If it's the farmer's will to harvest this ****
Fill it's heart with anger for it to feel no thing
Before the sap from it's core flow out of it's leaves
The blood on its vein dry up in the heat

For wrath makes a good reliever
From all the roots that was beneath her
Dig it up from it's grave to deliver
And rip it up from the soil and repocess her

For a **** that brings no good
A pest that steal for food
A Vulture that rejoice in death
Is there such a thing as regret?

For the weeds were made bad
From the earth exhalted
To the heavens departed
What mercy can this **** plead?

A **** that churns good air we breath
A rat that for others is a treat
A vulture that completes the cycle of death
Is there a room for forgiveness and help?

If the time for this **** to take a bow
Send it of in ways where no pain is allowed
Like a switch of a bulb turn off it's light
Stop it's breathing in an instant

Never have i felt
So much pain
Explosion after explosion
Of pain
My head feels too heavy
For my weary neck
My stomach churns
And i cant eat
or sleep
I cant think
without my mind hurting
Every light now
even at its dmmest
Is too bright
And it hurts
and noise now
Kills me inside
Theres just too much noise
Im so scatter brained
Nothing makes sense
I cant remember anything
And it scares me
I cant do anything
And i hate it
I cant move
Or ill hurt
But i hurt
If i dont move
Torture pure torture
Thats what this is
God help me please
I just dont know
How i will get through this
If im alone
Laying in the darkness and silence
That has become
My only friend

While whispers shush on sheltered shores, as soon the cockcrow quakes,
the seas descry a skittish sky, sense summer zephyrs wake  –
roused passions neath the sunrise pulse, the whitecaps throb and ache.

Along the crests crawl shallow shades the soaring sun effaces,
and rain in streams belies the dreams that fantasy embraces –
the ocean sprays of yesterdays conceal forsaken faces.

The midday sun has slowed its run, a shrinking puddle steams,
between the knells for shattered shells drift wounded seagulls’ screams –
affection blends but sometimes ends, or so it sadly seems.

At dusk a ruddy disk descends, the skyline's furnace burns  
and neath the swells where Neptune dwells, an undercurrent churns –
a seahorse hides and seaweed bides until the tempest turns.

While twilight hosts the winds with ghosts of barbed electric spangles,
a mermaid braves the crashing waves adorned with starfish bangles –
the spirit yearns in twists and turns entwined in rockweed tangles.

As seven stranded ****** scan the dimple-dappled moon,
eleven sultry sirens serenade a lonely loon –
the breakers pound and sometimes sound a melancholy tune.

Soon gales ignite the briny night and rip the skies askew
with zigzag teeth flashed deep beneath a blazing bolt tattoo –
storms, spent, subside with ebbing tides, then all begins anew.While whispers shush on sheltered shores, as soon the cockcrow quakes,
the seas descry a skittish sky, sense summer zephyrs wake  –
roused passions neath the sunrise pulse, the whitecaps throb and ache.

Along the crests crawl shallow shades the soaring sun effaces
and rains in streams enhance the dreams that fantasy embraces
while ocean sprays of yesterdays reveal forsaken faces.

The midday sun has slowed its run, a shrinking puddle steams,
between the knells of shattered shells drift soaring seagulls’ screams –
the beauty wends but never ends, or so it surely seems.

At dusk a ruddy disk descends, the skyline's furnace burns
and neath the swells where Neptune dwells, an undercurrent churns –
a seahorse hides and seaweed bides until the tempest turns.

While twilight hosts the winds with ghosts of barbed electric spangles,
a mermaid braves the crashing waves adorned with starfish bangles –
her spirit yearns in twists and turns entwined in rockweed tangles.

As seven stranded ****** scan the dimple-dappled moon,
a brace of surly Sirens serenade a lonely loon –
the breakers pound and sometimes sound a melancholy tune.

Soon gales ignite the briny night and rip the skies askew
with zigzag teeth flashed deep beneath a blazing bolt tattoo –
storms, spent, subside in ebbing tides, then all begins anew.

I've been told to write what I feel
But what I feel about you is everything I hate about myself
I used to remember your words with fondness reading them off like love letters as if this was a Jane Austin novel
And now my stomach churns at the thought of you ever speaking to me again
Your silence struck me far more than words ever could and I'm terrified by this thought
So I close my ears to the incoming noise and pick a god to pray to
Because unlike you it doesn't matter if they wake up and decide I'm not worth any more of their time
They're not real but you didn't feel real either
We connected over four hours of traffic and wavelengths
Throughout our lives we seemed destined to cross but never touch
Just two parallel lines running alongside one another
And one of us tried desperately to travel a different path
Leading them to where they ought not go
Yet fate is fragile
It doesn't bend to yearning and wishful thinking

365Nectar #8    Crescent City Blues                      
Tues. Oct 1,2013 10:21 P.M.

In the deepest attic
the thumping blues
paint pastel portraits
of the Crescent City

In burning ripples
words slap strangers
taking refuge in Armstrong Park

Slender, ****, and Shorty
growl muted tones that ravage old bones
whip thru Mid-City
and saunter thru the Garden District
all just practice to sizzle in a wild tap dance in the Quarter

High steppin Indians
march toward God
and defy gravity.

Roaring second line
being led by woman powered Pinettes Brass Band
hold rush hour traffic hostage for days
belting greasy mingling tunes
in the eye of the dusty moon

A pitch black struggle
with the old moon
liberated old souls
entangled in soaked strings
and sobbing fingers

A quintet churns and
challenges the loneliness of pain

Strumming fingers
make out with
humming strings
under a starry blue grey sky

Stomping down long black Oak-lined roads
blowing thru shotgun homes
like winter cold howling
lifting heavy weights
from shoulders
like the sun shifting against bad weather
the blues lady
open the veins
of drunken roses

Lungs full of tears
Irma holla's, cries, and moans remedies
north south east and west of a street called Desire
Oh Etta
At Last

Dim Misty light
cast a heavy shadow
on wiggling spirits
as they cast off pain
Allen Toussaint
in smokeless blaze
tips the night air

Kermit blows
Dusty blues
seducing suffering souls
bounding them to each other in bliss

Whispering around town
in a perfect velvet midnight
sweet exhalations of song birds from corner joints
dance the Ruffin groove

fiery trebles wave at people passing by

Down right ***** blues
muzzles twilight
trombones,tubas, and trumpets
lay harmony
under the harmonious thunder
of the Marsalis Masters
and low down deep
in a musty sleepless corner
is the missing Bass-man..

hung over.

Copyright ©2013  Crescent City Blues

The ghost boys howled like loons. The ghost boys
had bodies that twisted away without warning, bodies
that forgot to root themselves down anywhere,
unless they were rooting their hands down onto skin
without warning. When I was younger I scraped my hand
onto my pronounced clavicle. My initial reaction was to bleed.

You loved the girls that lined the public bathrooms. They had
brown hair that reached down to their jawlines and they
filled the gaps and the gums of their teeth with orange juice,
to raise their blood sugar, after they vomited, after the cuts
appeared on their faces (doctors’ orders). Their cuts
curved outwards like fields of orchids. Back then, standing with them,
my stomach was sharp as a state I’d never been to.

I’d never been to Georgia, with its strong heat.

Your face in a dramatic bed is not without heat. I am not cold. I was born
in the state far north of here, the state with the birds (flycatchers, kingbirds,
vireos) and the gas station. The gas station never caught on fire, although
I had a dream of you in my bed: in it you were on fire,

the fire mixed with heartburn. Quickly you turned into my grandfather.
My grandfather liked to sit in his brown wool armchair
and smoke pipes and eat black currant pie and listen to Merle Haggard
on the record player, in the wooden house, next to the lake that in late
December rippled with waves. Grandfather died in December.

I still don’t know how to have dreams in black and white.
I don’t know how to lucid dream, either.

Your body, no matter what, mixes with shadow.

A feeling, an ocean and a dream to describe:
It’s another mid afternoon morning and the sunlight billows through the windows and pierces my eyes; they fight for consciousness and after some struggle with my two-ton eyelids, I managed to pick myself up and stagger off to the shower. Twenty minutes later, cleaned and clothed, I make my way downstairs to see what faces still linger in the house from the night before. With each step from under my feet comes a cold shrill scream; the nails, with a century of twisting and turning wiggled themselves free. With the slightest exchange of pressure, the nails give way and plunge back into the body of the stair from which they had escaped.  
It’s quiet downstairs. There’s not a sound; no voices of laughter echoing from the floors and off of the ceilings, not a sound of friends or strangers’ feet as they scramble to rustle up their clothes and belongings from the night prior. I had grown accustomed to hearing this in the morning and in all honestly, I’ve grown quite fond of the array of faces that had made camp here for the night. Usually this means front row seats to a race track where they all spin and run into one another to get started on their endless lists of routines and obligations. For the lucky few who get to vacation rather than push papers on the weekend, this meant a new companion and hopefully a day of company. Unfortunately, today the house is hallow, so empty it could make someone dream.
After pacing the house for a bit, the stillness starts to settle in; the leaking faucet growing unbearably ever more predominate with a slow crescendo of slurred reminders, drip no one’s home, drip you’re alone, drip what are you going to do? Drip, drip and the deafening silence like a parasite is crawling its way up and under my skin. My feet and hands get restless so I grab my acoustic guitar and head for the door.
On the porch, I take refuge on the cool concrete and light a cigarette; as the cherry churns the paper burns slowly, mimicking the melody of minors strummed ever so softly. My mind starts to wander, slipping into its self, lofting away like the ribbon of smoke from the cigarette. How funny it is that the greatest of men and minds have achieved the unbelievable; they unraveled the wheel, the moon met man from a tin can, empires leveled by the push of a button and as a tired heart’s tick softens, a surgeon’s scalpel cuts open and easily replaces it. With all the trophies brightly polished placed on the mantle of man there is not a space for the trophy that is truly worth parading; a cure for emotions. Irony, like a well aged whiskey, drunken my humor and ferments my appreciation. As a disease loneliness infests like a tumor, endlessly growing. The thoughts that once retreated so easily at the first hint of war are now back, glowing with vengeance tailored with armies; and they’ve got me cornered, it begins.
I start sinking, farther and farther down, unable to swim in this brackish abyss; any attempt to kick my legs, swing my arms has become a day dream, perhaps its only momentary paralysis caused from my leap of faith from my raft of hope that in my mind I had been previously enjoying the warm weather and smooth sailing; until the vessel caught a flame and was swallowed by the ocean of despair.
The light that once danced all alone up on the surface has retreated from fear. My lungs now burning as they cling to my last breath, they swell with anger, splitting at the seams from the pressure of the ocean’s hand gasping my poor lungs, tension alone compressing my entire chest I can feel the sharp pains as they are growing nearer and nearer to exploding, I clench my already squinted eyes from the burn of ocean’s salt. In some last attempt for survival with my eyes firmly tightened, just as the water starts to creep its way down my throat into my lungs I can feel the water begin to thicken.
No longer sinking into the great void of salted rift tides but resting gently on a mattress of sand. With my back exposed, the sun quickly heats my sopping wet T-shirt, my bones fill once again with life. Have I, by some lottery of luck, washed up on the beach? Scrapping the sand from my eyes in pursuit to unravel this mystery, the sand has magnetized itself to pruned skin and drenched clothing. I clear my eyes to the best of my ability, I can still feel the sand gritting in the folds of my eye lids and after a few fresh breaths of air which fill my sore lungs with relief, I roll over to sit up and dig my feet deep into the sand. I look out shielding my eyes from the blinding sun with my hand. I look to the left and then the right and quickly darting back and forth from each position, there is no ocean in view. What was my inevitable aquatic ending has now vanished; no longer sinking but standing. I am alone in what has become an ocean of sand; a desert of wandering and mystery.
With the blistering sun and vultures circling over head as constant reminder that this is in fact real; I began to stumble about for shelter. After what seemed like hours of hurdles the moon flies high while the sun sleeps in the southern sky, I find myself under a cliff of overhanging rocks; sitting down the rocks are warm and almost caressing. This bit of refuge reminds me of my mother; as a child I remember straying from her in a department store. Unknowing then that she had not been tailing me like a blood hound, until I turned around and as far as I knew she had vanished from the earth. After sprinting and retracing my steps like map I see her, the site of her from across the store fills me with joy, still sprinting I run to her, eyes like a fountain they poured into her arms as she held me there in her arms; they were warm and safe.
A faint smile crawls its way onto my face and the same tears of relief rain from my eyes and floods the ground; the sand now flooded starts to move vigorously from side to another. Out of the mist of their rumbling out gets pushed a blade of grass, and then another and another one by one pull their way out of the sand  to the surface; as the flowers start to blossom the slumbered sun awakes to a lush field of flowers filled with life. Within the field I move freely about, running in circles of familiar joy; the large sunflowers sway in the breeze of my arms as I run past them. The garden is beautiful with explosions of color all around held by peddles of flowers, and a small pond in the very center; a garden this perfect had to have been birthed by a gardener with the most beautiful of hands; Hands much like my grandfather.
Kneeling down beside the pond I splash some water with my hands on to my face to clear the filth from my pores. A gleam catches my eye from the mirror of the water, and I’m staring myself in the eyes. The pond isn’t reflecting what’s circled around me, but it’s reflecting me as a child, a bit older than the child crying for his mother; my face in the reflection, so precious and young just beaming full of life.
As if the pond were a movie screen the memory that had started to fade with age in my memory is playing crystal clear. I can see that little boy surrounded by familiar trees and flowers with the fields running farther than my eyes can see. That little boy is laying on the equally little wooden bridge that stretches over the little pond, my father laying beside him on the bridge with their heads and hands poking playfully over the edge of the bridge. Through the eyes of that little boy I can see a stick in hand trying to catch the nonexistent fish just as his father had showed him. My father looks down at me with a smile flooding his face as he says to me, “you know, Chad; I’m very lucky to have you, you’re all I could have ever asked for in this world. You’re a beautiful boy, a perfect son and I love you very much”. I remember watching a tear roll down the side of his face and watching it fall and disrupt the surface of the pond. Back on the other side of the glass; as his tear hits the pond the ripple breaks up the memory and just like the garden, the pond with the little bridge, my father and his sweet child; they all disappeared just as they had throughout my life. This time things felt different, not the cold touch of my bitter friend loneliness, but seeing that memory polished, shining new brings peace to my heavy heart.
A sharp sting burns my lips, the cigarette now burnt to the filter rips me back into body leaving the army, that ocean, the desert and the garden all behind. From footsteps behind me “I hoped I’d find you here”; I turn around and there she is, standing silhouetted by the sun, my angel. Charcoaled hair and island sky eyes, she had come to rescue me. “Hey you, I was hoping we could spend the day together; are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” I smile and nod my head. “Aright then come on.” and with that no longer in the vantage point window watching, but through a door and living.

The darkness fills my heart inside.
I'm left to burn, char and die.
Why does this sorrow just come to me?
Why do I always pay the fee?
My heart just burns,
The smoke churns
Darkness whispers,
"Come Hither"
And I'm just left to wither.

The shadows hunt,
Like I'm a runt.
Darkness fills a void.
Hell now screams,
Burnt all my dreams
Now I'm burnt and toyed.
Hell now slithers,
Come hither.
And I'm just left to Wither.

stripes of dawn sift through the grey departing night,
and in my home, behind those rays of dust,
furniture warms.
the freedom i love will soon be claimed by an incessant morning phone.
my heart numbs, longs for the kindness, constant kindness of the night

the music of my pulse already starts to fade,
a weight sets in, invisible grimace of so many trailing thoughts unraveled now,
to bear until the darkness-swilling reach of soul can span again...

would i fly at brightened glass in fractured urges,
bolstered yet adrift in any day's torrential memes?
rage at seeming machination's constant interruption of my highest rarity of living well?
or smile at the herdlike expectation's threat to condescend,
and at least scour remnants of the search undone... throughout the day
insufferable choice of final future origins
the mail arrives,
my forehead stops to wonder at the door,
and at that pang of hunger

running, overrun, the mind churns night in such sweet shadow shifts!
to fall, legless and dissolve into the rising light..
as if a Noh play were being heckled through to end by gaudy ads
to jolt us bridgeless from that subtle world
and wander long on lethe banks of noisome blare.
at times i stroll this nowhere stranding here, pretend, and gaze from hiding,
between a wincing coffee swill
imagined easeful face of signs,
"easy as a gentle summer wind..."
tolerant to all, to blow a "selfless" stillness into me
to wave, and smile --breathe a blanket on acuter truths
with which i meet the day enwrapped.

but quietly  i wait... for Time to die:
an hourglass to shatter in the instant of eternity!
and birthe anew each 3 am, create anew--
those  kisses,  frozen  birds  of  static  bliss  become
a moulded wax to shape the plenum love as roaming peace,
darkness-rest to calm a pointless labor,
abate the drift into an unwalled corner's only inward exit--
as whisper hands can cradle nescience
such, that grains become a world,
in which invented seas are sweeter than the toxic real
whose bitterness a cherishing of death unveils awry,
or right as winter dust.
i yearn in flight and add to fullness,
find fullness once again
to hover equipoised at love's encrusted center,
where pain gives way to peace i cannot have.
if i would have this other 'purest' love,
and for instance find the meaning once again in wartime's bated negligence--
as in a perfect silence wind can brush the lips with all of life's aroma--
and as a gentle fire smouldered long,
at Spring, ignites within the splay of tender leaves--
so archetypal solitude of being beings manifolded one, i may fulfillment find...

i may go find myself alone now,
or swagger to an ancient drinking song,
or fall into those evening arms,
to find abated also, idols of the heart in each
for what the greater heart amends...
all for yearning better worlds
the pain has sent me reeling prone--
curling at complacent murmurs,
coos of love to torment all without
wherein i wallow, fallen from all heights,
absurd escape, removed---surrounded still
by so-called metalove, abject phantasmal swoon
i grit my teeth against,
as heaving sand would send the shore to sea and drown nostalgia evermore,
as only total extrication serves to quell an everpresence such as this,
ringing in the twilit dew,
or starlight whirl--
or inverse in a heedless curse--
horizons cease in this expanse
surging at the birth and death of things

"The Ocean," she describes,
"Is unlike all else
A second, thriving world
Hidden in itself,

"A universe, an entity,
Stronger than most,
It can't be captured,
Confined, upon any one coast

"It's a playmate, a home,
A source of life,
A breathtaking beauty-
When seen from the side…

"But in the middle of its core
With no land in sight,
The Ocean is treacherous
Even when right

"At any one moment
In the calmest of seas,
A storm can arise
That brings you to your knees

"Tears, screams, fighting,
It won't turn the tides
The Sea churns its own way
Once you are inside

"You can't stop the waves from rolling,
No one can;
You can't cage the currents
Or hold them in your hand,

"The Ocean claims the lives
Of those that dare cross it
And should you look for land
You'll find you've had lost it

"It pulls you in mercilessly,
Cradling, and clawing,
A little of both
In each breath you are drawing,

"It's a life force, and death
The honesty of nature,
Hidden in every shell
Each reef, every fissure

"To be respected, and feared,
A power like no other,"
She looked at her hands,
And she started to shudder.

"Never to be controlled,
But will control us in turn,
The fury of water can scorch us,
Can burn…

"You're never the same,
After you swim,"
She took a breath from explaining,
Conflict, and turmoil, within.

"It's eighty percent of our world,
To some even more,
It gives us all life,
But commands even more

"The only force yet
To be tamed by man,
He doesn't understand
It's path over the sand

"The Ocean," she whispered,
"Is a terrible thing,
Beautiful, miraculous,
But a dangerous dream…

"No hostages, no quarter…
To withstand the journey,
You must have sheer will,
And be just enough crazy

"The Ocean," she said,
"Makes you feel small,
It's bigger than prejudice,
Than reason, than law

"The Ocean," she shivered,
"I only just found,
Is the only thing in this life
As equally profound…

"As love," she breathed,
"And here, as I sit,
Describing its powers,
Am I realizing it…

"So wild, so thrilling,
So dark, so beautiful,
So twisted, so intense,
So 'winner takes all',

"The Ocean is vast,
And as fickle as the heart
And once it catches you
It won't let you part

"Even if you want to…"
A drop of water spills from her eye
Her own bit of Ocean,
Falling from lidded green sky

"Love and the Ocean,
I understand now…
We don't choose how we feel
Nor how the storm howls..."

She describes all this,
On the edge of her boat
If she were to jump
Would she sink… or float?

Would the Sea deem her worthy,
And shelter her from strife?
Or would diving in be the final
Forfeit of her life?

Tear after tear
Fell into the waves
Love flowing,
No cry does she save

"It doesn't matter," she decides,
Falling inside
The coolness, and warmth
Wraps her into the tides

Yes, the Ocean is a force,
Not to be careless of,
But so is the force
Of a woman in love

What happens to her now,
Only the Ocean can say
But until it chooses
Here, she will stay.

And she, nor no one else
Can ever hope to tame…
The wild churning, deep within,
Caused just by his name…

You ignore me.. oh;
but I keep on staring you,
to make me feel good;
your smile is just enough.

And you cut me down;
I bleed but you don’t care though,
and I still hold on;
all your memories, you know.

I am standing here, all alone;
walk away; walk away,
don’t wanna hear all your lies;
for all the times you say-ay-ay-ay.

I’ve seen the real you;
still I stick to my guns,
but you don’t give a ****;
no matter if all my gut churns.

I am content with loneliness;
but its so hard to trust,
it just couldn’t happen to me;
and all my hope turn to rust.

Still am standing here, all alone;
walk away; walk away,
don’t come around ever again;
if you’re not gonna stay-ay-ay-ay.

© Shreya ♥

“I messed up.”
I only wish it didn’t
take you this long
to realize.
“Can we talk?”
My whole body aches,
yearning to say yes.
“Are you there?”
Yes, I am here.
“Please answer.”
I surely don’t think
I have that strength.
“I still love you.”
My heart beats,
my stomach churns.
“You were the best
thing that ever
happened to me.”
Funny,
I used to think the same
about you.
“Why aren't you answering?”
“Because for 7 months;
I waited.
You tore me apart,
it felt like I was drowning.
You didn't even look back.
Not once.
How can I just forget that?”
I hit send.
“I’m sorry…”
“I’m sorry too.”*
Except this time,
I don’t hit send.

I've memorized the dance routine to get down my creaky staircase;
left two three, right two three, spin, skip and check.
Then quickly get into the garage for a way-past-bedtime cigarette.
Once I’m done, I quietly walk into the living room to check on her.
Although my mother has a large bedroom,
her hips are so brittle she's claimed the living room as her nighttime retreat.
My stomach churns with guilt as our puppy leaves her side
tail wagging excited to come greet me,
something she never does for my mom.
Alone on the couch,
her desperate attempt for the shared affection our dog gives her children
clearly having failed; I nearly collapse from the guilt.
If only I could force that dog
to give her the one thing she needs, craves and deserves.
Why must the world be so hard for some, and easy for others.
Where people have their lives destroyed,
their lovers killed, their passions crushed
and others sail through it all in bliss.
Why can’t this ******* puppy go back to sleeping at my mother's feet
to show she loves her as much as my brother and I,
instead of following me back up the stairs.


A clumsy dog wouldn't know to avoid that bottom step,
my mother wakes to cold feet.

~for the wild child, daughter, wife, mother~



I am drifting into the tender part of the night, when deceit is pointless, and I argue with conviction within myself that in our lives that it will never be too late, but I know I contradict my prior musing...somewhere between the fact that time is a wasting commodity, precocious and precious, lives this idea within, that there is nothing that cannot be navigated, recompensed,  even forgiven...

the argument goes on, the tide of battle switching back and forth, and for now I must be satisfied with the meagerness of I can’t give up, be at ease by acknowledging defeat, not just yet, and the fast arrival of a clean slate is a chance, a draw, a ticket to ride, and,

reaching

is a wonderful idea, full of compromise, out and in, extra effort, and tomorrow I may yet teach one of us, even myself, by reaching inside of what churns within, and then have the perfect words you require, for a desperate need, and a comforting that comes forth easily

I was told that he-
   Yes, but were you told by him?
I heard that she-
   Yes, but did you hear from her?
I know that you-
   Yes, but do you know me?

My stomach churns to sour froth
when people know because they hear.
If you allow distant whispers to define knowledge
then your truth is ridden and diseased.
Such wounds fester, rotting in the filth of lies.

Stop feeding these ****** vines.
They are barbed and poison and coiling.
Constrictors of death: and they will absolutely consume you
squeezing until your pathetic, bitter brains
ooze liquid from your shattered skull.

If you are not a part of something, leave it be.

Guttural screams and the ****** beating churns all the more.
Walking west into the dying light, shadows linger about waiting to seize the Earth in their pseudo claws.
Twenty three miles to the next roadside solace, oasis of vending machine illumination,
the sickly sweet scent of ***** and pine trees, tall in the valley.
A symphony of dusk plays all around, echoes drive the wanderer ever forward, beyond the thin fabric of the known,
just outside the small town, big city, back yard chaos.
Letting the cards fall, jack of spades pops out his proud visage, lays in waiting to slay the king of diamonds and run with his rusted red crown. These are the dreams that stalk his mind, the arrowhead of onyx stone, seeking out the stag's flesh...
Awakes beneath a jagged tin roof on a bed of dead brown needles, damp from the night's war...
shadows are losing their grip as new life rises, standing with creaking joints, sore eyes.
Healing blisters in his worn down dime store boots that cling once more to the asphalt ,cool with the morn's wet kiss.
Nicotine courses through the veins alongside interstate twenty, as the faint remains of ash float over the lips to open air.
Once more the chatter falls silent, the invisible waves of a billion words gone as the road stretches out, mountains rise in the distance and there God sits, waiting...

if i had a million fingers
i still couldn't even count
the amount of lame ****
the hit machine churns out

i don't care about your clothes
and even less about your money
and if you try a metaphor
at least try to make it funny
'cause if you got me laughin'
i might be on your side
when i'm high
but to be honest that's like all of the time
it's a crime
but i'm probably just jealous of
the felons in their prime spittin'
money! cars! girls!
like their life was on the line

i need a new sound
it needs to speak to me
but i'm broke white and lonely
in the hip hop minority

always told
if you want it done right
to do it yourself
so i plan to do just that
and spread these words
to someone else

so if you're sick like me
speak up
get loud
maybe we can slowly
spread the love around
encompassing the ****
surrounding us
until there's just
the drums left
like

to the lush old fields,
i walk back,
filled with young yields.
from where i shall take back
the never ending memories
of my childhood days, i thought
i used to sit by the window sill
all alone and still
to watch the autumn sunshine
that peeps into the pane
the big old oak
and the greedy rook
the cherry blossoms on that lonely lane
the blushing lilies and white poppies
that bloom around the shire
i came from a racing world
where love vanished and is filled with dare
where the sea churns blood
and from where humanity fled
we took everything from her lap
and left it bare of warmth and sprout
none have time now
to look back at the fallen oak
nor the rook on the shabby scarecrow
who guards the barren fields
so scarce the cherry blossoms bloom
as the world began to race
trials narrowed to that little falls
where the running streams
told their weary tales
walls began to build up
huge and strong
nor a drop now came
through that restricted site
climbing further
to the peek up north
my ears caught a dirge
which the nightingale sang
to the dying earth
coz now we have opened the pandora's box
and infected the earth
i wonder where the squirrels went
'fore it was their place
now we encroached it
and to rebuild the woods
of fawn , the trespassers forgot
now all that is left of the brook
is a concrete wall
nailed to it a new plastic board
with bold letters printed
read: TRESPASSERS NOT ALLOWED"

Coyote’s mournful howl echoed
in the new moon’s enchanting sultry ether;
breathing the living harmony of the wilderness rhythm

He seemed to sense a soul reincarnation
      within a pervasive spirit light
      an oft misunderstood
      common thread shared
      this hallowed land’s night

An uncommon Zen stirring from within,
              stifling apathy ..,
. . . of rumble deep beneath
      a dormant volcano reawakening ;
      that which lies undiscovered
      just before the ruptured moment ..,
      liberation of release ―
      dust and ashes taking flight

Through open window              insomnia churns
                          fifty shades of blue ..,
      cast in shadowed hues of broken silence

Coyote stirred the stillness
      with a hauntingly familiar cry
      reading the ridge-top echoes
      like the book of my mind

" YIP YIP   A ―W O O H !!! " . . . the somber plea

For it is in these final hours chosen chore
      the recurring torn
      these chains and things

Coyote was going there ―
      to stand these watermark crossroads
      this hour of need

Accepting brother has always been lonely
      sometimes anything
      means something - -
and so it goes ..,

Coyote communes in pulse
      from ancient realms
      this sacred blood ..,
                Om
         the lost chord

      wounded healers ,
. . . one mutual spirit
      runs marrow deep
      where dogs run free

The moan of doves whisper to the impending dawn
. . . always known these days
      too soon do come and gone

What once was a life well lived ,
      s l o w l y     e v a n e s c i n g
      like the summer river’s flow

some say ..." you never miss the water
      'til the well runs dry "
. . . regrets a waste of time - -

Rumination, a loathsome silent reverie
      a taunting unsolved koan

      an unplanned oxymoron ,  
      beget of a deafening silence
. . . dust sleeps with indifference
      veiling a beautiful handmade
      unstrung guitar
      muted - - abandoned,
      tone poems, unsung

and so "re-begins" the task ...
      come what may rise up
      into the dark star's light ...

Coyote was going there - -
      a dawning metamorphosis
      under another nebulous sky

. . . refreshed by Luna's potent alchemy bestrewn
      in her spellbinding lambent moonlight elixir of life ...


harlon rivers  ... 5. 21. 2015

You will wonder why your chest feels so tight whenever her name rolls over his tongue. Not me, but the other one.
The one who will always have a place in his heart.
Don't give up yet,
but listen to every story of them.
It will break you for sure, but you will know how once he loved someone that much.
You will find yourself think about him continually.
When you walk alone on the street,
when you are with your friends talking about life,
or simply when you wash your dishes.
You will think about him
in any places
in any situations
The thoughts of him will make your stomach churns,
like you've been riding a roller coaster for so long
Sometimes the excitement will put you on the top of the world
but then reality will take you down,
twist you around,
and flip you over.
Again. Don't give up yet.
Bring him muffin or take him out to have fudge brownie ice cream on the weekend. Those are his favorites.
Remind him to not sleep late because he will get tired and grumpy in the morning,
tell him it is okay not to be perfect all the time,
and the most important thing
be there for him when he is unhappy with his life or when the memories of her keep crashing back to him.
You might prepare a band aid for gashes that will be left in your heart.
But please don't give up yet.

these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
   as they    pick up a mound of the Earth and  throw at genuflected  roses.
these battered men   in parks   searching  for light
   and   my woman   is no longer with  me.

it’s all  vaudeville:  this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant  flutings,   these  unprecedented fluctuations.

opening  the yellow gates  to death
as the  automobile churns the  last of its exhausted snarl.
   we    are children   peering through   glass cases
as   death laughs at his   hopeless  clientele,
    sad,   desolate   progenies   in   working-classes,
in   parks,  in factories,   somewhere along Mendiola,
  or  just treading the waist-high  hellish   froths   of   Dapitan,
    there’s   always   death in   the nooks   of the quiet
and from   where birds    stir in  sidereal circles,   death
  with his hands    resting   on the   cage,   chases us  back to  our homes.

death   the changing of the   gatekeeper.
death  the   telling machine.
death   the dentist.
death   my next door neighbor.
death,   this boorish broken-winged   Maya twitching in  front
   of my dog’s shadow  shot out of the Sun’s  shameful recoil.
death,   my loud and loutish muse,
death    the   truant,
death,   the   copious  fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
   death,   in my   hands through   darkness    and  light,
death   through troves   of enigma,
      death   through   undisputed clearings,
death    the   long line  of red beads   in EDSA,
  death  the gates   of Plaridel,

     it’s the moon   following you,   trailing your measure,
i hold   my woman’s used   shirt,  pick up her photographs
    and there’s no tender movement left but  the still-seeking   lion
prowling   the jungles   of my  heart,   seared by  lovelorn undoing.
  
through   the  bottom of  the sky and the  unchanging roof-beam,
  the weathervane ceases to  a sojourn  and the  wind is  trapped
    in   a place  where we   cannot   utter any word  between the  gnashing
  of   our teeth – through the wasted   years,  through  the sleeping in  and out
  of   homes filled  with beatings,  to cathedrals swollen with  tribulations,
      and to   the vineyards     wrung   out   of wine,    my  lover,   walking  through  fire,
        sound     silence.

The heat singes my fingers as the strength leaves my legs
The sweetness hits my nose as I blow worry out of my mouth
I think it's hesitation but it's peace that slows down my hand
Peace is the mini smoke stack that churns stress and life to a smiling cough
I'm not clear but I'd rather be blind then look in my minds eye
I like the discord, the order has grown to heavy to handle

This one time, in biology, we learned how to take samples of fish in water, I don't like fish
And I don't like this feeling of churning up old stuff
You had to scrape the bottom ten times and then take a step and repeat
Going back over the things that happened between me and you is the very same
My stomach churns like the water in that lake
And I'm a little fish getting lost in the chaos, finally to be trapped in the net
And all the dirt, the mess and the muck, that's  
Those days, after you left, where everything was dark again
Like that one time, not in biology, I felt that I was stuck down a well, and I was clawing at the mud but I couldn't get out
And in Chemistry, I got some acid on my skin
And I let it burn
Because it was nice to feel something else
Other than the murky, brown mess
And now, I'm that little fish, churned up and confused, waiting for the water to settle so I can swim away
They say you can't swim in the same river twice because every second it's changing
And reliving this and reliving us is a little different each time as it gets further, more distant from the first time
I hope that the little fish keeps swimming til she finds the ocean, I don't think the little fish could cope being churned up and caught just one more time

Ill-gotten knave!  Thy witless candle burns
Bright as a baboon's ****!  Thy gnarlèd brows
Greet, meet and mingle like the wildling ferns
And thy breath turns and churns insides of cows!
Thou stompest me? Ha! Bring thy brothers all,
Beneath my steely boot thou shall be trod!
Dust be thy supper, feast upon thy fall,
Eat hearty of thy just deserted sod!
Thou comest hither with thy merry folk,
Thou japes a merry jest upon my kin?
Thy bandy leggèd jiggery a joke,
To spilleth of mine cup is thine own sin!
        If thou be not afraid, let thee not hide,
        My gauntlet speaks! Will thou comest outside?

Gabe's off with friends, road trip to Valley View
Gadzooks, oh my
No work on Friday
Which of a quadrillion projects
Will I pursue?
There are poems to be birthed
Sculptures to be honed
Power bars to be cooked
Appointments to be booked
But the Big One, that towers over all
The Once a year, Grandfather
From which one mustn't stumble or fall
Elevation of fourteen thousand, two hundred fifty five feet
Of 15 miles of hiking, massive and sweet
Says now or never, tiny mortal…!
I must summit Longs Peak
Inside me the need churns
To visit the Old One, & learn what I must
There are memories to be made, lessons to be learned
And learn what I must
Before I turn to dust

Although flummoxed by the gabble of hibernaculum I seethe with the verdant quiddity that is a cross-pollination that spans the gamut of historical memory and owns the usucaption of infrastructure equipping our bootstrapped capacities of literacy tethered to the ecumenical capacity for proliferation through amplified discernment that percolates at decorative gallop into the stridor of unified apothegms that quantify the visibilia of the broadened universe into the nexility of formula bounded by the parameters that equip synergies of space-time to envelope its own reification and magnetize urbane freebooters of coalescence to grapple with the ineffable mathematics of absorbed losses in the human fraternity becoming overlooked because of the providence of shepherded acrimony to escape the oblivion of barely marginal exponential extinctions of impropriety into fast-paced panoramas of expedited dalliance with optimums constrained by the effluvia of hinderbaggle which exist only by domineering mercurial lability of manufacture enabled by the siphon of Promethean reason to catapult the slogmarch of advancement by punctuated achievements registered by canonical gravitas to revolutionize society in longevity and interplanetary awareness that places a 1000:1 premium on a 165 IQ in comparison to a 110 IQ. Although bewildered by the beaucoup of raxed originality the anoegenetic flux of slogan achieves but a petty solidarity in comparison to the galvanized bronteum of registered invention that provides decisively seminal locomotive prowess to the foisons of promulgated ingenuity propped up by the capacity for raltention that exceeds the inherent longevity of humans on Earth into the permanence of memory to achieve radical vanguard frontiers within diminishing frames of a once vapid time recorded only through the lens of finicky preoccupations of crude retention rather than the kinship of the perceptive unity of the authors who remarked on history to share the same vantage with the distant onlookers upon that very history with such a convergence of judgments the photons that trespassed on inquisitive eyes of inquierendo are the very same blueprint for the modern savory traipse with selfsame perceptions embedded in canonical history like the spool of an exact daydream unfurled before inoculated eyes differentiated by context but achieving the same visual footprint of historical lineament provided by the original exemplar. The luxury of our provisional prosperity is the unique ability to browse spontaneously a two-century travail of perceptible records embedded in the same perceptual rudiments captured by the original vetuda thereby enabling the specificity of prowess to vicariously encounter distant gulfs of time with the simultaneous realization of past becoming present tense because beyond the revisionism of the censors the human lineage originates in approximated design tethered to the aboriginal photographs and hallmark expenditures of celluloid digitized into annealed constellation to provide separate junctures in space time with the same indelible percept decontextualized but potent by showcase of the verdure of the generosity of shared perception rather than cleaved faint traces of divergent imagination conceiving junctures by distal lurches of insular harbors of private registries of tact and discretion without the shared raltention of the plevisable entities that populate the fragmented lineage of space-time to achieve full congruence in percept first and abstract eventually as neuroscience slogmarches with the nockerslug of invidious depredation of sanctanimity. Adrift in iconoduly sustained by lambent monasticism of abnegation we were lost widows of insular idiosyncrasies of similar concepts separated by the longevity of imagination redacted into communicable formula to ensure the divergence of impact of liturgies heterodyne by vast distances but linked to archaic designs that formed the paradigms which eventually merged with the wiseacres of Renaissance conserved in momentum over centuries into the information capital that forms the futtocks of the girdle of a womb matrix of society sustained by a newfangled uniformity of exposure that slowly churns the collectivism of memory and the syndication of the cartel into the ubiquity of prominent thorns of perception magnified by iconography of the megalography of historical permanence evasive of censors and embracing the entelechy of coherent perceptions siphoned by different engineers but arriving at precisely the same conceptual imprint thereby unifying the perceptual world with the usucaption of leveraged networking of browsers of antiquity. The finesse of leapfrogs of modern human impediment is to scour the reaches of the troves of the most vivid imagination and expedite the turnstiles of conserved rollercoasters of enthusiasm probed by the cadasters capable of castophrenia to syndicalize the autonomy of human perception sejungible from indelible vivid footprints of abstraction upon an interface of truly hard-won vehicles of transmissible abstraction to win the arduous relish of once a vacuum of infested instinct into an algorithm of an intelligent source that creates the precise conditions of parallax to seed through celestial hosts the flourishes of stereodimensional traces of permanent cadaster into something that elects beyond the ethereal snatches of oblivion the provisional apportionment of sentiment above continence to set ablaze the rarefaction of raltention and quantify the intelligible impact of one artifact of civilization over the constellated taxonomy of all apothegms within the divine grasp of a sublunary eternity revived and recycled into syndicated scrutiny that bows to a convergent entelechy of instantaneous improvisation of perdurable registry into indemnities that litigate the humorous quizzical trangams of vastly outmoded obsolescence borrowing from panspermatism of technocracy to the edgy appeal of scintillating horizons of peerless scope that approximate the ommateum of approximated omniety but never span far enough for the distant riometers to see for deputized galaxies to be evoked in concrete human-alien achievements sempervirent and virulent guardians of the toil of sensation to refract off of its overhang because of redundant upbringing to shelve the incendiary impediments of the chary into the corsairs of revelation beyond gamuts of lurch and bypassing elapsed regress to arrive at ceremonial progress to trespass upon many minds with a unified concrete hypostasized entelechy of a fielded incorporation of organic life into a manufactured cycle of the most prolonged and beatific longevity capable of digestion and implementation from the toolsheds of hubris accelerated by the vainglory of subsidized harmonies that break through the barriers of language to sprout convergence in direct opposition to entropy to achieve oculate ommateum.The opponents to the logical syndicalism of positivism emergent as the verdant drape of homogenized pasteurization of raw lavaderos that capsize swallock and devour consciousness with predatory mobilism is the tregounce of the ponderous imprints of recapitulated stupidity which is easy to quantify in terms of human rarity because the difference between a 130 IQ and a 155 IQ is a difference in ingenuity power than exceeds 25:1 or an even higher margin of liquidation of indebted concatenations forming the flombricks of capitalized language finessed into burgeoned growth to radically shift postulates into abstract precision that observes the flanges of the dominion of inculcation into the filibusters of gainsay that supersedes hearsay in an evolution of the dialectic to exert transformative esemplastic rejuvenation that transcends creed and ingeminates the festivity of spectacle with the alvantage of albenture to such an extent it predicates new modalities of persiflage grounded on the aggressive patented expansion of the noosphere to inherit the instincts of orthobiosis while simultaneously inheriting the flair of redoubled ingenuity swarming with the vespiaries of predatory discretion working to ***** out glaring beacons of sapience so that intellectual capital is a local rather than ubiquitous emergence because of the prizes of urbacity enhanced by systems of masonic creed that preserved foresight with varying degrees of exactitude knowledgeable about outcomes but incidental in creating those outcomes out of the alchemy of the convergent sphere of spacetime to curve to synclastic pancratic refinement realized in the taxation of the most domineering figures of canon to indoctrinate the inkburch of wernaggle while the panorama of peripheral obscurity adduced by the resourceful few provides the progeny for a seminal equation that encounters the quandaries of precise retention amplified by the synergies of language exponentially grown by the depth and breadth of lexicon siphoned through mechanisms of percolation seeded by the convergent progeny of hindsight meeting foresight to a truce in the elected interests of the filagersion of the spotlight highlighting a universe that only exists with self-aware reification rather than plodding animated instincts of a stagnant match with a slowpoke evolution that scrawls the gabble of the vacuums of faint oblivion knowing only pain, agony and brief felicity but never registered into ecosystems capable of enriching themselves with artifices of origination rather than vapid retrenchments of the stale vapor of the exigencies that plague the intellectually bereft with tertiary deskandent perfunctory desuetude outstripped by the parsecs of the 170 crowd who secretly orchestrates the think tanks that run the furtive cryptadia of regional governance with foisons of fruition realized as dividends of exponential bypasses of even a linear route of the streamline by warping time itself to a spontaneous entelechy that triangulates a warped trigonometry that fathoms what can only be mapped on an imaginary flickering plane of fluxed existence that achieves sub-Pythagorean travel by altering the vacillating distances predicated by the theory of relativity into shortened tracts of abbreviation separating the bridgewaters of locomotion from the vast lurking prowess of reconfigured geometries lurking beyond the shadowy grave of reconnaissance into the penumbra of conservatory refinement. The punctual symmetries of thermodynamic decay met with a conversant offset in reverse acceleration of thermolysis converge with the centripetal prism of annulment to make stalemates of atomic precision appear grandiose to the economic principle of leverage acquired by debt because the discounted cost of symmetrical approximations of sentiment, abstraction and the already syndicated unity of perception vastly scale the scope of the reach of the amenable universe to tractions bound more by eccentricity of parameterized volumes of competing hyperbolas of a warped unity of tugging forces spawned by the differential weights of a flummoxed calculus that provides obeisance in ecumenical uniformity that was absent by degrees through the tinkers of time to adjust the orbits of consideration by tilted warbles of the songbirds that swim in abysses reaching sizable celestial tutelage providing reprisal for quintessential crudity mapped into a syntax of evolved refinement amplified by conserved concatenation accelerated into mastery by the coalescence of new lexicon to probe conceptual space unchartered by the nexility of normal human conduct and therefore bound to a different pattern of evolution that is oleaginous to the engines of revved ostentation in intellectual prowess that is selfsame from the majesty of heaven because of preordained populace meeting transitory flickerstorms twinged with the irony of discursive disclaimer and discretion of disclosure of emissary vehicles that power synaptic vesicles to burst with signal strength harnessing the unity of conscientiousness into a coenesthesia that fathoms interdisciplinary bridges rarely exacted by the formulas of a more rudimentary mind demarcated in taxonomies of scope that are taxemes for unrealized entelechy bristling against the headwinds of doldrum rather than zephyrs of accelerated approximations of the enumeration of elaborate sveldtang into seminal traversals of the inhibitory grasp of narquiddity exceeded by the alacrity of provident discretion in apportioned judgment enough to parameterize vast distances with instantaneous wiseacres rather than rippled mirrors of faint simulations of simultagnosia bounded by the regional scope of subliminal etches of harnessed flombricks invisible to most aptitude measures of working memory but evocative of subroutines that flourish because of the cross-pollination of exasperated sapience clambering for a perpetuity of renewable raltentions conveyed widely and succinctly in indelible tacenda broached by the wisest sophrosyne inclinations to survive the onslaught of traditional nexilities that make obtuse minds hardened by slowpoke myelination and hidebound parameters of achieved convention recursive on reiteration but not expansive on the tracts of genius reserved for the asylum boundary between insanity of delusion and bountiful riches of harvested non-conventional imagination which sometimes pollutes the integral provenance of rapid conveyance. True transcendence is summarily defined as outpacing pace itself to visibly outfox the forsifamiliation of events perceived as distance sworn by the ability of the accelerated frontier to understand the vestiges of the outmoded to the extent redintegration can surpass with imagination beyond the tethers of quddity that narrowcast swallock but refine the space that distances itself from magnitude and achieves a limited vetuda that phenomenalizes the redacted plucky perjury of self-anonymity to identify a novel visibilia of characterized clarity only specialized to the extent the vast sphere of retention exerts a gravitas over footloose fragments of disunity to surpass the skeumorphs of the trailing bolides of distant comets to avoid by meteoric trajectory the lapse incumbent to E=MC^2 which guarantees implicitly in the barter of nebbich chalky rigmarole that the energy of refinement is an abstraction limited only by the coherence of marginal dumose decay to estrange inertia as plevisable from motion and thermolysis as sejungible in partition what cannot be summarily be filibustered by the succedaneum of shortchanged shorthand convenience of the credulity of those who perceive dynamism of delivery as an easily fudged quandary not restrained by the logarithmic slowdown of conservatory inseminations of panspermatism of invention. The riddle of the enigma of neuroscience that presides over classifiable qualia is that the outstretched rax of rectiserial reorganization must gradatim invoke spurious prestige to predicate the entrapment of narrative exponentially slower than the impregnated literacy of an integral harpsichord of mind to finesse the octaves so that sublime majesties become superlative ringleaders of seditious conventions embedded more by absorptive brocrawlers than expressive werniques. We must fashion an orthobiosis that is leniency embodied but plenitude outnumbered by the progeny of its sculpted riches for extravagant spools of tapestries of refinement to be the imprints of legacy compounded by the complexities of inheritance in lineaments situated in the context of overhanging specters and domineering prospects swimming by commonwealth acatelepsy in a maelstrom of revived gammerstang notions of impetuous apostasy benighted by the macroscian and macrobian spans of the captive capture of a Taylor Series of infinite expenditure assuming perpetuity that necessarily converges on organization because of conscientious reversals of entropy into ladders of betrayal against the hegemony of ******* over the synquests of hortoriginality that spurn the castigations inherited from its immodesty of permutation to fixate on global problems of intricacy ragged in salebrosity bereft of the marginal galvanization of hidden inquirendos into artifice contingent upon elapsed epiphenomena of compounded rigmarole resonant with a simplified system of hostage complicity to a least common denominator that belongs to suboptimal refrains issued by Procrustean forces against demassified parsecs of bounded limitations exceeding the volume of perceptible shadows recessive in the alleles of culture but eventually transmogrified into teetotaler totalitarian principles of grave gravities of tabanids to the aceldamas of territorial joust rather than annealed irony of the recidivism of the plucky thorns of percurrent but latent vehicles for oppression to swamp the lethargy of durative formation such that the hambourne atrocity of hambaskets of hinderbaggle grapple mostly with the adolescent excesses of milked pleonexia becoming the downfall of cagey imprisoned syntax bereft of capable constellation and thereby stranded in vagrant proclivities that net positive only in the rare grandeur of my formative axiom of the axiolative excesses of my recensed definition of transcendence. The vacant harbor of asylum of abiding auctions of flexible transistors of wealth is inherently a poolswap of attractive chocolate-box travestime of incurred wreffalaxity suborning the lewd machination of funneled flipcreeks to the commerstargall of incendiary glaciers basking in boardrooms of ataraxic placations of commiseration found in dynamos lamenting degraded embodiments of regaled regelation as seasonal flictions of submerged vanity vaporizing the wisps of whimsical bloated grievances of paltry imparlance to the defalcation of a filigree of mind only sustained by the steady churlishness of preserved relic hibernating in brocrawler pleonasm to grindole the welter of spates of vapid deceleration of successful vibrancy measured in the gamut of hues to exact a penultimate ruse before the finitude of the capstone of capers of fiat remission slick with glamborge of gallionic sciamachy prone to revelry in the cretaceous extinction of monochromatic mathematicization of gradgrind visagists toying with the treacle of blue-sky action billowed into toxic spurts of contrarian aggression of herculean appendages of hackumber providing the bronteum of recidivism to vanquish a righteous trajectory on a pause of Canada Dry conveniences sultry in daft hipsters of tilted stage grafting conclusion prior to rapport of introduced variables of poignant tethers of necessary succor for a desiccated bastion of hidden unspoken reach fizzling into trangams of obsolescence because of perennial inebriations that thwart strong character to scandalize a pinhoked vessel of conscientious objection to the radiology of centerpiece hapless forlorn arid squelches of the vibrant verdure of macrobian dumose shelter for reformatories that invent incidentally accidents otherwise precluded by the ommateum of wasted foresight guzzled on the premium of disaster for a showcase of verve going awry steamy with livid filagersion aimed with a reluctant enmity against the cagey headwinds of recalcitrance inveterate to the scruples of the otherwise unscrupulous who foist lewd licentious philandered paragons of philogeant mysticism to forefront cowcatchers that eliminate kumbaya rijuice of gridlock impressionism guarded by the sentinels of rambunctious destructive attempts to evict intellectual propriety from careens of subtlety barnstorming with polyacoustic nuances of differential gradients of vapid bastions of strident but backwards versamily froward and bountiful of Head Hunter specters rather than heaved recombinations of orthotropism wed with mangers of savory dilettantism of the lionized array of brooks branching into rivulets and the fluminous barnstorm of pelagic awareness interrupted by the finicky prevarications of piggybacked fair-weather allies who secretly fund the slander for the mainour of dirt fundamental to meteoric rises acclimated to dissipated moral vacuums of disbelief of evidentiary miracles among the jostle of scientific regency that slakes opprobrium to illiteracy while benefiting greatly from my perceived barathrum that is rather a crowning ravenous achievement of appetite above substance and distinction varied from prediction that my Titanic zalkengur spared from the unnecessary sacrilege of less accommodating curglaff to the metaphorical hypothermia of albatross in dramaturgy rather than a pause glowering with mastery against my jarred enemies preying on weakened reach due to preeminent dirges of inkburch and swallock to ravage my sanctity with a hyped stage without a starlet daydream fantasia spectacle that is calculated to upstage even in the coverthrow of intelligentsia against the plodding boweries of pestilential raving resentment absconding with elusive enmity rather than cherishing a true trident champion of the seized seas and the traindeque of emulated intellectual accordions of claptrap chockablock pedigree that outlast gallywow afflictions of rapacious venality tenacious to the detritus of constructive detriment building the ashes of effigy before I am dead and buried with the storge of perennial legacy rather than scandalous privation of the obolary tenets of desecration above reabsorption of mendicant bodges of the bodewash of freedom’s counterstrokes of maskirovka ineradicable and plenipotentiary wit deniable but legacy ineffable by degrees of exponential long-winded flambeaus of filagersion swiveling with recessive rubble in a crenellated fortress guarded with tripwire insubordination against cordslave dependencies liable to recurrent reproach rather than sustainable filigrees of electrified balkanization toxic to the aquifers of modernity streamlining Roman imperium. To this flajoust I owe eternal behest as the captaincy of time is not a perishable whangam of superstition an affront to a provident rejoinder of verifiable prestige because the curvature of time favors the ripple effect of magnetized reninjuble charms alerted to upward soaring skies of inevitable peerless dominion in the  perceived symphily of competing benevolence with a shared stake in Earthly pulchritude emanating a sworn allegiance to the best interests of philosophical enlightenment

a warm winter isn't spring and cancer isn't health,
it churns my stomach to think about you inside someone else,
but the day will come when my stomach churns at the thought of you inside me.
and my final resolution is the decision to leave.
i'm tired of hurting and tired of you hurting too,
maybe i'll love somebody better than you.

It comes in blankets
Grey blankets that cover the sky
And it churns in blue and black
Like purple bruises painting the sky
I want to cry
But the tears won’t come
So I’m stuck looking out window
Searching for any bit of sun I can see
Only stormy eyes show themselves though
And tears streak cheeks
And if I cry myself to sleep every night
That’s only for me and the stars to know
They twinkle knowingly at me in the dark
And I want to yell at them
Don’t tell a soul
But they ignore me
They tell me I’m sad
And I knew that already
But I only see the stars when my grey blankets are gone

This hollowness is tinged with thick longings a mystery that shadows your whole existence it at
Times is palpable it’s like you can touch it roll it in your fingers this elusive connection that fades in
And out its read on your face but you are unaware of its origin but in its grip you are swept up into a
Monastery high on a mountain as the vista staggers you with the grandeur a conciseness void fills
Instantly with resplendent light you see two figures the brilliance is to great seeing is impossible you
Can’t make them out but a lost familiarity floats unbound to the soul what rapture a great emotional
Waterfall crashes the body begins a dance of wonder the mind is cleansed from all impurities the heart
Finds depths of satisfying love it never has known before a peace pervades it forms a vortex that pulls
Everything into to the waiting soul it sways as the waves pass over the soul feels the mind go into
Overdrive it sees flocks of white doves flying under skies with white broken clouds above them who
Stretched the clouds and then left a great whole that creates perspective first white doves then height
Is hinted then at the perfect spot a whole in the cloud carries you aloft then stunning flows up ward with
Your feet on the ground you just continue higher and higher I stole the airy heaven there I was riveted
To hollowness an emptiness that filled me till I could receive no more the joy I felt if you are from
The desert, mountains, or forest you can go to many areas live there a long time but on those occasions
You close your eyes to dream they instantly fill with trees sand or granite peaks we are sojourners in a
Strange place yes we will ever identify with the strata of rock the soil and grass that is the earth’s
Vesture and then the mist rolls in and our minds are troubled I have no trouble associating with all
Earthen things but something seeps within this human frame it suggests an allegiance a primary
Elemental cohesive tie that I know is unbreakable but then it all begins the fading I am left trembling
Exposed because of a great moment of importance has slipped through my fingers the thought floats
Through me you can drink water but you will thirst again soulful expediency churns and throbs it makes
Me to know that I am so much more by faith it starts to create a processions of thoughts mortal is my
First birthright but continue the facts on and you are immortal coldness want sorrow belong and will
Reside in the mortal you so many times are in pain and loneliness they are in a bitter winter happiness was the first
Casualty everything else you loved fell like dominos stop stand still break out the tent that is made from
Moon beams create a colossus over head that speaks and sings of your immortal roots truly you will find
Hidden springs the unicorn may have vanished from earthen waterholes but he will drink from the
Nearby pool the night will stir with enchantment and maybe for the first time you will see the
Unalterable Truth time is getting ready to flee as shadows the trifles that man so desired will be
Consumed by glories Power and brilliance to stand you need to kneel and with mortal tongue pray that
You will be given the Grace and power to see and read the true word that will make you truly ready to
Be sons and daughters of the great Holy King Jesus all your life he has been there but he does have a
Demand that you follow Bible salvation or you will be as the word says a thief or a robber that tries to
Enter in unlawfully and you will be cast out you just can’t say or want to go to heaven you must obey
What his word says and you will truly live out of this world while confined in it

as honeysuckle grows tight on the fence
& the scent of jasmine burns in my nose
i can hear a child's laughter on the hills
& watch your cheeks burn hotter than the sun
when you tell me about your **** addict mother

how she lived in the econo-lodge dumpster for a while
painting cryptic symbols & mountain landscapes
on the outside walls still wearing the unsteady boots
she's had since her life in colorado
but she was scared of someone checking in it
while she slept so she didn't sleep
instead she conversed with the wimpering wind
& used the toy telescope she stole from your baby brother
to sing to the stars so she didn't feel so ******* alone

last summer you say she camped in the graveyard
behind the methodist church in town & spray-painted
the headstones as they climbed up the hill together
because she harbors too much pride to be
just another tweaker with her hand out

she's on guard against wickedness at all times & no longer
sells her love to method-acting men who don't love her at all
but she doesn't wear ******* anymore either because
her last pair were so soiled with *** she burnt them
in effigy on their last night of action

you say you miss her
& wish she'd get sober
but she's never been sober
& that's why your brother
was born with a stutter

she has warrants for her arrest in two counties
& surrounds herself with withering flowers because
she feels dead inside already
when she sinks her face into
the stem of the bulb & inhales she thinks
she is the one thing in the galaxy
god doesn't have his finger in
her stomach churns with hunger
flies hover around her & light on her
big as black crows resting on a dead tree

you say you haven't heard about her in
going on a month & ask me if i think
she's still alive
i say i saw her just last week
i was a pensive beetle perched on the wainscoating
she was stumbling out of a parked car at dawn
to take a wilderness **** down by the river

her smile is no longer a pretty thing i noticed
as she crouched to release the stream of early morning
maple syrup ***** knocking on the biological door
she said she's slept in her bedroom-car
so many consecutive nights that she distrusts houses
says she's scared of walls &
****** outside so many mornings after
that she's terrified of bathrooms
claims an allergy to porcelain
she even feigns an aversion to trains but
we've all seen the tracks on her arms
& the pits in her cheeks like she
sleeps draped across the railroad
at night tempting the cycloptic executioner

but she doesn't sleep at all &
she doesn't dream of you or your brothers or
of the days when she lived in a house
her tattoos have all become crude wax crayon
depictions of sunflower blossoms
needle drags & match strikes
she wraps & braids her hair with gnarled fingers
& bottle caps she finds on the riverbank
she bathes in hysteria at midnight
& washes her swollen eyelids each morning with dew
she fights paranoia with the ghosts in her throat
& stupor with stones from the dark bottom of the river
she is a frail bag of muscular potential living
in a finger-painted 97 pontiac sunfire with
a splintered patchwork windshield
& she is never coming back to love you