

easels and cover alls
suit this jackal well
(keefer’s little helper or so they'd say)
pickers running rough shod
all stirring up the stench
***** and conkeys
poised
and ready
to lime this cornered slug

How to conquer the world when you are manic and preserve it when you are depressed.

I had a close friend send me a text a few weeks ago
Reminding me how to breathe and that I had to get out of bed,
I thought if she could have read my mood from the west coast
As I rotted in cotton comforters in the east, I must have been pretty obvious
Maybe it’s because we have been friends for ten years or because
I plaster every up and down online to vague audiences, I cast out my emotions
Like frayed fishing line, trying to catch even a glimpse of someone who relates.
But when this friend texted me she said something that might help balance out
The high-highs with the unbearable lows is writing how I feel when I am both.
I did my best to put the feeling of flying at 100mph upside down with wings made of silken sheets into words but the minute I did they turned into wings of concrete and I lost my focus again. And so I went to answer my friend and I said ‘here is how to conquer the world when you are manic”

I am caffeine therapy,
engulfed in energy
I am yellow, I am green
I am everything at once,
I feel everything all at once.
Did I mention?
Hey, I'm really excited to tell you
I’m gonna save the world,
All of it.
Today.
try and stop me.
I woke up at 4 this morning
Watched the sun swallow shadows
Like it was yearning for something dark
To balance itself out.
Too much light is dangerous too.
I always like to watch the sunrise before I go out to save the world, Waking up early always gives me so much more time And today I will do a lot,  I want to save the world. I hope you know I'm going to.

I am yellow, I am green. I am everything at once.
I am traffic jams spread out across freeways,
I am six trips in a row to the same store because I kept forgetting what I needed,
Music playing so loud you can’t hear anything else
I wash down amphetamines with coffee
I am now Narrow energy. I'm traveling a perfectly paved road Home to a room where I cannot see the floor, but that’s okay because I’m
Going to save the world today.
It doesn't matter how fast I'm going as long as you see me get there.
I am validation starvation in calorie counting notebooks,
I am looks from strangers whose eyes wonder loudly how I got marks on my arms or how I'm bouncing my foot like energy is spewing out my body but still have bags under mine that insinuate exhaustion I never learned how to overcome.
I am a math equation stuck inside the text book
From that semester I dropped out;
I am heat energy dancing inside shattered beakers, I am weathered worn out sneakers still being used because it’s hard to let go,
I'm kissing catalytic conversations with those I love because I need a reaction to feel like they're listening,
I am potential energy ready to become kinetic,
I am energetic and today, I have the heart to save the world.
I am off track, my bad. Its like an “ADHD starter pack” but there's no warranty or handbook.
Anyway, I started by re-enrolling in classes because I have always been good at school,
Except for when I stopped going but I have always been good at school and I can understand why everyone around me might expect me to succeed, I emit determination from my mouth when my heart feels empty, but I did sign back up because
This time I'm ready, and this  time I won’t ever feel low again, I think i beat it finally
I feel it in my bones as I cross busy streets without looking either way
I'm invincible and incredible
I am yellow I am green
I am hydro energy feeding off the
Big deep blue sea,
I am gratitude as an action
Not a trinket I can break
and today I will save the world
and tomorrow I will not be low,
And today I will conquer my fears, all 647
And tomorrow I will tell my friends I love them
And today I will remind myself that skin cells
Replace themselves every 28 days
So I only have to wear long sleeves for that many more
And tomorrow I will wake up and do my homework
And today I will surely save the world,
I will never feel so low as I have ever again
How could I when there is so much to smile for?
I’m laughing so loud my neighbors are asking,
And my friends think I’m doing better and I tell them I am. I am.
I am yellow, I am serene,
I feel it in my skin that I am better
recovery feels like Holding hands at sixteen and iced tea, And this is easy!
I am yellow, I am green.
I am yellow, I am green.
I feel everything all at once.
floating between causes, altruism is a virus, slithering through my veins, celebrating how much I will do today. Did I mention how much I will do today?
I'm going to save the world.
After signing back up for classes I spread out my day like magazine clippings I'll never put onto a “dream board” because I will most likely forget about them, my dreams make better notes in my iphone where I can see them
As I check my contacts to see who I can talk to today. Or who will listen. I wonder who will listen. Or what kind of game I will play to make someone listen.
I am yellow, I am green. It’s noon and I am flying.
Here is how else I will save the world:
I will make sure I save myself first,
I'll clean my room and go to the gym
work off three weeks of sweets with three hours on the treadmill, I forgot how good it feels to run and I know that this is the last time I will ever, ever give up.
I’m better now. I run on a track that loops back in on itself because I find comfort in knowing it will always return no matter how many times I lose sight of where I'm going, I would get lost were I to run outside because when you are everything all at once you seldom stay in place, God there is just so much to look at. I will never look back at who I was even as late as yesterday.
I get lost inside rubix cube mentalities and short lived craft store hobbies, but I'm better.
I am yellow, I am green. And today I am going to be a wildlife photographer, And an artist, and when people ask me what I want to be I tell them
I will work for the United Nations and that I am going to save the world, they believe me and ask me how I'll do it and I realize that I have yet to start saving the world.
I woke up at 4, so sure today was the day,
I felt it in my heart like the time I took two of my adderalls by mistake because I forgot that I took one that day, I felt it and it was real. Throbbing like a bump from falling but real. I lost track of that feeling for a second and now it is fleeting.
What is happening?

I am yellow, I am green.
I am yellow, i am yellow I am yellow,
Are you still listening?
I'm potential energy locked inside a pendulum
Hanging from a chemical tree that dies fast and grows slowly, Im staggered progress dressed up like empathy, I'm baggage too heavy
I am yellow, I am green.
I am fleeting energy
The kind that sparks a few times
On telephone lines turned pink infront of sunsets in july, gone before your friends can see it too.
They never really see it, too.
I am yellow, I am green

I forgot to shower every day this week but
I'm too tired to get out of bed,
What is happening? Can you remind me what I was doing?
I was supposed to save the world today
I’m sorry.
I was really going to save the world today
I'm taking in as much caffeine as I can without
Making my heart feel like it will push its way
Through my ribs out of my chest
Though being able to feel in my chest again
Might not be so bad. I’m stuffing smoke inside my cavities to fill them up, doing my best to keep feeling inside the skin I wear when I can feel it
Going numb, even it hurts at least I can feel it, I wish I could inject caffeine right into my veins,
I wish you could jump infront of moving trains without Hurting everyone on board,
I wish I felt less like this but I wish I felt more,
I reread texts from last night where transitioning
Felt like fist fighting recovery, her having one up on me,

I am crimson, I am grey, I am fleeting energy.
I’m so sorry.


I thought I said that before
And I might have but I forgot, I feel cloudy
I stumbled through steel wool tall grass to make it
Out of bed today and the weight of every single mistake I have ever made feels like it will surely break my spine Right in half, I don’t know if I will make it through today.
I wish someone would save me today.
I am crimson, I am grey.
I need someone to save my world today.

Every corner you turn
is another story to be told
eventually the truth will unfold
and will start to rapidly burn

rumors are started by attention seekers
they are as useless as broken beakers
dont hide when people find out the truth
because listen here im coming for you

"ill run through your town
and shut you down"
No more nonsense
It is time to treat eachother with respect

was an aperitif to an aphorism,
an apothecary of aphrodisiacs,
an apiary of my ever-buzzing thoughts.

She slipped streamline as maraschinos
into a Manhattan, that strike of sugar
staining the most bitter days a color no chemical dispels.

She was an enigmatic row of beakers
shelved in an ancient pharmacy
at the base of the Janiculum.

Her shape was incense wisps, her
touch a song sung in 1940s noir,
her locking gaze acrophobia itself.

Alliteration ran thick through her blood,
she painted like Debussy composed.
No single organism in the universe could’ve imposed

anything on her – well, maybe.
Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that I’m a boy –
no air of denigration here.

She was intricate, but altogether simple. Empathetic-yet-
tangible, her character was incredible.
It was not the beauty of her face, the body

that held her mind and laughter,
not the dazed sting in my hand as it cupped
in hers – it was her autotelic way and her hope.

And now her imaginings hang,
framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left;
retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.

I’m sitting in chemistry,
I’m dying to ***.
I raised my hand,
But the teacher couldn’t see.

I broke beakers and spilled chemicals,
But he still couldn’t hear my plea.
If I take a ****** on a cylinder,
I’m sure he would notice me!

—Thomas James Written on April 7, 2010

Last night the truth was in the bottle. It may be a tad bit cliché, but the stripping away of my cognitive functions was a relaxing endeavor. Okay, there’s nothing cliché about that last sentence. Still, there I was past the crowded living room, cluttered with soda cans and people, past the small kitchen and the three guys playing cards, past the three wine coolers sipped through a straw, and the mixed drinks, pass all that there was the truth.
Dropping the regular essence of me, I slid behind the idiot clown. I tripped and stumbled, babbled and mumbled. My emotions unguarded, I spewed love almost as much as I spewed chunks of a greasy sausage pizza with little chewed up black olives. It was fun. One moment of not thinking. One moment of not dealing with the concrete and the abstract, the struggles and oppressions, my realistic paranoia and dark observations. I plopped limply down on the couch then slid off the side of it jokingly. The ground shuddered with a soft thud.  My friends laughed. I laughed. The truth is I like the sound of innocent laughter. It is a relief. All those synapse spitting out calming fluids. Till, what little stress that was left disappears.

     Before that the truth was in caffeine induced writing frenzies. There were small interludes of creativity swirling around dark depressive moods. I pushed and prodded the black keys as if I was chipping away chunks of stone on a marble sculpture; exposing myself and my truths.

     Someone told me that to be a great writer doesn’t require me to suffer. I thought it’s a good thing they’re not mutually exclusive, because the truth is I was suffering long before I started to write. The doubt which comes from learning more and more bled me to the verge of insanity. Maybe it was vanity that pushed me to seek the truth.

     Before that the truth was in quiet walks. The strolls down old dirt paths and memory lanes, crossing the mental traffic of past and present. I lingered at the jagged grey sparkling stone markers, sitting on newly grass covered plots, just hanging out at the graveyard because it was quiet. I wasn’t some emo kid. The truth was that I just preferred the quiet. It was the same reason I raced through the day to get to the night. Night was as nonjudgmental as the pine infested graveyard. No harsh sun glaring down. No strangers staring at me until I had to turn my head to the ground. The truth was the quiet, and the quiet was liberating.

      Before that the truth was in books. Kernels of wisdom locked in works of fiction. Little leather bound universes creeping in and transforming my mind.  Now, I prefer biographies; back then I loved the fantasies. Though in truth all nonfiction is fiction, because all reality is perceived relatively and written thusly. So, I stashed book in my back pack and back tracked down old alley ways to read away the lonely days. I sat in those dark corners, the dusty gravel biting my big bubble ****, but I was there for the quiet.

      Before that there was science. Beakers and Bunsen burners burning out atoms, and chlorophyll. I never really felt I had a talent for their postulates or formulas. Yet their subtle certainty, mired in uncertainty was appealing. They offered ever evolving truths. The strange transition from one logical position to the next and I was willing to adapt to any new facts.

      Before that there was god. I was his egotistically elevated idiot child. I could converse with adults on their level because in this they were as juvenile as I was; those ancient books that no longer make sense to me. Then it was the emotion of loving unearned certainty. The comfort of cowering beneath the awe and love of an all-powerful and all-knowing father figure, I called it the truth.

      Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, cause a life’s worth of anxiety was hounding me the truth was in the music. Soft sounding syllables serenading me to sleep, moving to the rhythm of a calmly flowing beat. The music gave me something to focus on. It was a converging point to calm the chaos. Once in a while the music would play out some story or point out some struggle. My Tracy Chapman that was the truth.

       Sleep was preferable to the waking madness of daily living. So, if I was tired I slept. People used to make me feel guilty about it. However, I realized that sleep healed the body and the mind. Sleep let me dream. Dreams let me do things beyond reality. They directed me to grand fantasies, or pointed out painful truths about myself. I could wake up crying, or I could go to bed sad and wake up content. That was the truth.  

       In-between all these things I pondered relative and certain truth. Was it constant or changing based on perception? People passed, none returned. I got older. Now my teeth are starting to rot right out of my face, but I still devour information; listening to the wild tales of strangers. Sometimes, I trust too much, other times I trust no one.

      The truth is I exist, amidst whatever this existence is. Beyond that I cannot clearly define this reality. What is the truth?

They told him to be a carpenter.
His stupid black fingers could never form equations of substantial value;
they were simply meant to grow callused and rough,
like his soul,
as they built the large houses he could never afford.

They told him to be a painter.
He lacked the skill to be an inventor-
to create light or wind or space like his God.
His hands could never create sound
as they floated through air in front of an orchestra.
They could only transform the house his brother built into a color he couldn't spell.

They told him to be a miner.
The coal could blend with his skin,
hopefully thick enough to smother him out of society.
The soot from his skin would cover the beakers and test tubes,
making him incapable of performing the experiments necessary
to develop a more reasonable resource in a lab that could save the world from death.

They told him to be a mechanic.
His hands were meant for hard labor, oil and grease,
not healing ailing bodies as their organs began to falter from an automobile collision.
He was too dumb to save a life;
he could only fix a car for a dead corpse.

They told him what he could be
in order to tell him he was incapable of greater things
as he held his dark face with darker features in his hands, weak from wiping tears.
People build their dreams based on encouragement-
this man knew no such words.

He told me I would be a doctor.
My hands were meant for healing hearts and multiplying white blood cells,
as well as lives and smiles.
I would save a nation, a dying breed of people
because God has given me His own hands.

He told me I would be a lawyer.
My hunger for justice would fuel a revolution
and all would know their innocence held true value.
The rights of men were of sincere importance and I would protect them at all costs,
especially young men told to be painters and carpenters,
because I was one of the few with the integrity to do so.

He told me I would be a president.
My words would meet a standard higher than those on the political spectrum.
I would part the seas flooding a nation
because I had been blessed by the Holy Waters of God.
The theory that peace was in a land too far away would be broken
as I carried the world to the Promise Land.

He told me I would be an astronaut.
I would defy the status quo while defying gravity
as I became the greatest pioneer since Sacagawea.
My brilliant mind would fill with every star I peeled from the sky to light my path to Heaven.
And I would show the globe how to fly despite the odds.

He told me what I could be in order to tell me I was capable of great things
as my small, tan hand intertwined with his dark hand, callused and rough from raising a child of God.
He knew that people build their dreams based on encouragement-
and I know the words he never had the chance to.

--For my Dad

The chair she sat in, was no chair at all.
Her own face glowing on the carpet’s contours, where her hands
Held up by standards wrought with my own hands
Doubled the light reaching from the fixture
to my twisted, internally suspended transistor
Being my inner projections
Of this minds sickly infection
That began to eat me alive
But perhaps to each his own reflection
Reflecting light upon life’s table
Bouncing off the walls
The glitter of her eyes rose to meet it,
To the ground my pride might fall
Pouring all that was left,
Watching it trickle down fast.
Into the vials, beakers of broken glass
There is nothing, no one left accused,
Somehow it hits harder,
Sitting there so confused.
I held down my sense of sorrow
Drowned by it, I feel the seams tear.
The logic of all this left me eluded.
I was doing my best to have honestly concluded
The game is only half finished! Press your timed moment
Feeling the moment slipping.
Fighting to clasp it and hold it
  
Inching up closer, I smelled your hair.
As I fought every instinct, to reject my inner care
Lunging at this injustice of forfeit wasn’t fair
But that’s what was to happen there
I’m looking at this game through a window
Feeling my face grow flush
This move was not spoken of
Or thought of very much.
Here I was, feeling things I’d lost
But this game was such a challenge
I never calculated costs
Your whispers of the next play were playing in my ears
On repeat, as if to render  and digest all my own fears
Of the loss of this game I actually learned to love
But then push came to shove
We lost track of our places.
A voice raises.
Where is your ROOK?
WHERE IS MY QUEEN?
I almost wish to miss the signs,
The gaps left in between.
And then we stare at the board.
Consumed by our words.
I start to whistle and sit terribly still.


I’m a wreck. I can’t even see where my last pawn went.
--Stay with me. Speak to me.
I'm not the best with words.

--Why wont you talk to me?
Haven't we gone over this?


--What are you thinking? I don't know what you're thinking.
You linder in my nose again.

--Did you hear that?
My cardiovascular system pulsating on the floor?

--Do you know? Do you see? Do you remember?
I remember. Those are pearls that were my eyes.

--This is just not the time.
Perhaps.

You like the way I write about you?
It’s so elegant,
So intelligent.

What the will I do? What the about tomorrow?

I have a show to play at ten.
If the sky decides to rain, I know your car door will be locked at 5.
But its perfect to play a game of chess in the rain. Or rather, when it’s raining.

My eyes are forced open. There is no other than the raven at my chamber door.
A fool in love never more.
A sonnet for tomorrow
For my only known Lenore.

The scientist moved from table to table, beaker to beaker. She adjusted her goggles on her nose and sniffed, turning a vial on its head, tipping its content into another.
She stood back and with frantic, excited gleams playing in her eyes observed the mixture fizz, fizzle, pop, sizzle and flow over.
She hmmed and this is where I stepped in, asking her, what it is she was doing. What experiment was she carrying out? What question she was attempting to answer.

She, beginning an attempt anew, picked up a vial containing a sweet-scented liquid and stepped up to her table again.
“I’m trying to see...dear. I’m trying to see...”
“See what?”
“The balance. What is the right amount...” She breathed this last sentence under her breath like it was a question more to herself than an answer to me.
“The right amount of what?”
At this, she turned to me.

“Of Love.” She said.
“For you either love too much or too little.
Or you either receive too much love or too little love. And in each case, it leaves a dreadful feeling in one's stomach.
This cannot be healthy. It isn’t. So I must find out this equation, solve this puzzle for it is so perplexing.”
She turned back to her vials and beakers, murmuring under her breath all the while. “It is so perplexing...it is so perplexing...”

The fresh savannas of the Sangamon
Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass
Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts
Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire;
The wanderers of the prairie know them well,
And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.

  Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not
That these bright chalices were tinted thus
To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet
On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers,
And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up,
Amid this fresh and ****** solitude,
The faded fancies of an elder world;
But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths
Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds,
To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns
The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind
O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour
A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,
To swell the reddening fruit that even now
Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny *****.

  But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well--
Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers,
Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves,
Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone--
Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown
And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come
On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake,
And part with little hands the spiky grass;
And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge
Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew.

Expression is intangible
Exhales illusion
Sights and
Sounds for the crowd
Who stir with happiness or
Howl
Howl
Howl
With resentful madness

How quick we are to love
Yet how fast we sway
When the party starts
And life
Enters the room

My eyes have blistered and
I've gone blind to the stars!

Awake from nightmares *****
Push me to the lake and
Have me freeze with the fishes

Friends and foes and hanging mistletoe
How I miss you every morning,
Every evening,
Lo' my heart knows not where to go!

In the breaking of light
Thoughts not my own come to me
From some place, a sinking ship
A lost island
The caverns of a woman's brunette braids
Deserts caked golden with specks of finely grained sand
Abandoned no deserted by an army pledging honor!
Allegiance!
Good dental work!

But in the dark
Where the hands are quiet
Sighs of severance make men weep
But woman cheer
Children tear their birthday cards
To shreds for they trust joy
Lasts not for ever but for
Eternity

Ring loud for in sight is the end
Planets rising into one another
Breaking apart the mold so
To be rebuilt again better stronger faster
More equipped to handle the times we make
We want
We believe will bring ever lasting life but
It will fail and our partners
If they have not turned to our enemies
Will shower us with mocking laughter
Sinister grins
Lava hot tongues coated with volcanic ash
Assembling their iron clad armies with
Their shimmering medallions and
Battle cries!

Forgiveness or nothing at all!

Ritualistic graveyard robbing
The highest bidder is always the winner here!

Through that break neck speed eyes
Turn to watery bowls of mush where
Friends dance on the rosy petaled dead
Wishing they were still alive so to
Feel the warm steady embrace of a love or
A friend or a
Parent or a villain masked as the one you believe loves you
Just to feel love again

One last time.

No road should not be traveled
Due to fear or loneliness

The world
The beginning
The middle and
The end
Is filled with unbearable loneliness

Some see it as a curse
Others
A gift

For in silent solitary basks a light that
Is clear and pure white and translucent as
The wings of an angel or the morning
Of your dying day where all
Earth is at your door asking you to join it

Needing peace they will find you and
Disturb you

Shake you out of bed
Tear at your fingers
Spit in your coffee
Over stare their horrible welcome

Some inside their minds red and yellow
Metallic crocodile machines with
Dusty pamphlets of "How to be a Red"
Imprinted on the back of their coach bags
Dangling with medal tags verifying their worthiness
And their ego's idea of fame and
Value

Value is an eggshell covering
The yolk of the soul

A vain and flashy coat of armor
Harboring the weakest of mortal and morals

Even in night I am afraid
As I am
In day

Even in morning I feel the weight
The pounding rhythm of the hour
The effects of the horns the sirens the laughter
I know is there but
Cannot seem to hear

Where is the lost canyon where the
Harps are played and the wine pours
From the cracks of the ceiling?

Where is genius in a frothing sea
Of morons and miscreants hell bent on
Running naked and blind through the streets
Cast only in illusion and drifting house sound?

Where are the answers to questions that
Do not wish to have answers?

Where does mystery live?

How do I find it?

Inside the scripture of mind
Scape fast pressed to not think too
Straight home filled with heathens returning
Right to where they began

Yet with nothing to give to the world
The perspectives will change their course
In wind the mind moves with the twins
No thought is second guessed at
The reasons of the rhythm stand true
There is something inside of me that moves
It vibrates it lingers at the bottom of the sea
With the coral shelves and practice takes a lifetime
There in thought lies the worry of the world
In tact with who I don't know I've met but
Inside of that heat is a soul which I am trying
To get to know the breakfast bell is ringing
Where upon the old English rules are true
Door slamming and bums panning for a crispy bit of food
Pushing the door open and burning the envelope
Spinning madly on the surface of the sun
Boiling with nuclear like love smoldering for
Loss and confusion and separation all with dignity and
Difficulty grows the heart fonder as the wine beakers
Are split with find creases with the waiter's wearing
Gas masks no need for distress call the guests into
The living room lets all watch MASH

Transcendence and evolution and new beginnings

The old is replaced with the new

And so on.

How to conquer the world when you are manic and preserve it when you are depressed.

I had a close friend send me a text a few weeks ago
Reminding me how to breathe and that I had to get out of bed,
I thought if she could have read my mood from the west coast
As I rotted in cotton comforters in the east, I must have been pretty obvious
Maybe it’s because we have been friends for ten years or because
I plaster every up and down online to vague audiences, I cast out my emotions
Like frayed fishing line, trying to catch even a glimpse of someone who relates.
But when this friend texted me she said something that might help balance out
The high-highs with the unbearable lows is writing how I feel when I am both.
I did my best to put the feeling of flying at 100mph upside down with wings made of silken sheets into words but the minute I did they turned into wings of concrete and I lost my focus again. And so I went to answer my friend and I said ‘here is how to conquer the world when you are manic”

I am caffeine therapy,
I am engulfed in energy
I am yellow, I am green
I am everything all at once,
I feel everything all at once.
I’m gonna save the world,
All of it.
Today.
try and stop me.
I woke up at 4am to watch
the sun swallow the indigo horizon
One last time before I go out and save the world,
Waking up early always gives me so much more time
To save the world, and I want to save the world.
I am yellow, I am green. I am everything at once.
I wash down amphetamines with coffee and I am
Narrow energy. I am traveling a perfectly paved road
Home to a messy room but that is okay because I’m
Going to save the world today.
I am a math equation stuck inside the text book
From the semester I dropped out;
I am heat energy dancing inside shattered beakers,
I am potential energy ready to become kinetic,
I am energetic and today, I have the heart to save the world.
I started by reenrolling in school because you need a degree
To save bees. That line might have been a joke but I did sign back
Up to finish my degree and this time I won’t ever feel low again,
How could I when there is so much to be happy about?
I am laughing so loud my neighbors are asking questions
And my friends think I am doing better and I tell them I am.
I feel it in my skin that I am better and recovery feels like
Holding hands at sixteen and iced tea in the summer,
And this is easy!
I am yellow, I am green. I feel everything all at once.
I am floating between causes and altruism is an ideal
Slithering its way through my veins, and today I am going to save the world.
After signing back up for classes I spread out my day like magazine clippings
I might never put onto a dream board because I will most likely forget about them
And my dreams make better notes in my iphone where I can see them
As I obsessively check my contacts to see who I can talk to today.
I am yellow, I am green. It is noon and I am flying.
Here is how else I will save the world.
I will clean my room and I will go to the gym
And work off three weeks of sweets with three hours on the treadmill,
I forgot how good it feels to run and I know that this is the last time I will ever give up.
I run on a track that loops back in on itself because I know that if I were to run outside,
I would get lost because I am everything all at once and there is just so much to look at.
I am yellow, I am green. And today I am going to be a wildlife photographer,
And an artist, and when people ask me what I want to be I tell them
I am going to work for the United Nations and that I am going to save the world,
And they believe me and it’s almost funny for a minute until I realize
I have yet to start saving the world. I woke up at 4 to save the world and I was sure today was the day, I felt it in my heart like poprocks the very first time or your first real kiss, I felt it and it was real and I lost track of that feeling and now I am scared that I might never save the world,
What is happening?
I am yellow, I am green. I am potential energy locked inside a pendulum
Hanging from a chemical tree that only grows each time it loses a leaf,
I am staggered progress dressed up like empathy,
I am yellow, I am green.
I am fleeting energy
The kind you watch spark a few times
On telephone lines turning pink behind July sunsets
And its gone before your friends can see it too.
I am yellow, I am green
I forgot to shower every day this week but
I am too tired to get out of bed,
What is happening?
I was supposed to save the world today
I’m so sorry.
I am drinking as much caffeine as I can without
Making my heart feel like it will push its way
Through my bones and out of my chest
Though being able to feel in my chest again
Might not be so bad. I am stuffing smoke  inside my chest to fill it up
I am doing my best to keep feeling inside the skin I wear when I can feel it
Going numb
I wish
You could inject caffeine right into your veins,,
I reread texts from last night where transitioning
Felt like fist fighting recovery, her having one up on me,
I am crimson, I am silver, I am fleeting energy.
I’m so sorry. I thought I said that before
And I might have but I forgot, today I feel cloudy
And I stumbled through steel wool tall grass to make it
Out of bed today and the weight of every single mistake
I have ever made feels like it is going to break my spine
Right in half, I don’t know if I will make it through today.
I wish someone would save me today.
I am crimson, I am grey. I need someone to save my world today .

You should never use a ruler - it is not the length
of your scars that matters, but the depth. Volume
matters, too, but beakers are never big enough -
you could distill all of your tears and they would
still fill an ocean.  And if you try to measure the
decibels of the crashing waves you will not hear
the whole story.  Instead, listen to their echoes
in the hollows of seashells.  Weigh their words
by the ounces of truth.  The voices may taste
like distance, but the tide will wash away your
footprints in the sand before you count them.

Banging heads upon the wall all *****
Scrunched up in a corner with dust falling
For it must
Tomb tickers break open their beakers
Feeling what it must be like to be a God
Goading over fools gold discovered at the
Bottom of the ocean
Remembering their pasts, praying that it
Never existed
A fortune cookie lightly breaks
And a tear falls from it
Leaving a small watery mark in the hot sizzling dirt
Fortune smiles as men run amok with guns, blood and prayer beads
Blazing
Blazing
Blazing
Fancy hearing the siamese cat and alla' that
She and he were oh so great at the party
Weren't they Molly?
Name that means nothing says everything
But everything is the bottom of the barrel
The watermelon harping over a sail boat
Dirt speckled pomegranetes listen intently
In the rotting afternoon showery sun
Solioquoy membrane meters with a piano balancing
In a full swing and in teter
Atop the highest feather, a fire eater
Nonsensical romance that blinks their eyes and it is gone
So gone
So far and so long
Ripped tendons tenderly sell their wares
All buttons, miss matched pieces of tore out hair
She was the one I loved best, the one at the fair
Oleander olives had hung from her wretched head
While the television played Oprah
I was in Ethipioa praying for another month of rain
Reeling through the season in treason
A prisoner in my own mind
The foggy ruins of time
Off and far away
She said just couldn't obey what the Lord wanted her to say
Oh Joan, you burned so fast, so quick, so steadily
Never screaming, only beaming
Members of the church swore their were moments
That you were balanced and the opposite of torment
A letter opened
But never read
A letter received
But quickly thrown away as though secretly deceived
Pole dancers show their goods as they should
Much like drinkers whom some believe
To be great thinkers
But I ask the wind what she thinks
She doesn't hesitate
As she coyly
Winks

Welcome to the land of too plenty.

We ride along, sing our hymns
On candy caned carousels
Swipe right, swipe left
We peruse and use the gym
Sweat out our pores
Men and women can certainly be friends
A church choir echoes in quiet refrains.

*** is just an option on the menu
The menu of too, too plenty
Lets take bites of cherry apple sizzling pie
Or the hundreds of times
We didn't text back.

Join us, in the land of plenty
We've got field mines for days
Gesturing in the most sensual ways
How could one possibly ever settle down
If it wasn't for eggs and organs
Demanding a time frame?

Welcome to the land of hella plenty.
Where loneliness ain't such a feat
You could pick up a stranger at just any old bar
Long as you somewhat got an open heart
Open legs, open brain
Nope, no brains.

Here in the land of too plenty
We drink and drugs become your middle name
We've got such elaborate molecule filled beakers
You never have to just choose one.

Stay, live here in the land of plenty
Siren women croon and bite into the mist
Dripping from your inner thighs.

What ever happened to faithfulness?

You need to use vocals
To spread a message that is hopeful
You need to use vocals
To create a point that is focal
You need them
Like R.E.M.

A message from your heart
That goes through your brain
It can be called quality art
Once it reflects inner pain
That runs deep through your voice
And your lyrical choice

You don't need scientists with beakers
Or super loud speakers
You don't need to make a keynote speech
Or grab for things that are out of reach
You just need a lesson
Taught through confession

There are wonderful things done instrumentally
But I want to focus on someone instead of me
Because thinking through someone else's words
Seems more productive
Rather than repeating myself so nothing is stirred
Which feels somewhat reductive

If you have something to say
Speak up
If you can't find a way
Drink up
Music based on emotion instead of thought
But be careful to not get mindlessly caught
Until you're starving
From culturally carving
Out anything that is strange
Until you have a truncated range
Of empathetic understanding
That's one way of landing
On a lame existence
For plain persistence

Art will always reflect life
They share the same plight
The best way to communicate
Is not to ruminate
But to speak with your mouth
Before your mind goes south
End the depressing deflation
Through simple human relation

Your gift of pain
Becomes my drain
My rhythmic refrain
From ending this game
Please allow me to hear you
So I may no longer fear you
It doesn't matter if you're not local
I'll relate to you through your vocals

If you were the same me
I would have known how
everything goes now
she stares at the ceiling
li(v)es full of meaning
and somewhat deceiving
the way you look

sliding down
running town
looking 'round
meaning
life is short
when i caught
beakers down
bleeding

breaking beneath the waves
unknowing  as it is to you
i will send the ocean into
your cavi
ty

la la la la la la la lie
ala carte somehow,
why

is it
so hard
looking at
me
to see that you truly look past
me
seeing circles
pulling circles
running perfect little
circles
i can adorn you
with your crown of thorns
born of unborn
igno
rant
suffering

this will not end till I say it's over
like is the dreaming, not the doing
if i could erase the scratches of time
bleed them all out, and do it again
all for you
all for you
this is not what I want to do
if i knew
something to do
i'm caught right here in the middle with you
glancing envy
turning so pale
chasing your tail
this isn't the end
i have gone so far
this is not over
and
look at me all you like
i will not forget this
i will not forgive this
laying the fist down
changing it all around
i know what I want

yet i can't have it
you can't know it
she doesn't see it
he couldn't be it

i am the crown of your thorns
unturned by endless stones. I am the reaping, i am the creaking, floors in your youth. here is my shoulder, there is your hand, there is his hand, i can not end this with my shouting endless dreams. flowers on flowers, gardens on gardens, fields upon hills and mountains in silk. this is so fast. this is so cold. i can't be too old

or be too young

Iridescent green liquid
Dripping from a factory sealed cannister
Not for pregnant women or the faint of heart
Not for the ones who grip the stair bannister
Only for the fit and the strong
To help achieve maximum efficiency
Only for those whose legs are long
Enough to reach the stars from the ground they can only see

Caution
Warning
Attention
The flies are swarming
Your flesh is rotting
But your body keeps running

Touch it to your lips
And it'll grant you your best
Implanted from the laboratory
Take it all down and put yourself to the test
Nothing can stop you now
You're not running on empty anymore
Your stomach turns sour
But you're no longer a bore

Now you've got the means
Now you've got the scene
Now you've got the capacity
Now you can succeed

But only because of test tubes
And only because of beakers
Only because of brakers
Only because of white coats
Only because of med school
Only because of playing the part of the fool

Pink

Slide down,
Dissolve
and rise; synthetic
inspiration
    manufactured by strangers with
Clipboards
and labcoats
and beakers.
 
And I don't mind, no --
I don't mind your origin at all.
 
Only the destination.
 
          Come to me.

We met over beakers*
In the back of the class
Both knowledge seekers
Young scientists

Looking for answers
To the stars and beyond
My sweet little Alchemist
Has it going on

Mixing solutions
With the solutions she finds
Answering questions
To where mystery's do hide

Her scientific equations
How could I ever miss
That smooth chemical sensation
From my sweet little Alchemist

With a little of this and a little of that
Always adding just the right touch
Wherever it is and wherever it's at
What she adds is never to much

If you need to find her
She's at the top of my periodic list
In case you need a reminder
*She's my sweet little Alchemist

It is our duty as human beings to inspire
To spark in others an undying desire
So let us pick up our pens and pencils
Our paints, chisels, and stencils
Our microphones, drums, and musical tools
And our books, beakers, and new found rules.
Let us make a path for greatness to follow
So we can make a much berighter tomorrow.

PART II
Sam woke the next morning after a bout of nightmares to the smell of bacon and eggs. His favorite. He bounded down the stairs, all but forgetting the events of the previous night. He bounded down the stairs and greeted his mother with a grin. She returned the favor, but there were heavy purple bags underneath her eyes. Like she’d either been beaten or hadn’t slept in weeks. “You okay, mom?” Sam asked as she forked him some breakfast onto a plate. “Just fine, dear. Why do you ask?” She beamed. She seemed happier than ever. “Why were you banging the cabinets shut last night? That scared me.” Sam said shakily. “What? What do you mean, baby?” she seemed confused. She didn’t know was what coming out of Sam’s mouth. Sam reiterated “Last night, about 3:30, you were banging all the cabinet doors shut as loudly as possible. I thought someone was breaking into our house. Don’t you have an explanation?”
She chewed her lip and thought hard for a moment. “I don’t remember that at all, Sammy. I went to bed shortly after you. I didn’t wake up all night.” Now Sam was really concerned. Is his mom becoming schizophrenic? Multiple personalities? He knew that loneliness had been eating at her, even he could see that. Not having a man in her life has really kept her down. She felt overused and underappreciated, and Sam feared it was taking a toll on her. “If you say so, ma.” This was so strange. He’d never seen her like this. He decided to explore the rest of the house to take his mind off of it.
After eating his breakfast and rinsing his plate, he rounded the corner of the kitchen. On the far wall was a door he’d never seen before. A cellar door. He approached it and noticed that the wood was afflicted with woodrot and the lock was rusted shut. But he’d be ****** before that stopped him. He kicked the door and put his foot right through the dampened pine. He pulled his foot out, rached his hand through the hole, and unlocked it from the other side.

He swung what was left of the door open. It pretty much shattered into splinters when he let it down. “How long has it been since anyone’s been down here? I don’t even think Mom knows this is here.”  Sam thought to himself as he descended into the darkness. The concrete steps led to a dirt floor at the landing. Shelves all around. Sam couldn’t figure out what he was seeing. He was seeing specimens in glass jars, preserved. Small sharks, bits of plants and vegetables, a pig heart, seemingly all things you would find in a biology class or in the lab of a mad scientist. Beakers, mortars and pestles, bunson burners, and an operation table. He moved towards the table.He saw what appeared to be dried blood. There were embalming tools. Large scissors, pliers, a small hammer, a chisel and a collection of scalpels. These instruments had oil stained fingerprints, like the user was using Vaseline or something else slick like that. Could’ve been hair gel for all Sam knew. He looked up at the far wall, and the same message from yesterday was scribes there, only a little different. “YOU’RE BOTH GOING TO DIE HERE.” Sam was terrified. Peering ‘round the room, he saw nothing but the specimens. Hhis heart was beating fast. He felt that strange, cold feeling again. Suddenly, he heard a whisper. One that appeared to be sympathetic, pleading. It said in a raspy tone with the wisdom of experience. “Leave. Leave while you can. He’ll trap you here. The Master. Leave, run, now, boy!” He screamed and went upstairs. His mother was gone, out shopping. He ran into his living room and hid underneath a blanket until she arrived.

i wish there was a warning
i could wear around my neck,
the kind you would recognize
from the beakers in your lab.

careful: volatile substance.

maybe then
you wouldn't be so shocked
over my habit to disappear,
my body evaporating into air
and leaving nothing behind
to even let you know
i had ever been there at all.

There are few impossibilities, one of those being the ability to follow science. Pure science is too far ahead to be followed.
That which is left in the resulting wake of exploration isn't scientific. Science isn't claims made by News Science and marketers for trillion $ industries. Science isn't a scientific research paper funded by The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation or The Rockefeller Foundation: That's simply business as usual, and it's been like that for centuries.

“Follow the science” is this era's “Sol orbits Earth”. Can you do science or do you merely script and parrot slogans and opinions. Are you capable of writing your own research paper or do you merely read the research papers of others.

Science on its own teaches nothing, and nothingness; experience teaches.

A scientist isn't a labcoat, beakers, and sponsorships. I've had some of the most adept scientific mentors on the planet come to unanimous consensus that I'm too idealistic for this world. I was ******* from the get-go lol. There isn't a universal constant and universal law that I can't conceptualize and understand inside-out, and I now know less for certain than I did when I was 5 years old. But, every second person claims to be scientific. *******.

Knowing how macromolecules chain into larger polymer chains, and how those polymers chain together to cause a tangible “object”, so to speak, is being an eternal Padawan Apprentice following a creek bed in the bedrock of an echochamber canyon that reverberates to the choir. Knowing how the tests, medicine, drugs, cosmetics, foods, and most everything else that people absorb and use, function and interact, and being careful to snot mistake co-relation for direct-strength causality, is a very alienating existence in society. Most everyone supposedly knows most everything: It has the atmosphere of a morgue and slaughterhouse merged into a box for this Brave New World.

Cattle life is but a blue screen dream to merrily row through to the hypnotic beat of North America's nightmarishly silent screams.

Apex power and hyper-philanthropists
could've been transparent, dropped the
Technocratic Wizard of Oz horseshit act,
simply asked for Martyrs who “follow the science” to step forward in the name of science, progress, and duty to free society and the good of the whole,

and most of the denatured cowards,
heartless tin soldiers, and dumbed-down scarecrow double agents for Empire,
would've come forward in lock-step, lined up along the fool's gold brick road to receive
the shots of Kool-AIDS in a sense of duty, piety, virtuosity, and self-righteousness,

regardless.

Could've been transparent, explained that
the Fiat economy crashed, that it's being held
up with strings as illusory slop for the trough, that The Fourth Industrial Revolution is being ushered in, and 75% of the global population doesn't have Golden Tickets to The Great Show.

I've always promoted and advocated for medical ethics and proper informed consent.

Laboratory lights sizzle
In the presence of the
Midnight scientist.
Irate tinsels of electricity
Strike his apparatus,
And coerce the limp,
naked corpse outstretched
On his table
Back to life.

Contrary to the scientist’s
Great expectations,
The corpse wails at the
Discovery of his renaissance.
In a vehement tantrum,
He thrusts test tubes and beakers
Left and right,
Each shattering and leaving
Chromatic, flammable residues
On the sensitive floor.

“You FOOL. Do you not understand
That you have deprived me of HEAVEN
And its splendorous elation?
Do you not realize that you have wrestled me
From the benevolence of the angels
Only to reacquaint me with the
Wickedness of the earth?
No crime is greater than this cursed
Life you have bestowed upon me.”

“But Charles, I loved you like a brother!”

The laboratory lights sizzle
In the presence of
Smoke and inferno.
The walls recede into powder,
And blanket the deceased.
Both mangled corpses,
Reduced to smoldering bones,
Lie solidified with arms reaching
Toward Heaven
With jarring smiles on their faces.

It hurts where? Yes, it will hurt everywhere.
Stethoscope there in the room with stainless surfaces and a ticking,
No it is a tapping behind the walls stirring the blood snared along with something inside of me.
Potions and cures, then sealed containers of flowers and beakers locked away remain motionless.
As if hiding, as if afraid.
Rather, enlightened of the cells I carry.


Befriend the gallops of illusion.
Four horsemen down from the failing ceiling.
Postmarked dollhouse, scars on the ceiling, echoes joined to you at the hip.
Scars of the disease you carry and sprinkle onto chests like so many children's agony.

Hooves carry eyes to scan this barren nest of yours.

There,
the ruins of something innocent.

And there,
the photos of some memory discarded.

Assured with the reality that creation of life is but fantasy here, unattainable.


The innocent fall.

Smiling as they enter, your charms masking the smell of your closet's skeletons, a door revolving unhinges.

The coins you receive, coated in thumbprints and neglect. Mirrors of your frame.
A currency, your own currency of moans and gnashing.
Your small teeth becoming your permanent incisors.
Crumbling.
Powder then paste, yet you remain alive.

They become your master for sixty nine dollars.
They became your lover for want of a token.

Tokens forged in the booth appearing near noon.

Nothing else or again.

Then the drummer moves to erase the music of your past.

A vat overfilled with murmurs and spittle.

Your finished symphony.

Loving is strong but hate is all knowing,
Ripping a heart is much quicker than sewing,
It's harder to see what is painful is growing
When you know what you find home has skeletons showing.

Keep enemies strong and all your friends weaker,
He who sees gunshots sees candles the meeker.
It's not those who drink blood from marvels and beakers
It's what we may find when we call ourselves seekers.

Tell me your secrets but keep hidden your dreams
For what I may say may speak not what it seems.
I live you, I love you but we are the gleams
In the truth of all things when you find what each means.

Don't wait 'till the end for the lock and the key
For dying is nicer than living as me,
Break out the ice and watch it freeze free
Too quickly you'll see that there never was we.