The brambles in the emo forest
grow sharper with the passing days.
Three months deeper into the oatmeal
on the heels of the turtle goddess
and i am compelled to ignore the trees.
i have never been crazy about shrubbery,
being that the majority of my experience
has ended badly for the plant.

**** it.
It would appear that my green thumb *****.

My pillow is a poor substitute
for the warmth of sweatpants
or the comfort of your arms,
but i am locked into the devices
of another two year paper binge.
i would greatly prefer to be
static in my global positioning
as long as i can lose myself
swimming into the recesses of
your vibrant blue Oceania.
i want to hand you my eyes
so you can see my fixation on
the perspectives of action
and identify with my analysis
on the frailty of beauty,
intangible though it may be.

When i was weaker,
i appraised the value of
a man to be intrinsically
linked to the relation
between time and pride.
Driving a parallel path
to the stars, there is
only one thought:
Reality is like a dissected
frog: i poke and ****
and pull and poke and
probe and stare and ****
and pull but i still
can't figure out what all
those little tissues do
when they are turned on.

What if i want to taste the fruits of serendipitous fortune
or walk the garden path of chivalric sunshine?

If i could liquefy my soul,
i would pour you honey-laced
shots of my longing so that
when the darkness of the mid-week
slanders me you can touch
the sea spray of a wave
i have sent to wash away
the fears of circular evolution.

i want to build the hearth
where we can light the fire
of roundabout destiny and cook
the flesh from the slaughter
of our angry cows and bulls
so that we can incorporate
our weaknesses into our strengths.

i want to shape a necklace
out of my scar tissue
and wear it loudly so
that you can see the pain
that enables me to feel yours.

i want to finish my marathon
with my bag of bricks
because it is impossible to
truly win without the
burdens of justice and morality.

i've collected the screams
of my travels in a glass jar.
One day when the sun
struggles over the distant
cold horizon, i
plan to exact revenge
on the container and
make a concerted effort
to buy American.

In the hills above the
languishing sticks
i appear to have
dislodged a rock slide.
In my estimation,
the carnage will be
exquisite and swift.
If i survive the
judgement of guilt,
i can visit the friends
already lost to the
perpetual fires of the
sanctioning underbelly.

Why can't i take the
burgeoning petals of the
dark rose and elevate myself
above the sickness i have
seen in the eyes of my
accusers and those who would
trample the silly notions that
are all i have ever owned?

i feel that in the life i have witnessed
there are innate weaknesses in the
system i have supported.

In the instance given,
i have allowed myself
to be collared and
pent up by unspoken
deeds and words.
When my candles flicker
and reform, at least
i will be able to stand up
and clarify the point with
the authority inherently
granted to an elder whom
most ignore or ridicule in
the comfort of a happy living room.

i have seen hints of the futility of
nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs,
prepositions, and conjunctions
because they cannot begin to
express the vertigo i am cursed with
or the gravity that will not allow me to
escape unscathed.

i'm afraid that one day
my ink well will run dry
and my fingers will fuse
together and conspire to
undermine my sanity.

i fear the ticking of
my watch when i can
feel its echo deep inside
the canyons between
my synapses.

i cower and whimper
under the auspices of jest
when my soul is overrun
with desires that cannot
be slaked with water.

i want to detach my
aorta so that i will not
be bothered by the
binding of my skin
to the dry earth.

i need to hum the
melodies of aquatic repose
and bathe my wounded
feet in the streams that
flow to the cliff's edge.

When the time comes
for my foray
into the sublime,
i can fade away into
the arbor mist and
not feel the piercing gaze
i have become accustomed
to during this.

And for so long,
i have fed the horses
and watered the hedges
for everyone,
only to find that
all my livestock
dies within the
fences i have built
to protect the few
things left after
my tornado.

Approaching six full, and
i'm camped outside the
city gates and starving.

i puked when the moon
cycle shifted this time.

i thought that if i
sacrificed fuchsia to the
demon he would mistake
it for acquiescence, but
when the clock struck twelve
my pumpkin only rotted.

Why did you want to see the water?

i'm not going to buy
the dumb tourist act.
You knew the sand
was poisoned.

Nevertheless,
i am 3/5 of a man
when engulfed in
purple madness for
your affection.

the bells have fallen silent,
and i have seen your persuasion,
like an old silent movie.

What of your petty elucidations?
Can you teach me about destiny?
Do you have any watermelons?
If not, why not, or, even better,
who cares?

i don't think you have
seen my rose garden,
the thicket i entered
once to reenter time
and again, lonely and
bleeding, twisting and
turning, with no
right-hand-rule
to guide...

but this isn't your story anymore.

I am at a slow standstill with realization huffing down my neck.
Do we ever have the opportunity to tell them how much we truly love them?
Countless wishes don’t tally up the way real actions do
ones we sit back and merely hope will arrive
so that we may go on for hours the way we yearn to.
But in honesty, that is just not real life.
But why can’t it be?
Why don’t we see people sacrificing a few minutes at work
for a few moments of kissing on busy streets
ignoring the daily routines scolding us from all four corners of our brains
to utter words more precious than time.

Hatred could come very last as your gasp claws for heaven
so I change my mind.
I am here
I am now
replicating the saccharine agony of love as candidly as I can.

I know you see it pouring from me
and I pour
and I pour
and I spill as thoroughly as I am brave.
I pour space and time continuum's
and still
for you
I cannot pour enough.

I believe strongly in infinite strings
that pull definite souls closer to each other
but I did not feel that tug the way I did
until I met you
when I thought two planets were colliding into one
a new solar system was being bent to match your eyes.

There was one single moment
that stood our sorely amongst all other magnificent ones.
I remember accidentally cutting my thumb
the wound small by size, not by pain.
I told you it hurt.
You kissed me.
I didn’t know the pain went away until you stopped and it returned.
That is exactly what
loving you is.

The only difference is that moment was temporary
while we are permanent
scars on blank canvases
ashes impersonating dust
what is engraved in my skin when it is you.

I have looked so widely and thought I had loved so deeply
still not far, not wide enough
as I was just scratching the tough surface,
this is more than butterflies
and better than death.

You cannot be summed up in pronouns
nothing short of wedding vows
for I who is so methodical
craves to live illogically with you.

When you are doing absolutely nothing
is when I adore you most
when you sit there
with nothing in the world but you
is when my heart cannot swell greater.
You, in your simplest human form
is etched into the core of my soul
where you have dug up far beneath my chest
things that even I have let reside in its own dust.
Your purest version
is when I love you primitively.

Although your grand endeavors are nothing to reckon with
and their end would shave my heart to its gruesome core
I love you, when you are hand to hand with me and you do not know it
when we dance in my driveway and somehow it is not cliché
despite the fire in your eyes and the glimmer in my throat
longing to entwine with yours.

When your voice cracks
your hair does strange things
those icy veins that layer the bones in your fingers
on the front of your hands
your golden eyelashes
when you are absolutely unaware
and the consuming happiness that moves me
when I lull you back with
“Baby? Are you awake?”

Darkness warmly embraces your face
like the milk of your naked skin
when I know you as a whole
muttering prayers down the spine of your back
dousing your worry lines with kisses I wrap in bauble
and the amount of times I’ve almost stopped making love to you
to write it all down
but could not will myself to so intensely
that I sacrificed letting such sacred things like good ideas go.

But I do not clutch to regret
when your skin is meant to be upon mine
your voice a legality when harmonized
with the type of laughter that only prevails
when you can no longer breathe
and you realize
you,
are in love.

And if I could freeze this moment in time
paste it to my walls with forever  
I would.
I would make an extra copy
just so I could organize it in my filing cabinet
label it: Love. The life in me. Him.

He, is the heart to my heart
the soul to my soul
replacing your birth name with Love
the name my universe knows you a whole lot better as.

I have come to my conclusion,
as your lips clasp the tremors of my heart
one more time.

No poetry
no words
no existence
has the capacity to compare the love that you are to me
the love of mine that you hold.

At my least is this,
so that my undying love will not halt
after this poem signs its period:

You—
are I.
Speechless
impossible.
Piecing together
overwhelmingly
all that is love.

Connotations and elucidations
We need language that recreates nations

If you use changency on a regular basis then you might be a changent but then you're defaulting to a noun based thought process and we live in a fluid, living universe. Nothing in the universe is unchanging thus locking our minds down with noun based systems of thinking cannot do our Selves or our Universe justice...if you believe that you have a life sentence of just ~100 years and then you're gone, then you're not a responsible human being...or you are being lied to and tricked into thinking that we're barely human...being is a verb...we are in process...in flow...we are the dragon's that we've been waiting for. We are the guardian's of wealth and we are the guardian's of prince's and princess's....because we are the prince's and princess's.

If you think I'm full of **** that's fine. You've been tricked. Your reward for such treachery, your reward for allowing yourself to be deceived....another ~100 year life sentence.

You'll deal with it eventually because you'll be back again and again and again until you figure out how to swim out of Hades and get back onto an eternal path not as a Changent but found within the fluidity of changency.

You don't go to Wall Street or Bay Street or any of those 'important' streets to understand currency...you borrow Turtle Island technology in the form of a canoe (don't forget to pay your royalties)...you get off the land and onto the river and flow....this is currency...this is flow. Buddha sat on the edge of the river studying flow and found great truths...Buddha never had access to Turtle Island technology. You can't study currency without getting into flow physically...the mind will only take you so far. A mind has barriers, a mind can be deceived, that deception can lead to false dichotomies such as the left brain~right brain, us versus them, US vs the People...let's unite the states. Flow into the nondual truths that resonate through the subtle frequencies of those attuned... Let's stop at Acme Explosives on the way home from 'work' along the ****** Tune paths found in our minds and load the Hoover Dams built in our heads by the Fortune 500 who want us to think that we're dead (or dying) ...  load the dam full of explosive ... then let Wylie and Bugs do their thing. A levee is impermanent...and the levee is about to break...it nears the time for the deal to go down. Hereditary leadership could make a coup but this doesn't honour flow. Those power mongers, who, using their ill-gotten bellows to stoke the flames of fear have worked their way into their own slavery. When We, the living people, realize that we're the plantation owners and we are the ones that can and need to start pushing the signals back into the marketplace...this is the people's market. A just internet decentralizes the economy...it just is...Justice. Destabilizing using the ebbs and flows...using whimsy...this is Game Theory writ large. Let's turn the Prisoner's Dilemma on it's head, Jed...i

The idiom...pushing on a string is supposed to connote the impossibility of sending signals back up the ladder. Hahaha. That is exactly what can and in the new economy will be done. You can pull strings but you can also push strings. I know this, I understand this because of an idea I've been meditating on for several years. It's an idea the Tlingit and Haida chiefs used to honour their lost loved ones. It's called a Potlach Ceremony. It's also called Indian Giving or flows into negative connotations that are attached to indian giver, let's take the power back...keep pushing...it's almost time

This is but a test, one for
A mind in need of rest,
And though it's surely not his best,
It still is nothing to detest
He's drifting in a sea of intuition,
His expression is abreast
He's seeking for a resolution
He hopes not in vain to jest
He seeks the further involution
Of this sense felt in his chest
As he is wand'ring
Through his contemplation,
Pondering his expectations
Seeking his elucidations; but
Just where might these be found?
Within the lines upon the page
Or their enunciated sound?

I don't have the answers
to these questions...

Half way across the world I finally see something
A way to describe perfectly you more than anything
These walls are still standing strong
As you do, even at times i fall to the ground.

Gasping for breath, there is much more to see
Altering my elucidations of you engraved  in me
Revelation of your true beauty
The hidden passages of ambiguity.

The warmth of your soul floats
In this royal arena that even brought in boats
What has always been ideal is to win the heart
Perform or Fight at the battleground of art.

Once filled with blood, power and flowers,
Now it just remains as something for people to see
This would be where Id come to win you over,
Show the world what you mean to me.

MY EYES ON THE SURFACE

Your penumbra gleams with little print

in Papyrus text style, elucidations for the most part, live-

bolster passionate updates, amendments in your

shadow's edges. Your shadow is an idea

paper wrote broadcasting live, eradicated and re-composed

by everything you might do, recommendations stick-scribbled

in the sand as the following wave licks its finger

to flip the shoreline. For you, genuineness is consistent

correction: your position shifts and new

notes spool out from your feet – commentaries,

updated, an assortment of dissolving documentation

I endeavor to speed-read sufficiently quick to know you.