these days i feel like water. like an ocean cusping on the marked line of a horizon. like a droplet riveting and rolling, making its way down to pool onto a ledge.

the slightest nudge, a gentle push
and i'd spill over.

sitting dangerously on the lip of the cup
teetering in and out of balance-

it is a game of give or take

i bend myself backwards into a crescent
just to make room for their full mooned selves

i wonder how Neil Armstrong felt
when he took his first step onto the dusty crater ridden plain
and found himself

all
alone

i am

                                                   alone

destined to listlessly twirl around my own axis dreamlike
but not like a dream at all
floating miles away from the person i have yet to unearth
but yet not far enough to fly among the stars

i am held by the centre of my own gravity

is that why sometimes i can hear my bones creak under the weight of the person i was supposed to be?

A pocketful of doom is flourishing
ceiling to wall in my cranium,

and though I tend to the tantrum of it
with fatherly, nurturing discipline

it acts as a nebulous cumulonimbus
fog seething with diffusion of void,
breaking through every window of warm

out to the inside I tend to become

an accidental abuser, flailing teeth
into over-ripened words, knocking
unripened fruit from the bough between us.

With nerves like coiled snakes in an apple,
prismatic minds are dulled to a fractal
of their former spectral rainbow
when expunged into the shadow.

Thorough rage—event horizon
clawing sides of deep depressions,
cusping manic at the fervor—

when the cliff becomes the shackle
of the neurosis-fed darkness jackal

open demise toward the mouth of the sun
and perhaps tongue at infinite light.

Pulse after Pulse,
Wave after wave,
Ethereal Blue-- silver and misty, violently real yet entrancingly True-- collides, creates, reverberates, spreads like warfare as it envigorates the endless Sea of Diamond Comets that refract, reflect and beautifully protect a, delicately cradled and elegantly undone, Celestial Symphony-- whose conductor is a wise Blue Sun.

Volcanic moons spew molten streams of pure gold on to their eternally glittering surfaces-- mountains topped with Emeralds of green and Rubies of red-- existence is their only purpose.

Suddenly, a wisp of lightning from Under the Blue Sun, makes its way into Life just for a little fun.

Coiled up like a spring-- its journey cusping to begin-- it spontaneously releases, gracefully whole not in pieces, from its creator and its captor with a wiggle, push and squeeze. And with this dance it now does sing, every burst crescendoing faster in tempo not in speed. Becoming rainbows, becoming glass. Becoming kinetic energy with every passing moon, every passing meteor, every asteroid and comet-- beyond the gold, beyond the shine, beyond space and all time--

A wisp of Lightning, under a Blue Sun, leaves its home to create Life where there is none.

Indoors the ornamental grass  
within an oblong planter,
stares out dejectedly from its base.
My eyes convey cusping thoughts,
willing the blades to whither  -
singeing sideways,
forming yet another nexus
reminding me of Cerrice.

In the whispers of earliest morning
and the scurrying tones of nightfall
my mind lies open, vulnerable
like dark flowers cusping spring

With probing eyes, full and brown
I see that which I can realize
yet not realizing what must be seen
that which lies beyond my ocular reach

And with utmost effort, sinking innards
I toil with feelings buried inwards
dissected and magnified
preserved and studied under the light

The lips of night are delicate,
cusping our ears gently.
Provoking thoughts madly.

As she allows you to stay,
her touch; looms and sways.
Like the coming of the sun,
her emptiness evokes warmth.

Decades, it feels.
As you roll up your sleeve,
her addictive gaze strikes eagerly.
Irritated are the eyes that follow.
Seemingly, filled with a ghastly hollowness.  

A whimper suggested,
as you condemned faith itself.
Yearning a simple sleep,
victory arise between stars.

Stuck in a different plane,
night calls out like a siren.
Echoing shrieks,
she hints of Orion.

As ink touches skin,
you become dreary.
Stuck in shambles,
a sense of catastrophe.

In these ugly times, my words reflect the nature.
Beauty is to be found, but it will be found later.
Like the hard-headed flower at the cusping of the spring,
My petals will soon open and sweet nectar it will bring.

I stand in the shower with lavender fields in my chest

how do I scrape off the muck, scoop out the loathing
and take off the gloves to pick up the patches of fear
that periodically gather at the base of my shower drain  

how do I heal each limb so that with majesty
I awaken knowing
full and bright that I am a child with wings
and elevation is the right song that pours out when I dream
an inheritance marbled into my being’s skin
                              …
how does a child beget forgetting
how does an adult continue such forgetting

what is the suchness of wholeness
whose scent of remembrance seems mythically far
but its verity present within our plot

                              …
our hands reaching for the bunches of lavender
that can be gathered from a bountiful field
a calm whiff of what we truly are
that can send us back into an infinite space of fruitful life
cusping possibility
                            ...
portable pastures inside our homestead
running water
and a chance to be cleansed
what suchness of being over my body  
how ecstatic
how simple to stand under the showerhead 
on the toes of today
with a meadow in my chest

Wings hidden well
and never spread with
surprise,
you wait till eye shut
and then run loud in cloud,
you complete,
cusping and converging,
fresh, new,
how like you.
Then descend without a hint of flight,
knowing light.

A sad visage — is it that leaves cannot hold snow
only roughened needle may cradle it's cold crystalline,
a fresh-blossomed love as lost as the calypso.
God's chiseled sculptures cast out, serpentine.

The somber minuet, glistening à pas menus upon her face.
Dizzyingly fluttered through cusping sapphire lens
each tuft, each dune of wind-sculped embrace.
Do you know even your warmth harkens her ends?

How could you? Lovingly, lost under peaks of heaven.
Heat of helios as your reflective love soon parts —
no fault of your own, nor allowance of concession.
It was too bright of a burn, your blazing hearts.

Alabaster draped darling, you hold on so tight.
I promise, I swear, birds will sing of your light.

to have a human stir, letting awake
flood in, putting unasked long blonde
tresses leavings on your shoulder,
resting head upon the empty crevice
where your shoulder and arm dip,
requiring
filling,

to have a child read you to sleep, a partnership, and awake hours later
his hand cusping your chin, and that
sensation makes an old man go
knee weak
even forty five years
later

despite that the woman left you, claiming
a lack of fufillment?

and that child now a forty five year old man,
has excised you from his life, and doesn’t plan or attending a future funeral,

it is still your **best privilege

Her whispers:
Puts my mind at ease,
Cusping my shoulders,
With Her gentle breeze,
Removing a boulder.

O, Wind,
Come again,
In need of reprieve, sweep me.
Come again,
O, Wind,
I need relief.

1.

The wind blows and I am nervous over a hill,
where the grass is low
but lower is the water flowing

Keep in mind,quiet costs
the dry branches motion in the gust of time
slowly churning thoughts
over the eve of our crowing destiny
2.
From that hilltop
I see them

The smell of Franciscan Manzanitas and bees
surrounds them

I thought they’d lost their way,
down the path where the ferns grow high
and the forest deepen enough to make most forget

But I saw them egress the woodland’s mouth
an abetment of hands cusping future

they giggled and where light
on their feet
enthroned to this field
they walked over the sharp blades of grass
3.
there is no such thing now
as optional, ornamental pruning
trimming is to occur
and its necessity makes itself known
coils its body like a serpent
4.
our consciousness burrowed for too long
in the ground

5.
When I turn my head I see you, too
Do you see them ?

the crowned that have come
blinking their love for all things

it seems like we must begin again or the fates will cut their strings

Curled, a cradle, cusping
silky supple soft,
aloft rustling skin
prickling static afterthought.
Nose in, mouth out,
internal furnace burning hot,
bitter winter giving way
to flame that’d dim for naught.

without the trenches...
there's still that commeradary...
what nuance
of the bombs of ****...

i lost the ability to feel
an intimacy when...
  a cat had to find a cushioning
sensation of fudge-packing
a corner: while at sat on a sofa...
all that furr-borrow against
a clarity of a crease
that's towing a knee and all
this naked flesh-out...

by the *****-load of
traffic... wriggling away at the
base posit...
i'm here for the
"chomąto": a collar for a horse:
i'm your paddy sort of
well respected plumber /
hobbit folk...
i'm here for "nothing":
but i'm most certainly here
for a toothache...

there is no war...
there are no trenches...
there is no mud of Flanders...
but i'm here... scribbling
toward a ferocity that:
begs giving countering
explanations...
the arabs are no longer
mere camel jockeys...
their kept monotheism
and their polygamy...
they are rich oil sheikhs...
and i'm wondering as to how or why...
i'm already a trusted extension
of *****... whenever i trusted
the bone marrow to speak...
when i was a **** toy...

                now to degrade myself
with a single mumsie...
                h. h. holmes forever solves
the plot...
   "something" is expected
to thicken... i cook a **** good
curry sauce...
the vikings were savages yet
they managed to grease up
a tier above animal...
the stature of poets...
because? the priests
were not supposed to read...

i'd sooner want to see the horrors
of the trenches...
than this... peace-abiding... faking it...
that i haven't allowed myself
to be loved...
how strange it is...
to then "stress"...
animals can stand me...
i don't expect loving to be
in their repertoire of cue...
and children find me...
bewildering enough...
to allow an exchange of eyes...
which is more than
a conversation...

i've been told to trim my Engel beard...
i gather: it is... rather bushy teasing
afro concentration
of: where oh where: my chin and
slobber?
                    
it's really sad it really is...
                  i'm here faking
homosexual erotica "literature": the best counter
to casting a ******* vote...
while i need to hear some
balloon popping in a metaphor of:
when a tree falls...
in a forest... and there's no one to
hear it fall...

                    truant! truant!
                        the tree doesn't "fall"...
there's only...
a need for rain and the forest to
be "riddled" by oaks rather than pines...
so that the rain can fall on leaves
that have to later earn
their status of cymbals...

      but this is not world war I...
i see no trenches...
yet... for ****-toy that i was...
it's nice to be appreciated as merely as such...
who dare, climb the frictions
of: father status...
and i could have been that
base alcoholic foundation stone
for a son that managed to...
transcend his origins...
i would have: i could have been
the motivational tool!
a drunk with a private library that would
have contestants shy...
in disbelief...

look at me now...
a walking cul de sac prison of life...
not "yet" aborted...
but clearly not donning a niqab...
either...

to hell with it!
let is appeal to the river of heraclitus
and god's (any god you please)
will as you orate arguments
most thoroughly...

i started to itch when i listened
to both sides of the "argument"...
i listened to the woman...
i listened to the man...
                  i'd much prefer an ownership
of a dog when i would not
have to invest in a leash...
or a muzzle...
i'd like selfish-act of presence
that abide by the foundation:
alias glue...
      i don't want selfless acts
of pretty-please...
i want the most base...
selfish acts of overtly-simplified...
life...

    i supposed myself to be...
tangled up with wilhelm's khakis...
no... wait.. adolph prone-types...
the germans / the russians
are no longer the celebrated enemy
for a cultural phallus hard-on?
i am... supposedly... facing an enemy...
that... props and gangash river plough...

this is all i have...
a sickness of christianity...
the ***** has yet to reach
the crucible... the beast is already towing
a thoroughly graced feast
of furrow...
in 7 ******* languages...
i arrived towing
the newly baptised nations of africa...
how they became so willingly converted...
i guess to counter:
the east african slave trade...
to erase all demands
for muhammad: middle-class...
come the story out of Kenya:
notably Mombasa...

     my limits of hand...
shaking agreement with shadow
then cusping a *******
reconstruction of "boney-m" *****...
i am... a walking... ghost of an abortion...
i need to satisfy myself with:
the fact that... i am not...
a protagonist choice to thereby:
climb...

i exhausted myself on proving
that geocentrism was not...
and that heliocentric is...
but sun up or down down...
gynocentrism is still the *******...
paramount of narratives!

        as well walk around
*****-tied to the narrative
of god the father...
god the necrophylia-esque sworn...
it's enough to want a rottweiler
that could be petted as a cat...
no leash... no muzzle...

it's not that investing in emotions
with anyone beside my mother...
i was a bilingual strategist
before a schizoid dumb-down...
like i had to be made
RE-tarded before gaining
the chance for the e populus
choicest of applauses!

i did imagine traffic in the trenches...
fighting a goliath of an SS-man
in the woods...
not this... not this cheap-***** of a:
as man...
when there aren't any problems:
we will... invet problems!
and if they're not problems!
they'll be known as... bureaucratic solutions!
because our hunger / fetish
for bad *** never allowed us to
disavow...
mediocre work of... perfecting an
acting principle of... loitering!

*** does two "things"... it sells...
but it also... clogs...
and by clogging in creates: cogs...
so the machinery of *******
expands!
*** selling is the easiest bit...
that it clogs up thereby creating cogs
is... a "subconscious" desire
of this... multifarious... diadem...

**** similis marries...
         cerebrum fungus...

       there! that's your ******* **** sapiens
story!
there! ping pong latin-esque quadratic!
**** similis qua fungus cerebrum...
similar to man... quasi ape...
as being... a fungus theft... of a brain...
on the "reverse"...
"god" only talks to the brain-damaged
or the brain dead...
or we evolved...
by being invested in / infested by...
a ******* talking... mushroom!
sputnik neon-lights!
arbitrary-counter-bites!
        it's a duality of arguments...
that a brain-damaged exhibit (a)
"conversing" with god
is less credible than
a brain-placebo-sucker exhibit (b)
"conversing" with:
emptiness suckle... or:
the sensible approach of...
the veil! the mushroom enzyme!
right now! no one is more sensible...
i count the affairs of the brain-damanged
in conversations with god
assured new progress as those...
"freely available"...
toying a pawn of chess...
with amazonian ******-pharmacology...
n'est ce-pas?!

the love flows like water today,
can you feel it ?
i'm leaking into the wind.
the car windows are down.
it's flowing new;
cusping of old.

a motorbike turbo.
an anthem of courage.
resonant dynamos.
canted sliding streets.

our bodies stand side by side, fingers intertwined as the sun comes turning dawn into morning. Here earth's mouth exhales
forming cold dewdrops over the pastures of past migrations

our hands cusping wild cosmos stretch past the western highlands
to touch the grammar of coastal basins where central avenue runs down the middle back of Los Angeles

there, too we lift our palms to feed the hummingbirds with our sweet nectars of wild cosmos


Translation to Spanish:

Sueños de tu y yo

Nuestros cuerpos parados de lado a lado
nuestros dedos entrelazados mientras el sol convierte el atardecer en mañana

Aquí la boca de la tierra exhala formando gotas de roció sobre el pasto de migraciones passadas

nuestras manos son flores cúspides
que se extiende más allá de las tierras altas occidentales a tocar gramática de las cuencas costeras donde la avenida Central recorre la parte media de la espalda de Los Ángeles.

Desde allí crecemos flores de cosmos para alimentar a los colibríes
con nuestros dulces néctares
y los colibríes viene y nosotras sonreímos

how much can i stand
to lie down alone
cusping and gripping distractions
to hopefully randomly fall into sleep
instead of stay awoke to the gnawing sense of one heartbeat?

like liquid seeping into the well of my soul. the stagnant bayou waters that wish to deny my will to go on. infesting pathogens familiarizing itself with me only in own weakness in a muddy stench. how does one find again their love when its lost?
the impression on my chest need be filled with some one.
else my arms tatter in under-use and famine.

Mother nature in budding years fell insatiable with what the gods had gifted us .....
She layed at our feet ..
Upon a golden fleece.......
An overly filled cornicopia
Brimmed with anything we wanted....the magnitude of which inexperience
Simply could  not comprehend.
We laughed like fat young kings ...... ..
Shook the pillars ......walked like
GIANTS.



Twas the crestpucular rays
Cusping the dawning of sweet savory days as we ****** knuckled our way into the  arena of adulthood
which did
Glint our eyes ablaze.....
Shedding light upon phantasms of delusional grandeure!
Insatiable .....
A pack of wolf to be sure.....
An almost overbearing musky Aroma of overconfidence lurked ..
And ohhhhhh..
Stiffining the hackle was the ever present danger of spontaneous fight .....
The unpredictability incredibly
Intoxicating.

What a plush
Den  ........
I remember the air back then seemed ....I  guess warm and thick.......
Like it had some meat and............
Still had some game to it .......
Awe yessssss!
peach would pair well with it.
And such a
Flavor hung from each lush
Syllable spun .
Closing in n
Drooling like dogs teeth fully displayed, Eyes transfixed
ears pricked ...
Rotating .........
Searching the silence...
As they  clung to the regaling of some past violence and not wanting to miss a single nuance
Anti-)nay sayers paradise