You are the systole to the diastole
Of my four-chambered cavity
You are the pulmonary rhythmic control
That fills air to my capillary.

You are the Pituitary Gland
That drowns my bloodstream in dopamine
You take my brain to a wonderland
Drunk and overdosed in Seratonin.

You are the only Mitochondrion
That powers all cellular activity
My Cytoplasms are in motion
For the sexiest Golgi Body.

You are the ultimate synapse
In my every granule of neuron
That gives an involuntary prolapse
To both my dendrite and axon.

The sea strains for the sand,
pulling, grasping at
each precious granule,
Their lovers embrace
shattered
with the rise and fall of the tide.

But I am not the sea.
The sky is not my sand.
"Reach for the stars"
They say.
How?
When I am bound.
Chained to the rocks
Shackles made of iron
Caressing my feet

I reach for my sky
My haven, my light
But I cannot
For my wings are far too
Small, To carry my weight.
And I fall
      And fall
          And fall
Until I am grounded.
A fallen angel
Yet again.

Feelings Travel Poem
3/15/2014

flying creatures
end up crawling in your sneakers
when they lose their will to fly
traverse among the clouds over continents
but those that swim are worse.

swimming creatures
they'll weave through your dreams
leave an island to be lost at sea
thinking you can't see
what's under the murky emotional water.

walking creatures
take their time on the gravel and grass
surprisingly harder to find
like little fuzzy things,
granule grains engrained in my eye sockets.
small enough you can fit a million of 'em in your pockets,
ready to reveal whenever.

What do the flying creatures, walking, or swimming
all have in common with me?
That they carry their feelings inside tiny hearts beating
and their feelings travel all the same.

sometimes feelings fly,
sometimes they swim,
sometimes they lose their will to walk and crawl.

Hear this creatures.
no matter if you're feeling so small,
trapped in between life's walls,
or feeling nothing at all,
those feelings you'll carry at all - times,
Because feelings travel.

granule
a glint
then, in love
a grenade of sunlight
the morning is sharply taken
bathing off of shots    from the reflective snow

ᚠ                       Φ

             F

Θ                       ᚦ

                                     no explanations
exist within a geometry outside
the circle, only architecture, sole,
yet the sole geometry of architecture
is an encircling, a lifting,
and had i wrote my poetry
in the comfort of rising beyond Marx
is socio-political schematic i would,
but i rather talk to scaffolders than to poets,
i'd rip my heart through enough thin
veil to prove it so that i shared an entombing of lips
wholly bodied with one! i rather!
care for this ******* Parisian princess
in your divorce as best you can...
i kept a cat for seven years before my neighbour
decided it was time to un-wed affection
to an animal neither tilling for ably feeding
to instead choose his daughter as my wife:
i rejected feeling no compass of conversation...
the cat died, i went into the graveyard and dug
a gravestone out and buried my cat in
the moonlight: don't ever come across me and my pet!
you killed half the intelligence that was me!
*******! humanity engaging with humanity
it plagiarises as itself an ownership to suit puppet
strings like it might tailoring,
POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POST COLONIAL NATIONS SEEK NEW *******
TO CRAFT THE LOST COTTON BUDS INTO
GRANULE CEMENT SET! POLAND ******
EUROPE! POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POLAND ****** EUROPE! POLAND ****** EUROPE!
MAMA RUSSIA! PAPA PRUSSIA! HOSANNA! HOSANNA!
LAUREL LEAFS AS I SAT ON THEM! THE CROWN
OF KING TU-154...
ROMANIA DONKEY DON QUIXOTE!
WHOOP WHOOP! WHOOP WHOOP GREK IZLAND
CORFU! then the postman comes with my jealousy
as within reach of hope to attain old age...
(snigger)... i hope i don't... i want million
dollar baby's truth to wake me.

She said she liked her coffee cold and dark
like the seas separating her bed and Denmark:

harsh and bitter and brown in the largest
cup we own, so when drinking it
your nose would drown
into an abyss of cheap-coffee-granule-
buy-one-get-one-free ****;

and delivered with it upon the stolen tray,
taken from that shop's Kitchen Must Haves display,
was a plate with two triangles of lightly toasted
toast laid out like the ankles of my late Grandma
(but we weren't together then so, to you,
it just looked like some toast arranged nicely on a plate for us two);

also on the stolen tray from that shop's Kitchen Must Haves display,
was a lovely array of cut of up fruit arranged liked
canapés at every cheap-wedding-buffet:
grapes cut into unfathomable shapes
and slices of kiwi our fingers could never negotiate
and avocado which was there just to cure invisible
weight gain and bad morning breath,
but that's what Google told me so
I can't take it as a guarantee;

and in all of this I was apparently making a fool of myself
because serving you a delicious breakfast
to the sound of Frank Sinatra's Moon River
is not what we discussed, ever- even last night or last week,
in fact, we never talked about this horrendously
unique breakfast.

Happy Anniversary.

The possibilities are perched and overwhelming with their weight
the withered autumn branches of my street. Whining sinew of my mind
breaks off and flutters down, like leaves from life's misbegotten tree,
a petal or a timid accusation.
What now am I left holding here-- vulture feathers or sapling leaves?
That girl, with tufts here and there, dropped each quill as an embossed coin, effaced
by intrepid maids vacuuming my room of cloistered couches since
soiled by madam president during isolated summit which won't convene again, her golden
gown of rues has not a stitch of fabric for a single pocket more-- sloughing brittle currency under cushions
like Fall foliage under conscious footsteps striding in constraints of time.
She picks that soggy garment from the cleaners' with the sideways background ringing of
mistrust, apprehending
silenced, patient voices; detached from their seams with dis-acknowledgment--
the dress, comes by on the carousel and
fingers her feathers with its motion.
They're washed with him, her feathers and the dress-- shored up by late summertime’s ebbing
flood that year.
Each gust eddied unaccounted toward the beach our circumstance.
What held intact the branch of life and plucked that chord for dancing in the night?
The self-same vibration that severed from the soil his trunk, which was the ship's ballast, with the adz, my will, my want
and hopeful mooring --
cast and sunk, thus.
Sound waves clashing with our spinning crystal surface of wisping nodes
plunge now beneath themselves-- frail, flaxen and woven with water.
Held out near Tyre's port a scanty mast,
thought out for catching air; forfeited this vacuous, unstable mole', their bottle
poured on water to make earth, which swells as moistrous and abridged
as a musty vestule, corked and knotted in the wind.
Encased through sanction, hold and curiosity--
the tine rubbed and singeing, loosed you from me. Those brazen beads, sand percolating, lie with us.
We are now misrepresented; sniffling as sows after the trough who root.
The woman-leaves let will be known-- to dry up and disavow
their lecherous beauty by shriveling in the tepid sun of
late September. Does too, the feather-man eviscerate the model of time
in his way of losing each and every granule
that is the ground which swells with frozen rain 'til
Spring, then thaws and flies away. Or was it
their dainty, dizzied rose petal, suckling smog from sky since birth that has weather-worn
their gowns sheer silver, freshly hewn anew, by being ripped and pressed about
which came to stifle thoughtless dew?

Its just ink.

Though I lay it down
They say I lay it down
From the depth of my inner
To the facade of my smile
Matters not if in the end its just ink

From the thick of its grip
No gripe that it fits
Its said I laid it down
God knows I ache from its motion
But crushed I am that in the end its just ink

I think of all the glamour
Inhale every scent she wears
Tear apart my heart to get the darkest crimson
Mix it in the well, they say I's lays it down
Brand it in my skin. But to her its just ink

Its a link, a moment of some progress
The greatest of our progress.
She said I laid it down, but we both shared the  crown
And though just a granule on the shore
An annual creed of "Adore", not sure
Why its just ink

We watched the moon sink behind violent waters
Every night from the window, broken clouds soar with loud hues of pink and purple
Not every moment is a high hurdle to scale, its why the pen sets sail,ill will, I lay that down
Good moments are grand ones, so why those ascribed only known as just ink?

Just think.
A past where ballads were written on the battle fields
Pledge our allegiance now to a flag that waved under duress
Love stands grander a chance by that test
A scream is like cannons while a tear is like bullets
Hit the page and leave holes. I bared arms now I lay them down. These wounds no longer just ink.

-Xin-

he reminds me of constellations.
not the kind you read about,
or the kind you can see.

but the kind deep out in space,
the ones like waves
swelling within a vast sea.

he is like smelling salts.
waking me up
a little more
each day.

in fact, he is the granule of sugar
looming over the edge
of my morning coffee cup.

but he is also the moon,
shining her smile
brightly upon my ever seeking eyes.

he is the sun,
my reason for waking up on time

and still being a bit late
because i hadn't the time
to admire enough of his beauty.

and, right now,
he is the stolen breath
that just made my heart skip a beat.

if I had to choose my last breath
i’d choose it with you
and only fantasies create
a sort of granule gargantuan glee
if i had to choose between
letting go of fear
and touching you
i’d choose you every time
if i had to rebuttal the claims
of my own body insecurities
i’d let go of them
for you
if i had to challenge myself
beyond a thousand measures
go past fear itself
i’d do it for you
and maybe it will take forever
but i’m willing to make the case
of loving you so gently
i’m at ease with the whole world around me
and i just keep thinking of
oranges hanging loosely in a plastic net
just dangling about to
plop down on the shiny wood
floor clean of dirt or
rest them lightly on the white
porcelain kitchen counter
without a care in the world
because that’s how you make me feel
unbound and synchronized like
the clunk of a VHS tape
fitting nicely into place
re-wound and ready
for the movie to start

and if i had a wide choice of manly lovers
i’d choose you every time

you’re not what i expected
for a woman in her prime

It is hard to tell sugar and salt mixture apart by merely glancing or touching. I wish I could master the art of segregating them without any arduous chemical process.

According to wikiHow, one may assess the grain sizes of salt and sugar. But they too, acknowledge that table salt and granulated sugar do look very similar; the differences in these 2 is minute.

Option 2: Acquire a sieve sized in between the 2 grain sizes so as to let the salt through. However, this method is clearly not fool proof since not all salt and sugar grain is of the same size. A salt granule could mask itself.

The best way to separate salt and sugar is by adding absolute alcohol to the mixture as only the sugar will dissolve, salt is insoluble in alcohol. Then after, proceed to evaporate or boil off the sugar and alcohol solution and you will be left with salt.

Much like in life, it requires more than looking or tactility to tell between genuine and the pseudo. It takes time, takes processes and occurrences. I once more wish I could distinguish them easily.

Then again, as much as I am grateful for the sugars in my life, excessive amount of sugar isn't all that good for the health. Salt heightens the sweetness of sugar; it teaches me to appreciate sugar better. More importantly, salt, to a moderate amount, does good to the body too.

As such, I am grateful for both the sugar and salt in my life. Sugar provides a sense of joy, while salt is vital for personal growth.

Wind whips, whistling in the seat belt,
Crooning along to the emotional ululations
As I succumb to the emphatically teenager-like emotions,
Grand in their extremity,
Both realizing and fully embracing the cliché-ness
And dramatization of every quip, gesture, glance.
My mood soars irrationally with the voraciousness of my tires,
Devouring every granule of cement at velocities upwards
Of 30 miles per hour.
Jason Mraz and I make an excellent duet,
As I’m quite certain the disgruntled woman a lane over
At the stoplight thinks as well.
He sings of skies “getting rough”
And I allow my eyes to wander to our own ominous clouds,
Creeping from the east like panthers prowling in search of prey;
I appreciate their slate undertones and umber rumples,
The gold shining from behind and within, tinting their edges,
But I turn my attentions slowly, with a bittersweet notion,
To their fluffy brethren, friends of Magritte,
Iridescent and captivating as they weave among the rays.

I remember being proud of every granule of dirt
Raw beaten earth,
I built my temple out of.
Every water molecule in my crimson blood
Carefully selected to carry an essence
That I protected,
with the support of glass bones
Wrapped in healing wounds,
Putting everything I have into
Forgetting how to flinch
Regardless of the brutality life
Tries to dress me in,
Or smother me with .
Work through psychological damages
Practice away my
st stu stutter,
putting away broken syllables un uttered.
I will rise, you can not keep me tonight
I hunger
to fight,
Walk right up to the dark like
I never new the way it turns you into nothing
If you think im crazy,
Maybe your right
but im reminding you of something,
something that you tell yourself can't exist
something you let go of , something that you miss.
A sort of  irrationality that's still making perfect sense,
plays in your morality defies your common sense.
This is the only chance I have at persisting to laugh
And
I
Will
persist.
The only  way for me to stay bright
The only way to keep light in my
dimming eyes
Is to shine and let them see .
Something about existing, and persisting
In vulnerability is more than frightening
It is freeing.
I AM, as surly as
I am being,
I’m lifted, I’ve missed this.
I hope you catch the meaning
The thought of missing it
Leaves me feeling guilty
Like my will was straying,
praying to nothing
For things I had but wasn’t seeing.
I forgot to believe
That I was impossible
and that i'm breathing.

Staring at the hourglass
Counting each tiny grain of life
Moments that passed before
Resting in a pyramid pile, the lower half…youth
White and pure, unwanted beach’s breath
Identical but different…used

Age remains atop
Seeping in centered illusions
Falling through a narrow passage
Seconds, minutes, hours…it descends
Plain and boring, nothing much here to see
Routine ruts of tired steps

Then…one granule an unusual shade…effervescent
A single speck glistens…morning glory blue
Illumined before my eyes…finding the middle
Spinning in the gritted whirlpool and I realize…it is you
This is my time of love…I see it clearly
As it moves lower…leaving me…spiraling towards memories

Frantically I shake the container, it changes not
Losing you…watching…in panic’d wave smashing the glass
Tiny slivers lace the pieces, sharp, razor like
Sifting through hysterically, searching for you…my fingers
Sliced and oozing…crimson floods the mound
Everything is tinted sorrow…it all looks the same

You are gone, swept up in life’s saturation
And still I bleed…tears mingling
Drenched in loss of a broken heart
Lying in a dampened dune of garnet puddles
Becoming one with the earth below…
I have lost you…I am out of sand….

Coffee granule melt and sing

Coffee granule this instant bring

Breathe new life

Shake up my nerves

Jolt me up

From this stubborn slumber

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The hit is swift

Right on the spot

What once was dazed

Can thump and knock

I weave words within
an ephemeral
tapestry. a seamstress,
or a scribe of sorts.
either way you hear it;
the song remains
the same.

I understand and I do
not: a simultaneous
quantum superposition
(or superstition) for
an unutterable blazon of
infinity, encapsulated
within a granule of sand amidst
the eye of a great tempest.

I cannot claim a prophet.
no. I do not merit
such bravado.
no testament to my
works and days,
nor presumptuous air
of religiosity.

my fingers sketch out a
tempo through the
       c  
          u
             r  
          v  
        e  
          s  
of letters,
a form which
sings and dances
for those who cannot.

VERNARTH
Monastic  Cell

Vernarth begins to describe:
"This magnificent monastic complex dominates the island, and the old settlement of Chorá, associated with it, is home to many religious and secular buildings, where the famous pressurization of the inspiring forces of the Beloved Disciple is present, in this place he will reside in the sacred year 95 AD. AD, with his Gospel and the Apocalypse. A monastery dedicated to the "beloved disciple" was founded there in 1088 by Hosios Christodoulos Latrinos and has been a place of Greek Orthodox pilgrimage and teaching ever since.

Spilaion Apokalypseos (Cave of the Apocalypse) Many architectural changes have undergone over 900 years, adapting to changing political and economic circumstances. It has the outward appearance of a polygonal castle with battlements flanked by towers. It also houses a remarkable collection of manuscripts, icons, and liturgical objects and works. The primitive elements, which date back to the 11th century, are the catholicon (main church) of the monastery, the chapel of Panagia and the refectory. The north and west sides of the inner courtyard are surrounded by the white walls of the cells, and on the south side stands the Tzafara, a two-tier arcade in dressed stone, built in 1698. The outer narthex of the catholicon forms the east side. . Halfway up the steep path from Skalá to Chorá is the Cave of the Apocalypse (Spilaion Apokalypseos), where, according to tradition, Saint John dictated the Book of Revelations and his gospel to his disciple Prochoros. This sacred place attracted several small churches, chapels and monastic cells, thus creating an interesting architectural ensemble. ”
They continue in this set of phenomena towards the definitive mediation of the cavern by means of the inspirational illumination of the conduit of the ****** of the hundred doors or church of the hundred doors, declaiming the Panagia with the hermit and his disciple Prochoros, with remarkable whispers of the Blue Cormorant that he brought from La garriga; from a nearby ecoregion with plant formations emerging in the biomes of the Mediterranean forests, to incense all the white walls of the cells where the hermit led them walking together with two monumental candle torches. From here this cormorant will transport all the bioclimatic zones of the ecosystem, to constrain the Tytillinus embryo to be swallowed by it, predominantly to forget about its concept of egg as an oviparous generation of temptation and to be anchored to the plant site as an original species. . This blue cormorant is a superlative factor in the context of changing the cephalization of this demon-monster in the collective consciousness of the grotto and its shed.

They transpose the Tzafara, where the cormorant perches lavishly moving its head like a spasm in its neck to the northern north, illuminating its crimson green eyes. Destining his penances for the narthex as an open portico until the exonarthex, here the multiplied figure of Tytillinus would increase, appearing to be dominant before them, but all remained cohesive and closely united in paleo Christian rosaries, to re-infuse the forces of fear transferred to this invader.

Thus being able to reach the hemisphere of the mound that comes from Skalá, in front of them the Spilaion Apokalypseos grotto in Katapausis. You could see how the crystals of unhappiness turned into high-grade psalms of translucent stained-glass crystals of extremely shameful colors. Vernarth carried in his hand a Sheesham box with purisms and essences of the temple earth that he was building, he carried his magnificent thoughts inside the catholicon tied in his arms of the quarterdeck, where the raw solvents of the past wars as Military Commander oozed.
In front of the cave they all perch. Vernarth will inaugurate the Quadrivium whose four paths; They would group disciplines related to mathematics, geometry, astronomy and music as a study curriculum for the uprising of species and their preservation for centuries and centuries. Linked to the tracks or roads; grouping grammar eloquence and helping to speak, with dialectics to help search for the truth, and rhetoric coloring the words. Thus they understood the grammar, dialectic, rhetoric and its elementary figures and the three Trivium routes attached as a whole on this pilgrimage as they were already in front of the hermitage of the Saint. Raeder, Petrobus and Eurydice move their anxious feet with a few bars of Laziko, thus throwing from the ground with their feet the particles of thousands of years inseminated by the adjacent atmosphere towards the theological philosophical goal of the spirits satisfied to join them in the masses in proportion to the weight of their mobile talents, applying makeup like millennia to each other ..., parading before them.

Orpheons of the lowlands of Patmos were felt entering through the holes of the roof of the cavern, in communion to join them in the compas of this beautiful melody that diverged from all the original immaculate accents of the gifts along with the original of the Holy disciple. The petrified lotophagous mushrooms walked swiftly along the walls through the deviant Trojan ships, towards where the Trinidadian music descended from the roof, bruising the oversized apricots of the candlesticks, dazzling the other walls full of figurative tapestries of conceptual and iconographic images. Vernarth sang the Almara, an insistent retrograde song that invoked the entire community of Skalá and surroundings to join them through the arena sliding down the face-to-face gorge of the Katapausis, imbued in the mega center of the redoubled canticos of their own gorges, cloning the flat voices of the unknown mezzo vocal origin. Saint John only Vernarth allows him to enter his monastic cell, the others remain in the anteroom, pouring holy water and touching the hyper-curled walls of Chytridiomycota mushrooms that became voluminous in the immortal reflections of the vivid glow, to gather them to follow his insistent pastoral voice to a meadow of prominent demarcation step with its dynamic Laziko. Vernarth places in his hands a thick and heavy sacred medal, which will allow him to cease his lamentations and processes of Excessive occultism, before the heavy solitude procreated on his new face in rictus of joy and smiles in rounds of healing, beyond all predictions of his avatars and proselytes.


Vernarth goes on to describe:
A large amount of stress accumulated due to damage to the mitochondria that respond to the DNA that preserved the genetic material niche itself in a different way from that of the nucleus in the cavern, managing to dissipate after auscultating with the Quadrivium, detecting that a large part of the volumes manuscripts and iconographies were reactivated to other books as guests, to make them a living portrait for the tissue of the organism that parasitically inhabited the cavern walls. Inquiring an organized mitoconuclear communication. If they fail to resolve the mitochonuclear mtDNA breaks, before the radiosities of the celestial diaphragm, a dysfunction will be triggered that will affect the cells and tissues of the host, on all manuscripts and iconographies. These mitochondrial genomes will examine their function in the area of organic cellular spatiality, therefore the ideas obtained of incompatibility will remove all the saprophytic material from the rough trails of the demon granule Tytillinus, to exile it to the confines of its eco-region, where it lives unnaturally abandoned.

An evanescent canonical source alluding to this stay in Patmos will reveal to them through the roofs of all the houses of Skalá, mentioning through the mouth of the Eremita: “I, John, your brother and partner in the tribulation, in the kingdom and in the patience of Jesus I was on the island called Patmos because of the word of God and the testimony of Jesus. I was in spirit on Sunday when I heard behind me a great voice like a trumpet saying: '' Write what you see in a book and send it to the seven churches (Rev 1: 9-11). Moist winds licked all the roofs changing the nuances and morning faces, proclaiming the new secular kingdom. ” The most detailed source, continues to deny his parchment although already in late popular event, on his stay in Patmos are the apocryphal Acts of John, attributed to his disciple Prochorus. In them it is told how Juan and his disciple looked for a quiet place with a cave where they spent ten days of fasting. Subsequently, John sent Procorus to buy papyri and ink, and for two days dictated to his disciple the text of the revelation. Later the saint would entrust his disciple with a noble copy on parchment. The Golden Legend makes practically no reference to these moments, except for a mention that "he was entrusted with having confidentially known some arcane and profound things, such as the divinity of Jesus Christ and the end of the world".

The apostle appears on the spot presenting Vernarth with writing as a sacred office, also to commission future parchments for his future prophecies, and ink on a scroll or codex resting on his knees or on a desk. He also boasts showing him the writing tools (calamus, inkwell, rasorius, cornua) that are usually also reflected in considerable detail in the decals of his fingered golden fingers, accompanying the eagle, symbolically within the set of the tetramorphs of the old testament. Here Vernarth takes his face in compassion when he learns that his hermit master acquired the appearance of an octogenarian appearing accompanied by his disciple Prochorus, showing him the streaks, singing to them with the ninety years since he was exiled. It is a subject of late consolidation, very frequent in the late medieval manuscripts that contain this book or fragments of it, especially the books of hours where the image of the saint abounds on the island accompanied by the eagle, allusion to the apocalyptic living, and with much Frequently, of an imp that throws the inkpot or hides the calamus and that many authors have identified with Titivillus, a medieval demon who was credited with spelling errors in books and mistakes in prayers in order to win souls for Lucifer. The first reference that is had of this terrible demon is in the Tractatus of Penitentia of John of Wales, which dates from the year 1285, which will be evidenced in the framework of this stratagem entrenched in Vernarth's career as a Macedonian warrior, and that he would bring with this odeón the detuned song that would rule those who cultivate the art of sound near luminous beings prone to lose faith, as well as those who represent here as Tytillinus, vast evil oppressor of those who look at sacred scriptures affecting their eyes, as a sign of peeling of degraded human eye skin.
The others appearing were outside in a shed, all very close to each other, just waiting for the order to leave. Suddenly they see a brilliant blue waving light, which was coming down on them, it was an eagle coming towards them as a signal to tell them that Vernarth was coming back, to go to go with them to their rooms and continue with their daily tasks.

Under edit / continue

I sift through a sea of pebbles—coarse grit and polished faces. This is how it feels to touch memories that have long faded—photographs with white edges and yellow corners. Perhaps here in this infinitesimal rivulet of cumulated sand, perhaps here I once was in hell. My skin remembers these tiny details—the claw-like pinpricks of granule and stone as they swim into the gaps of my fingers. And here come the worn but smooth edges.

Longing for the past should not be called anticipation, but it paints the back of my throat with the taste of salt and sugar and leaves. But the long winding path leading to more pebbles is masked by the ceaseless onslaught of undertow, fascia rippling as if shaken by quakes not just of the earth.

I wait for the tide to calm, for obscurity of undulation to halt. I am still waiting. I want to see what is beyond. I will touch the images from before as if they have tangible form. I can still taste the sea.

But I want to see what the rest of the river is like. I want to know the future.

bury my feet in the sand
each granule is a reminder
of how minuscule I am
sharp cold water rushes
angry against my shins
the shock leaves me gasping
but soon I become numb
walk along the edge of the earth
where the blue meets the gold
the sunlight kissing my forehead
my smile is eternal gratitude
it is moments like these
that remind me I am alive

maybe God is teaching me a lesson
that i can't really seem to comprehend or grasp.
because waves of disappointment crash on the shorelines of my chest
way too often
and i immensely feel each & every euphoric granule of sand
being so easily washed away.

Intently silent and skulking
Bleeding polyester paranoia
For some time I stand behind you
Creating mindless afterthoughts

However far from distance
See those solid veins
Where crimson tears rain down
Breaking the wary vase below

Shatter the lens of the polaroid joke
Taking the salty hand
And mix the unruly strands
Weaving uncertain eulogies

Dead leaves and shattered bones
Take form, opening endless eyes
To days less travelled
And nights awkwardly hidden

A simple granule changes time
Where a heart slowed- stopped
Whirring quietly- pausing- to breathe
Then nothing matters again

Pen to page, my pointless proverbs
Kettles on, forgot the water
Wasted time is wasted space
Letdown, seems its all it takes
Clean the *** and purify
Only me, myself and lies
Canopy of granule paste
Gagging on the rancid taste
Chorus warbles into gain
Amplified the great white plain
Stale thoughts of how and why
Leave my memories mystified
Boiled river's steaming stew
Bubbles deep inside of you
Cankers soar across my lips
Leading these into abyss
Candy coated carmine stain
Sway the crowd to your disdain
Pen to page, my pointless proverbs
Dont know why I even bother

The water sparkles like the time
I spilt sugar all over
Your kitchen table
Each granule reflected the sunlight
A smile splashed across your face
The silver fish re-emerge

Jumping in parabolas
To see where they are going
I don't think they know
When they are down there
And the frothy shoreside
Reminds me

Of the milk that rushed to the floor
After my clumsy hands betrayed me
I'm glad you weren't mad
I'm glad you didn't slam the door
Your wide mouthed laugh was there
To console me

You don't know

That I love you.

That I need you.

If only...

bring it back around again
just to open up the can
earthworms call omnipotence
flying chickens have no fence

easy as it goes and goes
blithering mind seize the soul
granule stimuli reap my face
sweaty palms bound in grace

to see
the golden sun rising
over the horizon
shining yellow rays
on another day
of my dark pain
if it only rain
the sky would weep with me
and I'd have company

It hurts
to hear
the warble of the starling
calling to his darling
as I'm screaming in silence
without a bouncing echo
burning up the night
climbing the walls
like a gecko
if only it would hush
I wouldn't feel like slush

It hurts
to touch
garnet grains of sand
I feel as if my life
is slipping through my hands
I'd place it in a hourglass
so, I would see every ruddy granule pass
as the mountain grows
a dusty crimson rose

losing it all

everyday

every night

every second

every millisecond


every granule of sand

every
balled up fist

every flowing river

every earthquake

every tsunami

every ticking clock
losing it all

losing the spirit

and the color

losing the trust and the understanding

losing the sense
and self-worth

losing the passion
and respect

and the dignity

and gratitude

losing it all  gradually
as the worms
consume

the detritus of life that I so fondly cherished

Venarth says: “After alternating with the Erythrai, I climbed the top of the ship, and began to experience changes in my philosopher's dermis, from a permanent continuous present independent of the post-period, leaving the dogma of the numbers that would cause me an existence capable of only obsessed with supporting him, with the weight of a drunken Lepidoptera who spoke to me close to the invariance of the incorruptible dense layer that covered the sea on the cornice of heaven, making them a continual delay of time. The facets of invariability would begin the notorious oceanic areas that fractured when the Eurydice divided the hemispheres, causing them to doze in the time of her crystal ball, up on the crown which would make her base the extra personalities of the sunset on me. The present allows me to eternalize my memories or memorare, of my existential eclipses, making of its faculty to speak of a super conscious overwhelming and constrained to the hermeneutics that invited me to drink Ouzo among the few beings that accompanied me in the height of the ship, increasing its gradation every time a sip multiplied with the puffs of the Hesperides that passed me by, inviting me to bag their naked spring figures wintering, given the temporary stagnation that entered through the hole in my pectoral of the sinister right scapula, where some probes of the Mythical elderberry paused my outraged finite human, who got stuck in my chest when he couldn't apprehend the amount of my second lieutenants who sifted through the Bereshit voices of the Torah, who lamented pre-late and tonal that they never finished, that they became prey condensed from each sip I drank into his Ouzo harvest timeline, tracking the tiny sips that That I would not be able to count, before drinking them, after never having drunk them harshly, thus not understanding the mats blown by the reefs of the infinite twilight sapphire, carrying away the burps, that the naiad Arhanis saw coming out between my central incisors and from my mouth numbed by the heat of Zeus's anger, and from the dawning of potential between fallen, hanging from the sky of Arhanis, holding between the hands of the one who supports him. The clouds and geometric masses in vapors fell on distinctive chromatic ropes and cords of volumes supporting the infinite, which today eliminated itself blinded, falling into the void of an ex-vaporous corporation.

This succession in status of perenniality, made me hold vigorously from the top, as I began to fall into an unknown void where I would meet Elpenor in hypersomnia, but rather, from a song of the Odyssey that invited me to a straw next to him and the liquid chemo of the Ouzo, asking him to give him the worthy food of his oblations and the liquor broth, to make me advise him in the last sip, before the sirens sing, where I would affirm my golden hoplite elbow so that the status of eternity, dispense with the ford runs of the taps that exude their Cretan Ouzo, through the navel that swallows the entire boats and my "Pectoral that puts the stopper of time so that it does not pass supra into infra existentialist"

Elpenor, already burning before him, continued with a glass in his hands, pressing the heads of the Taurus who prolonged substitute immaterial lapses, which turned into ouzo vapor vomited by both, running through the sequence of the masts of the crowns, which it would begin to weaken somewhat  from so much distillation of the vineyard test tube, as it cooled down after a succession of events that began with the severed head of the beginning of the emotional initial moment, in which I am still wounded between crossbows and moments that undermine all origin, under a toast of heavy eyelids that pretended a Bing Bang, before taking the float towards a mound that would allow me to fall into the unsustainable gravitant, in which the acceleration causes me, and that weatherizes everything, even though I am not the one that transports myself. Before Elpeneor, I witnessed three uncorrupted deaths, one with the scythe on his shoulders cutting the fences of the impiety of raising micro-times in the Odyssey, another as a prey of biological dowels that debate science that fall incapable before the granule of the involved brain similarly to the multisectoral questioning of conscious conflicts; and final hunger within my contradiction and inconveniences of the loss of the sense of taste, cloistering myself as I live in its metempsychosis, losing the sensitivity of my hands and trying to leverage my swords and spears, not defending my defenseless body from immortal carcinogenic fears , of a lost sacred soul and in sequence of losing reason of seven times plus another seven that remain for my way to paradise, evacuating primary psychic elements and codes of life that rest in formalin, before those who do not fear revive me when drowning  in Ouzo, for all my phalanx soldiers who live in me still dying in my arms.  Constituting the triple of the human being, which affirms the transfer of certain psychic elements of my body to another after my death that does not allow me to walk in the threads of the dust of my bones that wish to be taken back from the corners, from the old and sticks of the termites that eat my crow. I am still in creationism, dressed in yellow, so that the poet who only ***** and breathes me with his great senses, is closer to Christmas than millions of years I have lived, before the Christmas carol woke me up as a divine child, being only a large hoplite cop entangled in an igloo of Panentheism, deifying me or perhaps semi-deifying me, to house the stars that would walk out of my intellectual herd, creating my own low hills of consciousness, that look through the balustrades of the flint of Saint Peter in their Altozano, self-creating vital, but immanent. Transfigured, I decant my teeth in the crottals, on the carpet before the scarcity of their dilapidated embryos, before the Biblical Revelation that tells me that, among all creatures, I will be the only man capable of daring to apprehend the concept of eternity, in between of the serpents. As in one of the theological versions of Ecclesiastes imploring God: “He has made everything beautiful in my time. He has placed my eternity in the hearts of men”.

When I hail Heidegger after a sense after lingual ..., with the amphora ***** in his philosopher pipe, and with Wittgenstein I ***** half – half brain tobacco. Averaging Newtonian ignorance’s, before an absolutism that are revealed in the universal psychic drama, while God awaits me early in his catechesis, ordered, gummed and omniscient of myself, I am agreeing with the precious perfidious date still in my Eurydice's crown, that it looks eloquent of my new date of birth without a month that fits in any calendar that is known, to then go after the capitol in Athens itself, running aground with my ship after my hurricane, possessing its great reliquary itself Parthenon, with my ship over all this stiff structure that is reborn together with my eternalist suicide "Perpetua et incorruptibilis, in æternum vive"

"... Vernarth, breathes unfathomably and comes down from the Euridience crown, as if nothing had happened, when he sets foot on the deck full of liquors and ambrosias, he joins the others and dances Zorba without stopping next to them

Recollection
the act or faculty of remembering something
the textbook definition
of memory
But what textbooks fail to realize
is that we do not recall just a memory
We don’t recall just a fragment of pain
a granule of regret
a tinge of sorrow  
Recollection is remembering
everything
at 3 a.m.
in the dark
by yourself

standing alone
in the deep valley
i am carpeted by the dust
   of bygone days

memories float past me
   dissipating before my eyes
as my hands grasp vainly
   desperately trying to hold on
to just one small granule
   of an almost forgotten
past.

I put on arcade fire and smoke and try to conjur the exact point in time
I became this way.
Right when it all rusted down and snapped and changed everything
inside of me.
I was formed from the salt of an ocean side town.
Rivulets of moon and star caked to the sound of waves,
pallid scape of sands.
It took all I had to not be washed away every night
fantasizing of forgotten wreckage with my soul plummeted deep
never to be recovered
That town stood quavering
listening to the winds change and the insects shift
as if we were all sitting on our last breath of air
From that acquiescence it takes moments like these
to recall how I broke
How I became the sad little girl,
How every granule of salt is still clinging
to the inside of my eyelids,
Asking me to sleep
So I can dream of things out of existence
That make more sense
Than this.

The highlights of my summers
Were the streetlights coming on
and having to come sit on
the porch or go inside while
my big brothers and sister got to run around.
getting in the big van and watching the trees, the farms,
the rivers, clouds, and the stars,
pass by as we traveled. Playing games and playing games
with my siblings till we got too tired to keep going.
Staring into the sun to see who'd blink first.
Falling asleep and waking up somewhere else.
sword fights with sticks, wrestling matches...
foot racing, bike racing, calling out eachtime
biplanes or blimps passed overhead in the blue skies.
Running in the warm rains of sudden showers,
watching lightning flicker overhead and counting the seconds
it took for the thunder to reach our ears to see just how far away the storm was.
Eating dinners that left me stuffed.
Feeding sugar to ants by pouring the disaccharide
on ant hills and watching the ants take each granule
back down into their homes.
Chasing down ladybugs and putting them on weeds
filled with aphids to watch the red beetles feed.
Capturing lightning bugs, jumping high to reach them
as before they could float out of reach.
Laying in bed in the middle of night to finish a book
so I could talk about it to my older brothers and pass it on to my younger brother.
Feeding the dogs and having to clean up after they'd made a mess.
Getting ****** at my "mean" older siblings.
Trying to talk to my crush, and showing off when
it came to playing sports.
My summer was playing football game after football game,
getting hit hard, and tackling as hard as my scrawny body could.
Sleeping on the top bunk because I loved the summer heat.
Eating popsicles  and Italian ice and sharing with the neighborhood kids cause we had more than enough.
Sneaking to the corner store to buy bubbaloos,
chips, pop, and honeybuns with saved up chump change.
Visiting cousins, and celebrating birthday after birthday.
Yea, those were the good days.
The worlds falling apart now right before our eyes
and I just remember those good golden times.
I haven't seen a monarch butterfly
in more than a few years and they used to come every summer
in the thousands.