Though I navigated their world with a poet’s compass,
needle pointed northward towards the stars,
sails set open to capture heaven’s winds.
Clear fabric flapping;
I found strangers laughing
at what I had that they were lacking.

But with the quill of curiosity
and the telescope of hope
to chart the rough waters ahead of me,
I became the sea scribe of humanity
wanderer in love with those
who will never love or know me.

Squid ink to parchment,
I write to the complacent
sending cresting waves of
hope, wisdom, and love.
The seas become the ocean.
My arguments become less cogent.
Till, my heart capsizes
leaving no survivors
in this saltwater wasteland.

The melancholy of the wasteland
satiated: pinned down by bliss.
Hanging lamps with unnerving smiles
flickering with murderous intent.
Gas lines are primed and poised
for one hell of a barbeque.
Altruism amounts to nothing
when vultures are involved, adorned in gold.
All seeing death machines
do figure eights across the sky
Spewing heat from the mouth
moves the shadows amongst the darkness.
A rogue wave capsizes sycophants
the weak are run aground
mad, grinning like a facsimile
amongst the remains of a heart
that's imploded.  
Even bloated whales consume for greed
picking dignity from their teeth.
Deny them the glory of being written
if you can pry your eyes
from the T.V. screen.

The world was never going to end
in fire.
It was never thought to.
Now. Thunder comes on.
The raincoat boleros around the street.
   Momentous,
One two slow slow one two. Earth splits
/  an avocado, molten core discarded.

In the southern hemisphere they are waving flags.
Complimentary colors crawl up the sky tiding in.
They are dancing.
     Ba-cha
       -ta,
Me-ren-gue.
     Their hemisphere Charybidises,
trees genuflected.

Quiet. The puddles are sleeping.

In the north. The hemisphere has run aground.
It capsizes. All the bands are going
down playing.

Rain panics off the timpani
prisming.
The brass cherubs in the clouds.
The strings red shift.

At the equator,
an umbrella floats:
1 bird inside it.

She prays in single syllables. Help.
Please.
Quack!

Night #1
Around the dinner table crickets directed a noiseless choir
It's all full of emotion
But I don't know how to
Define a face full of
earthquake expressions
When the stars play guitar
with three broken strings
it sounds like musical genius,
and the grass is waving to it.

"Dude, the moon's coming out now,"
I hear from the crowd.
The autumn brown leaf outside the window
turns green in amazement
And then it swallows the sky whole.

Night #2
I don't even feel my drunkness, I just feel the
highness and euphoria.
I wonder who sees Orion with me tonight.
The triple XXXs behind the drummer and
ringing tambourines scream with
guitar picks and microphones
and I think I know this euphoria is more
powerful than the whisky in my right hand.
I'm the king of upside down guitars that read
"DEATHBOT," and the "B" is backwards
and I don't give a ****.

Night #3
Arnold Palmer and coconut juice
A pair of glasses and a sight that's obtuse
I don't need to see straight
like a wave in the ocean that capsizes at night
And I roll up a joint that is beyond precise.

Dear God. i hope You’re listening, i need to get close. im steady running in the same position.
i can’t get close.
my fingers hurt because i’ve been trying to pen down a letter to her & me & You for me.
im trying to be good.

these past few days i’ve been trying to get my thoughts in unison. working on harmonizing my processes & prioritizing my priorities.

im going to be raw.
i wrote letters to her but every single time i think of sending them to her, i remember that i won’t get much weight with my actions. so i throw them away.

im steady running in the same position.
she’s been thugging lately, in a good way.

i won’t even try to make sense tonight, i’ll let words flow.
****** of the youthful mind, hold me.

play softly, the strings at the back of my mind. be attentive, this tune will catch you.
she’s stroking my medulla oblongata, painting vivid images of passion.
steady running in the same position.

ever looked at someone and feel a conversation going on between your souls? no verbal action, just distance & the space between the two of you.

im steady running from nymphos of the youthful mind.
Father, hope You’re listening. help me to not bend Your will.
i’ve been good. dry cleaned my suit, im ready to walk with You.
i need to get close. but i can’t get close to You.
but im steady running in the same position.

****** of the youthful mind, tell me what do you want me to do to help you, help me, help you. she’s been straight thugging.

ever been so close to a beautiful conversation yet words halt at the opening and you’re left stuck with regret? days later, you remake the scenario and polish on what you could’ve said.

i wrote a letter to her & me & you for me. but i threw it away. wouldn’t have made a significant change anyway.

****** of the youthful mind, i need to get close.
but im steady running in the same position.

she’s been thugging. hat low, sweatpants low, afro hair, smooth skin, smooth **** dancing under the moonlight.
scorpion eyes, deadly eyes. i need to get close.

****** of the youthful mind, my gangster, i need you to stroke my medulla and play a thousand songs at the back of my mind.

im not trying to make sense, i was just trying to let thoughts flow.
Dear Father, can i run away? i want to run away with her, to a place nobody knows. us.
but please help me not to bend Your will.
send me to a golden forest, to the Garden of Eden, so she & i can be Adam & Eve.
we will be good. before then, i need to get close.

******, sing. sing me to sleep, sing away my troubles. i will run away with you.

Father, hope You’re listening. i need to get close, help me not to bend Your will. but i can’t get close. to You.
open the gates for me, im outside.

i need to take control of me and pour out vibes so hard the universe capsizes. ****** of the youthful mind, run away with me.

i wrote a letter to her & i & you for me. but then i threw it away.
don’t even try and make sense of the words i wrote.
don’t ask me how im feeling, just keep your eye on the poetry.

TeddyBearTribe.

I had this tremendous fear.
The mist soon all around;
The water around capsizes.
Substance attends, a funeral of sorts.
I've never ventured this far.
Soon they return, looking back.
Fleeing wildish scream.
My former thought bold.
Such my hope.
Resurfacing the ill fated.
The thought of sinking.
Forced to roam in darkness.
Where would I place my feet.
Perplexed, nothing was the same.
Cold, unable to find comfort.
I drifted, longing to chance the size of waves.
Distant waters courteous in expectation.
I too braced for it.
Becoming motionless.
Awaiting descent.

Not all ships sink.
The voyage extended from strangers eyes.
When the wind stops and the sail settles.
Some peculiar gaze, heavily weighed in length.
The ship sinks.
But this I feel far too late.
I am at the bottom.
The bottom of her heart

Reality has a funny way
Of wrapping itself into a tiny ball
And plummeting effortlessly into
Our wide, gaping mouths
As we raise our luminous faces
To the vast and forgiving skies.
Or spinning itself outward
Into the weightless shadows
Of the wind which beats down
Upon our pale, vibrating chests,
Creating a rhythm that swoons
And capsizes with the wavering
Translucent strokes of the ocean
Upon the pure, unfiltered sand.
Life is too much with us,
As we push our weary feet
Against the all encompassing ground,
Dragging ourselves across
Stormy sidewalks covered in
Old wrapping paper and chewing gum,
Bristling park lawns
Littered with budding clover and popsicle sticks,
Smooth, linoleum floors
Full of traces of the past
Kept real by shuffling feet and 104 degree fevers.
As we continue on,
Through city streets, childhood playgrounds
And hospital waiting rooms,
We carry a little bit of the world with us,
Hidden away beneath forgotten promises
And diluted memories full of
Passionate illusions.
Time is too real to face head on,
So instead we package it up
And ship it away to the future
In the form of 99 cent greeting cards,
Faded blue jeans full of pocket lint and sentiment,
And nine to five jobs that circle endlessly until we can no longer bear it.
It's only in the dark of the night
In between warm, downy comforters
And the slow steady glow of
A dull, canary street light
That it comes to us,
Sometimes only for a moment,
Before it evaporates again
Into the mundane complacent
Lilac and honey fairy tale
Which is life.

The massive plastic rafts get passed on and
loads of new patrons climb aboard,
looking to face a hundred million gallons of white water,
and perhaps find something out there.

Our love has come and gone,
the trip down the Pigeon River behind us,
and we multitudes sorely pack the busses again.
We flop into out shared experience--
a brown leather seat with absolutely no buckles
in case of the end.
We are headed home.

The highway is constant and clear,
and the bus bucks and ebbs and soon
we are convinced it is the mother of us all.

The boy next to me begins to bob his head like a boat at sea
and soon, he capsizes onto my right shoulder.

I don't move, cherishing my place in his
momentary grace;
the calm part of his tumultuous river,
the cigarette to his stooping weathered old man.

Not after a long time,
he shakes awake,
lifts his head and is clearly embarassed.
He doesn't grin or apologize,
just makes small talk, moves slowly forward
down this relational river.

The kids on this bus see a tunnel coming towards us,
and it is subsequently announced.
"Tunnel ahead--everyone hold your breath!"

Everyone gasps as we enter the ground.
It is dark, and I am grateful for this moment,
and I breathe deeply for the first time
a breath not shared.

the fissures spiderweb across
the glaciers, torn asunder
by invisible hands.
a rising tide doesn't lift all ships,
it capsizes them.
the fat cats will turn dead presidents
into sails to catch the earth's dying gasps,
but they will flutter, helpless
to progress in this disaster economics.

green business won't save us.
infinite growth on a finite rock,
a pale, blue dot circling until it, too,
burns up. the tires are spinning
in the mud. we've no other option:
we cannot reinvent the wheel—
we'll have to break it.

reformist logic leaves us soulless,
servants cowed by corporate forces
whose sole motive
is cashing in
on our projects.
they'll serve us up
without a second thought.
they'd raze the world
if they could make a profit.
fascism is capitalism
plus more ******.

we must admit our losses:
false hopes and letter-writing campaigns
are too little, too late.
a petition won't halt climate change.
beat their bombs with hammers
until they're shaped like plowshares.
the Earth will be consumed
by the sun long before
the State saves us
from our fate.
if we're to be prophets
of the future,
then it's time to ******* rage.

Despite our sundry transportations, trains and planes,
I don't believe us to really be voyagers;
The years, months, ticks and tocks that come and go in vain,
Like Ulysses at sea, they're the real wanderers.

Doomed to drift on water, timeless, yet growing old,
Aye, never setting anchor, always setting sail
To the end of th'endless river, where lies fool's gold.
That's all the future is; just Melville's ***** whale.

When the boat is languid, we ask it to go faster,
When the boat is lively, we implore it to stop;
The ship capsizes, it had too many masters
But just go with the flow and it'll stay on top.

We couldn't captain a tiny rubber dinghy,
Time's the real pioneer, and we her passengers.