there are so many places to hide,

in my home at 17th and South screaming death threats at my roommates laughing diabolically playing  videogames and Jeopardy cooking quinoa stretching canvas the dog going mad frothing lunging  spastic to get the monkeys or the wookies or whatever random commandments we issue forth  drunken while Schlock rampages the backdrop,

at my uncle's row house on 22nd and Wallace with my shoes off freezing skipping class to watch March  Madness unwrapping waxpaper hoagies grimacing with each sip of Cherrywine or creamsicle  soda reading chapters at my leisure,

in the stacks among fiberglass and eternal florescent lima-tiled and echo-prone red-eyed and white-faced  caked with asbestos and headphones exhuming ossified pages from layers of cosmic dust  presiding benevolent,

in University City disguised in nothing but a name infiltrating Penn club soccer getting caught after  scoring yet still invited to the pure ***** joy of hell and heaven house parties of ice luge jungle  juice kegstand coke politic networking,

at Drexel's nightlit astroturf with the Jamaicans rolling blunts on the sidelines playing soccer floating in  slo-mo through billows of purple till the early morning or basketball at Penn against goggle- eyed professors in kneepads and copious sweat,

in the shadow tunnels behind Franklin Field always late night loner overlooking rust belt rails abandoned  to an absent tempo till tomorrow never looking behind me in the fear that someone is there,

at Phillies Stadium on glorious summer Tuesdays for dollar dog night laden with algebra geometry and  physics purposely forgetting to apply ballistics to the majestic arc of a home run or in the frozen  subway steam selling F.U. T.O. t-shirts to Eagles fans gnashing when the Cowboys come to town,

at 17th and Sansom in the morning bounding from Little Pete's scrambled eggs toast and black coffee  studying in the Spring thinking All is Full of Love in my ears leaving fog pollen footprints on the  smoking cement blooming,

at the Shambhala Center with dharma lotus dripping from heels soaking rosewater insides thrumming to the  groan of meditation,

at the Art Museum Greco-fleshed and ponderous counting tourists running the Rocky steps staring into shoji screen tatame teahouses,

at the Lebanese place plunked boldly in Reading Terminal Market buying hummus bumping past the Polish  and Irish on my way to the Amish with their wheelwagons packed with pretzels and honey and  chocolate and tea,

at the motheaten thrift store on North Broad buried under sad accumulations of ramshackle clothing  clowning ridiculous in the dim squinting at coathangers through magnifying glasses and mudflat  leather hoping to salvage something insane,

in the brown catacombed warrens of gutted Subterranea trying unsuccessfully to ignore bearded medicine

men adorned with shaman shell necklaces hawking incense bootlegs and broken Zippos halting conversation to listen pensive to the displacement of air after each train hurtles by,

at 30th Street Station cathedral sitting dwarfed by columns Herculean in their ascent and golden light  thunderclap whirligig wings on high circling the luminous waiting sprawled nascent on stringwood pews,

at the Masonic Temple next to City Hall, pretending to be a tourist all the while hoping scouring for clues in the cryptic grand architect apocrypha to expose global conspiracies,

at the Trocadero Electric Factory TLA Khyber Unitarian Church dungeon breaking my neck to basso  perfecto glitch kick drums with a giant's foot stampeding breakbeat holographic mind-boggled  hole-in-the-skull intonations,

at the Medusa Lounge Tritone Bob and Barbara's Silk City et cetera with a pitcher a pounder of Pabst and a  shot of Jim Beam glowing in the dark at the foosball table disco ball bopstepping to hip hop and  jazz and accordions and piano and vinyl,

in gray Fishtown at Gino's recording rap holding pizza debates on the ethics of sampling anything by  David Axelrod rattling tambourines and smiles at the Russian shopgirl downstairs still chained to  soul record crackles of antiquity spiraling from windows above,

at Sam Doom's on 12th and Spring Garden crafting friendship in greenhouse egg crate foam closets  breaking to scrutinize cinema and celebrate Thanksgiving blessed by holy chef Kronick,

in the company of Emily all over or in Kohn's Antiques salvaging for consanguinity and quirky heirlooms  discussing mortality and cancer and celestial funk chord blues as a cosmological constant and  communism and Cuba over mango brown rice plantains baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies,

in a Coca Cola truck riding shotgun hot as hell hungover below the raging Kensington El at 6 AM nodding soft to the teamsters' curses the snagglesouled destitute crawling forth poisoned from sheet-metal shanty cardboard box projects this is not desolate,

at the impound lot yet again accusing tow trucks of false pretext paying up sheepish swearing I'll have my  revenge,

in the afterhour streets practicing trashcan kung fu and cinder block shotput shouting sauvage operatic at  tattooed bike messenger tribesmen pitstopped at the food trucks,

in the embrace of those I don't love the names sometimes rush at me drowned and I pray to myself for  asylum,

in the ciphers I host always at least 8 emcee lyric clerics summoning elemental until every pore ruptures  and their eyes erupt furious forever the profound voice of dreadlocked Will still haunting stray  bullet shuffles six years later,

in the caldera of Center City with everyone craning our skulls skyward past the stepped skyscrapers  beaming ear-to-ear welcoming acid sun rain melting maddeningly to reconstitute as concrete  rubber steel glass glowing nymphs,

in Philadelphia where every angle is accounted for and every megawatt careers into every throbbing wall where  Art is a mirror universe for every event ever volleyed through the neurons of History,

in Philadelphia of so many places to hide I am altogether as a funnel cloud frenetic roiling imbuing every corner sanctum sanctorum with jackhammer electromagnetism quivering current realizing stupefied I have failed so utterly wonderful human for in seeking to hide I have found

in Philadelphia

There goes Lady Fate,
donned in solar sparks
and her lace corset
whose  overt promiscuity
catches the attention of
one unsuspecting astronaut–
his helm fogs as he exhales,
his breath crude and lascivious.
Even Neptune’s eyes themselves
glitter wetly with passion
as she struts towards Polaris in
her pinprick stilettos.

She adjusts her stance accordingly:

I. Purse lips into a smoulder
(might as well look
pretty while ya get the job done.)

II. Aim for the desired target
(that there’s the bull’s eye.)

III. Wreak havoc
just as any Fate is meant to do.
(But, of course.)

She picks up her staff and fires.

The universe tremors
in an unbridled spiral
of colour and chaos
as the planets
d    a    r    t
about like billiards,                                    
                          colliding/|\with/|\ the/|\ stars

who,  in the midst of the madness,
d i v e r g e and c r* o* s s
for fear of being vanquished.

A cluster of mismatched constellations
and forsaken cosmic particles
settle into a state of
mutual negligence and destruction.
And, together, they liquefy into
a festering pool of molten silver.

Lady Fate grins–
yes, she has the stars right
where she wants them now–
and, in a final act of defiance,
she strikes against the earth
and watches with satisfaction as
it hurtles towards the silver
and sinks down into the molten
like an eight ball.
(And everyone knows it’s
Game Over
once you’ve sunk the eight ball).

From where she stands–
bent over Polaris
in seductive pretentiousness —
she relishes
in the screams
of some wretched lover–
the first to ever be
betrayed by the stars.

This majestic mountain invites us up to play
Above the clouds and valley haze
We own it for a day

Rising in the gondola, cables taking strain
Bronzed faces still and quiet
Studying terrain

Alpine chough and ptarmigan are seen from time to time
But alpine buzz is really
What we have in mind

A pack of snowboards hurtles by doing what they dare
A whiff of marijuana
Lingers in the air

Some are here for night-life, drunk in bed by three
Not in search of apres
During's good for me

The weather's right, tons of snow
Come on, come on, we've got to go!

I don't latch onto other or use ppl
If I really want it I go all out
Not afraid to try failure becomes less
Overcome many obstacles
Not afraid to come up short
Pushing forward to break through
Overcome tough times pursuing glory
Be a better person even when others are goin wrong
Be more for yourself instead of impressing others
Dare to be different and great change what you dislike
One thing leads to another keep working through the pain
Overcome the shame soetimes you have no control or say

Ethereal and Base a harmony so diametric a solid.
Wisdom's forgiveness lands to the unyielding new,
white spray on black lava, merging
elemental minerals in salt water.
Life the mediator, yearns for compromise
algea harvests sunlight at the hard shore, grows into plants
fish munch coral creating sand washing up, a tree's foothold creating soil...  
can rock become Earth any other way?

Mother's beauty, an unknowable generous smile
and confident grace from the sun.
Ages
sitting wrinkled and depleted to her waist,
beauty transforms
into unknowable generous laughter alighting graciously from wise eyes,
like a flock of Heaven's doves so close to home
stirred by her running children: daughter and son.
All the while all the yearning is unrequited.

For her children, Beauty is vertigo,
painful reality rooted to the shore.
Eyes long for the horizon, Vision Country
between sky holding its breath and water measuring out patience,
The heart spills out futile on the crystalline sea,
but Sadness, belonging to clear water,
lightly buoys lonely Ecstasy,
Completes the voyage.

The Vision pairs selfless love with unmet desire,
opposites' harmony the firmament,
but the sound breaks from tension and the echoes fade,
and the senses footing gives way;
vertigo with dove's wings tied shut.
Descending minuscule between dissipation
falling through molecules of bliss,
and diffusing atoms of despair,
to the last remaining positive and negative
and the tension's silver thin wire between.

It cuts tied wings free,
slingshots the dove's soul back up,
at the last second, the tension's iridescent thread tangles loosely on her foot.
She hurtles back up through the scales of size:
Microns, amoeba, minnows, birds, primates, people,
over trees, looking down at cities, mountains, yet higher
borderless nations, green and sand continents,
and again all the crystalline blue seas.
The silver filament draws taut, holds the dove's ascent,
wings slowing in awe as she views Mother Gaea
her intensely brilliant sphere accompanied by vivid tiny stars.
in a cold cold soundless night...
Grandmother teaching her children to fly;
Beauty's yearning realized complete.

After the storm,
the spider fine tunes its web-
spiraling inward,
plucking at strands
strung lyre-like
between the apple branches.
   Shrinking fingers of light
slip from the underbellies
of  low slung clouds
that stream by
nearly snagging the tree tops.
   The wind fills the web
like a jib stretched out
before the slapping bow of a ship.
   Meanwhile, our small planet
hurtles forward, circling
on strands of patient gravity
spun by God knows who or what.
   Satisfied with her spinning,
the spider finally
settles into place
at the center of a billowing universe,
waiting for some small
something to come sailing by.


Tom Spencer © 2017

Ol’ Long and Tall sits
uncomfortably in the
seat next to mine.

It is obvious that his
back is bothering him
this morning.

‘Hey, dad…”

This is how it always starts.
Anytime he wants to talk,
he opens with this salvo.

I think it’s like using a turn signal
when changing lanes or something,
and who really knows what lane my boy
is in as he hurtles down his own highway?

It’s not that I don’t know him,
or care what’s on his mind, not
at all.

We’re both thinkers,
Alex and I, it’s just that
he gets a little bit tangled up
now and then, and just goes blank,
but never dull.

I think “Hey, dad…” offers a bit of a reset;
just a moment’s pause for organization,
such as it is in Alex’s case.

“Hey dad…” he starts.
“Did you know…?”

He goes on to tell me
some facts, which I forget
now,
about Hawaii.

Soon, that folder is empty
so he begins telling me tidbits
about the migratory process
of monarch butterflies.

“Where did you learn this stuff?”
I ask.

“At school.”
“On the internet.”
he states.


“Good.”
“That’s good.”
I assure him.

“There’s more to the internet
than You Tube and Minecraft;
and you found it.  I’m glad”

“Yup.” he says and grins his squinty grin
at me.

I nod and keep driving,
it is a school day and we’re on
the highway.

No radio this morning,
just talk.

I wait.
5 seconds
10 seconds
15 seconds

“Hey dad…”

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

(For Black History Month 1998)


i have a wish
to be profound...
   to be proud and stronger
   and carry myself like the **** poets on Def Jam
voices of Kenya and kings, emblazoned
with wisdom, respected / permanence
tanned in words of Malcolm & Martin's reign...
   to have passions of Nubian queens
   wear a crown to herald my approach
head held high
   without raising a calloused hand,
   copper polished hearts
A presence that only demands simplistic
of silences in the awe, the inspired
unchallenged in my reverence--an African / American ability
   choreography / invention
   the first to dance, when others fear to
to keep it real and say it loud
my human wishes, strong, profound, proud...
sometimes
   gentille...

i wanna be black...
like King Cobra, a hood to umbrella fright
with venom from just my stereotypical sight
   immobilize and paint caucasians whiter
   to be well endowed yet humbly
complicated,
angry but with proven reasons unrequited,
to be singled out by mere appearance
alone, a Halley Berry poster, child - dealing drugs,
   respected yet in the poetry of chains
   creative even in these multi-colored pains
from a thousand lands of strife
music is sister, artistic is brother life
become ingenious
   saxophones in the moody blues,
   athlete of hurtles, jazz / boxing fights / sang...
gold medals, worthy for full frontal
news...

do i amuse you, with these longings?
think do you - it's a cursed delight?
   but life only
   excels with each challenge: our battles
against ignorance / shame defines
the worth we're given
our lot mostly restricted, our lions tamed
perseveres - tho' weep the dust of our ancients names,
and bleeds these,
our cotton soft truths some mistakes
   and Dolby stereotypes revealed
   re-assigned
now worn like brand new:
a garden painted stronger
roots - and robes of shackles' / thorns
sharp with unlocked prejudices
   brown can do no more (for you sir)
   criminal confidences find the unmoving wave of faith
a prominent jaw-line, obelisk-lips
kiss and smack / wet with loving lengths
it is ... no hurt in these earthen eyes
   evident
   stoic, strength, serenity
mine to dance and sing my apathy instead...
about the history, i wish to dis
yes, re-avow
empty empathies before,
   experience my thousands, marching
   Melato’s at the founding fathers' doors, will show
you how to open house
these ghettos of / our violent villages / of tar & soot
shadow our poor ever the more
our stars shine on
   broadway be our stage / Stomps / in the heart, hopes,
   styles rap / songs to battle racial profiles
racial cops in devil blue,
beating brothas, home video tell our news,
while our rich forget the rest
******* **** in their cribs
re-pimped, yes, ******* new money & *****
   of course, they are the talented ...
   almost gods on Apollo / knock on wood...
the music is still
the song still is
the foot is stampeding
the noise will be loud,

i will be proud
i will be profound
   in this time of redefinition,
i will be strong
(i wanna be black) like Etta James
at last...

First period is always the worst.
After hours of perfect, statuesque silence
I am poked, prodded, abused
Why is he always so angry
So hateful
His fingers claw  at me
His feet collide into my legs
And sometimes,
He loses his temper all together
And in a furious rage
He hurtles me against the wall
As if destroying a mere chair
Will solve all problems
Finally he leaves as second period begins
And I am filled with blandness
A person trying to blend
Never lifting a finger or muttering a word
It suffocates me with its nothingness
I force myself to get lost in time
But it always seems like eternity
It's not at all like when she sits in me
Sixth hour is always the best
She comes in with a soft step
Quietly settling herself in
She seems solemn most days
As if filled with disappointment
I wish I could embrace her
Let her know she is loved
But I can't
No chair can
It's a shame,
Next year, she'll be gone
And all be left with pokes, prods, and unhappiness.
I am just a chair after all.

Have you met the Saddest Turtle?
The one who always cries?
The one who's life is full of hurtles?
The one that hopes he'd die?

If you see the Saddest Turtle, tell him I said hello.
Tell him I'm sorry for his party to which i did not show.
The saddest Turtle has a friend, Jolly Octopus,
A loud Friend, one who contends himself as life's Magnum Opus

Oh what a friend destined to mend the Turtle's broken heart,
if only that is the octopus did in the Turtle's life take part.

So if you see the Saddest Turtle
Tell him I said I'm "Sorry",
Sorry for the misfortunes in life
That made him so chary.

You know why time flies?
Because it never slows to stop.
When time hits you, it does so with a crash.
It hurtles into you with violent awareness.

Time doesn’t crawl.
It doesn’t walk. Or even run.
Time doesn’t unfold methodically, or slowly.
Time is an event. And another.

The arrow of time is a broken spear.
It’s not straight and not constant.
The present announces itself, out of nowhere.
Time is a measure of suddenness.

Time is revelation.
It is darkness speckled with epiphany.  
Time passes only when change happens.
There are no small changes in life.

everything is beautiful
and nobody is happy.
the earth hurtles round the sun
just for us
and we still complain
that nothing goes right for us.
the chances of us existing
were so minuscule
but we are here now.
isn't that amazing?
and didn't anyone ever tell you?
we have superpowers.
the power to love
the power to laugh
the power to save.
you are a superhero
merely because you are living.
recognise the beauty of the universe
and be happy

because i love you.

it's elon musk
his stiff, frozen corpse hurtling toward the earth
looks like space flight wasn't as grand as an idea as previously thought

the virgins have gone galactic
branson's body as cold as his icy heart
and eyes to match his lifelessness

the bald headed freak's gone bug-eyed!
clearly unprepared for the speed his amazon basic space shuttle hurtles at
as shoddily made as the rest of their ****, the cabinet begins decompressing

why go to the stars
what do you think it is you'll find up there
peace or contentment
are you trying to prove something

you'd think if you'd really want to help humanity you might start on this rock before trying to jump to the next

oh you'll succeed
while the planet you so desperately sought to escape is in the throws of death's spiral
i'm sure it stings your pride to know you'll die before that though

Storm— rain drips, water ripples- thundering through
Seize shelter for overhead the skies darkest nature glooms
The wind hurtles, leaves blowing over the ground
till midnight, the storm surges —
Unrelenting, not a pause to be found
Grasp tight onto the bars, the winds blowing is breaking natures ground
The storm is a beast, it sounds it’s booming growls
The horns, they sound too, but deafened by nature’s loud sounds
The storm will pass through, no more creatures to bear a sight, no more shaking, trembling in fright
So on, Carry the nature
sounding it’s menacing cries aloud
till then, wait until it parts it’s wars and the skies goes clear and restless nights be eased
as the storms
do not sound no more

hello.
hi.
how are you today?
ok, as usual i guess.
just ok?
yep.
would like any tea or water?
no thank you.
ok. well, how was your weekend?
fine i guess, i went out with schuyler and his girlfriend and austins girlfriend. i guess their friends now. we went to the beach. i didn't eat anything and drank all day so i work ****** the next day.
you don't sound very enthusiastic, didn't you have a good time?
sort of, cora brought a friend and i apparently wooed her somehow.
well that's exciting. are you interested in her?
not really.
why?
i don't know. she seems really nice and smart, i just don't have any real motivation to go through all the dating hurtles right now.
can you explain?
(long exasperated sigh) i'm just tired of being disappointed. the person i'm in love with dosen't love back anymore, i don't really want anyone else and the idea of meeting some new person that somewhere down the line will tell me i'm "perfect" and then leave when i've invested myself into them sounds pretty awful.
what about all the parts of dating?
what about them? i guess i'm just tired of going out with people and thinking of willa the entire time. it makes me feel boring and crazy. i try to hide it and not focus on it and you know what happens? i get asked like 4 times a day if theres something bothering me. i'm just too transparent.
i understand, how you feel but you have to move on.
i know that. i want to. i deleted my facebook, my tumblr, i took down all the things she gave me and put them in a box, believe me, i'm trying. but despite everything, i have these moments where some random little thing reminds me of her, a song, a youtube video, a street, something someone says. and all i can do is think of how amazing she is and how much it hurts to not have her in my life.
...
i understand.
...
how was sunday?
...
...
i'm tired of them.
why?
i don't really feel like talking about it.
(light scoffing sound) well, i hate to break this to you gil, but that's kind of why your here.
(slight smirk) yeah i guess that's true. i'm tired of them because of they make feel fake. i have to be this different person that is nice and helpful and almost chipper. and it ***** when im in a bad mood and i just have be that way anyway.
does pretending ever trick you into being happy?
not really.
do you like your job?
sometimes. 60/40 these days. but since the breakup, i have to see her pretty much every sunday which kind of *****.
really? that must be difficult. why do you say "kind of *****"?
its a bitter sweet thing. i like seeing her cause she was my best friend and the person i loved more than anyone and its nice reminder that all it was real but at the same time its a reminder of how its gone now.
plus she doesn't get it.
what do you mean?
i don't know, shes just so ok with everything. we're on apposing ends of it all and i bet she doesn't even think about me anymore.
i'm sure that's untrue.
yeah maybe. i don't know. she just seems so happy whenever i see her and i wish it was cause of me.

end

To Garryowen upon an ***** ground
Two girls are jigging.  Riotously they trip,
With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip,
As in the tumult of a witches' round.
Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound.
Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip.
The artist's teeth gleam from his bearded lip.
High from the kennel howls a tortured hound.
The music reels and hurtles, and the night
Is full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-light
Flares from a barrow; battered and obtused
With vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags,
Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hags
Look on dispassionate--critical--something 'mused.

*

The gods are dead?  Perhaps they are!  Who knows?
Living at least in Lempriere undeleted,
The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose,
Are one and all, I like to think, retreated
In some still land of lilacs and the rose.

Once high they sat, and high o'er earthly shows
With sacrificial dance and song were greeted.
Once . . . long ago.  But now, the story goes,
The gods are dead.

It must be true.  The world, a world of prose,
Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted,
Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze!
Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows
Who will may hear the sorry words repeated:--
'The Gods are Dead!'

Knowledge is such: even
if you know that
something is true it will
hurt nonetheless. Acceptance is not

freedom

from hurt. It is
something else that hurtles in the sky,
something else completely.



I love myself.

tenuous thin line
connects earth and heaven
kite pulls in the moving air
tugs to run across the sky
fights ignorantly for freedom

one thin line tethers a rebel
to here and now
to past and present
to futures connected

past connects the far reaching kite
unknowing of its need for tension
for the saving pull
grounding
maintaining
the lifting angle
into pulling air

when severed
the kite screams
joyous freedom
until
caught by wind
hurtles
          end       over      end     over      end
tail clotting
only the wind rules
direction sideways down
plummeting to crash
directionless
                                  free
               untethered
broken upon rocks
or strangle-held in trees

Your love for me despite the nicks and flaws
lifts me from the pits and the claws of darkness
heaves me over hurtles to the fledgling light

I swim through a room with a dizzy glow
Where my feet are taking me i have no clue
I know what is about to happen but at the same time i cannot predict the future
My energy is off
My body is sick
My mind is a robot whos settings are stuck on sad
I try to get past these lunatics
Because their time goes
Click... click... click...
I am...bombarded with only 3 other bodies
Friends i do not know
A mosh pit filled 9 feet high with their words now known as snow
To that closet i will go
...And i will wait
Click... click... click...
There are two lower holes
I hold the door in place
My ears hear a sound
My heart raises its pace
POP
a balloon is set off
And the drunk people off of soft drinks sober up
Why am i the only responsible alcoholic here
Perhaps its because my beverages are clear
And clearly these mud drinkers didn't know that the kid named nooses head was about to blow
I grip the door because i can feel the thick hot blood on my hands
Its even thicker than the beaches sand
Horror stories and popcorn do not prepare you for an experience with death
I do not move because i know that he is dead
My body is limp
I am deaf
My eyes have no meaning
But i try to take a step
They (the donut eaters and hot coffee drinkers) have collected the glitter that was once his head
His pretty mind was broken
Before he went he at least wanted it to look its best
I step out from my new home named cold closet and see these boys playing with eyeballs
"Angaurd" they smile as the red that belongs in our veins hurtles towards the ground
They do not see what i see
Suicide is what some would call it
But no... to them its a playground.

Standing still
Looking to your fill
As life hurtles around
Change the only thing profound

Every minute
Every moment
Something is different
Yet everything so very same

Set in bronze
The sitting man gathers dust
Staring through unblinking eyes
Changing as he rusts

One day
So different from the other
Changes bursting at the seams
Dreaming different dreams

Experiencing the high
And the very low
Understanding our bond
That everyday grows

Change is unpredictable
It is inevitable
It creeps into the life with a snug fit
There is something just unchangeable about it.

sitting cross-legged
on the floor
bare right foot over
left knee, tilting
the controls like
that will give you
more control as a
kart hurtles down
rainbow road—
ever the hardest track,
but the one to which
every child comes back
time and again—and
to think some of us
will live there, will love
in prisms of light with
no railings, sit
among the stars and fold
paper cranes when
people ask us to explain
our pride
as if they have never
heard of love.

when you fall off the edge
everything goes dark
but in this life the ghosts
don't float you above
it all to get your
bearings back; somehow
you have to do it without
the benefit of afar; the stars
don't spin around your
head while you count
your scars; in
this life the ghosts
are dead.

I turned off the TV,
I watched a bird cross
the street, scurrying
on its little feet
and hopping onto the curb.
It did not use its wings
once. It does not need
to see things
from far away
like I do.

The house I live on rests
Upon a naked hill
Stained a dark brown and red
From the yellow bleeding sun

The wind doth not pass here
The chill is a constant sore
The morning breaks at mid day
The only sounds are of snores

Stirring underneath the dirt
Are worms pink and wriggling for warmth
Flowers bloom, die, much like us
Destined to fight the rusty silver cuffs

A waking dream transparent to the eyes
In a manic haze lined with grainy realism
We push through the rubble filled streets
Every day every hour every minute once more

We are a mystery even to ourselves
An introduction never properly given
Drinks of gold glitter near chairs splintered wood
A bomb burns through the drunks
Who chant out "One day they should...!"

Stabbing these questions in the dark
A fight for reason worth ah' dignity
Battling meaning while whistling and
Whispering words all demeaning

Hear the tick of the wooden clock
The metal springs break my silence
Echoes of the past move forward
A nod of the head allows its entry

Confounded by the pounds of
Rubble that I feel are inside my skull
A heavy sluggishness that recognizes the future
But wishes to have it another way

Tantamount hurtles that keep my eyes
Sagging to the concrete cobbled walkway
I tell myself life is here for you and I
But something tells me there is something further

Am I wrong with these questions?
Have I entered into a forest that will soon be set aflame?
Where is the exit to this maze? And if
I do not find it, what will happen to I?

I I I I I I I
Oh' selfish self-centered catacombs of fat fingers
Dusty spider web worries, wimpy and always whining
I I I I I I I

Only I among the scurrying madness
The coins drop to the floors, million reach forth
Stabbing their ego's with their numbness
Man's mind has grown weak with
The passing of time and a world weary gaze

Help is not here, no only this lamp light is
Passing souls of ghosts long forgotten
Pinned up in an honor they never asked for
Ink in the stale pages of history books
Handed out for the dropped out and soon to be
Forgotten or remembered with light enthusiasm

Each shelf is lined with our lives
The dust gathers much like the dirt
Upon our wooden coffin in a graveyard
We would never visit if we weren't forced too

Force of nature;
What a ticket! Clipped and
Slipped into our back pocket as
The God's smiled and we nodded in ignorant thankfulness

Brash agreement as we struggle
To make sense of the
Physical and non-physical world
Wavering with the madness but intellectually as simple
As a floating leaf upon a still water pond

Favoring our own thoughts
Over the others though
We are all in this together and
Those thoughts are the only tool
To keep us from shooting ourselves

Or hanging ourselves

Or walking on the other side of the road

How fast we learn to hate
The one's we truly love
How quick we learn to turn our heads
In indifference while the other's stare

What a game life is!

What a merry go round ride!

Lo' until we see

The dice we hold

The seat wit sit upon

Is only

Our own

Stumbled right on through my crooked door-frame,
Took your jacket off and put in that thing.
You could not reply when I asked your name,
Knew your name was Harry without asking.

Laid with me, your head was in my blanket,
Helped you and you didn't even hear it.
Left you with a chrome and crystal trinket,
Pins and needles meant to ***** the spirit.

You fell into me just with a mention.
Bubbling lava meant a sure transgression.
Your eyes never fully paid attention.
These white walls they channeled your aggression.

Love you say, it slept beneath my ceiling.
All I saw was lust without the passion.
She left you, your bleeding heart was reeling,
Then you asked me for another ration.

Where did all the time we spent together?
Why do all the moments run in circles?
Did I tell you I was there whenever?
Who could ever help you cross those hurtles?

Since I've crumbled you don't even notice,
Even when I saw you standing right there.
Dreamed I was your dream, I was your lotus,
Now I see I'm nothing but a nightmare.

Days pass effortlessly
I jump through them like hoops;
like hurtles,
like thoughts,
like water.
The question of the century:
will I ever see that facet of myself again?
To see your flesh.
Only way is to time travel forward so that I may
witness a flashback from the past.
The days pass effortlessly
but many moments I sit still struggling.
My body is moving around but does not know
what it is doing.
You flicker and float in my conscious
like a warning,
like a nuisance,
like a red balloon rising in the sky.
Can't help but notice as it passes by.
Attempting to peer through clouds beyond the sun
and out onto the galaxy, I pray to the cosmic forces
to align you and me.
Days pass effortlessly.
Planes glide elegantly.
Your spirit is found where I am not.
And in that lonesome dwelling place where I reside,
I wonder if our energies will ever get the chance to collide.
Days pass effortlessly
and my question lingers persistently.
To see your flesh.

ALL SPIN.ALL FLY.ALL MOVE FOREVER,
US, THE EARTH,GALAXIES AND STARS,
MOTHER HURTLES,IN ABANDONED ORDER,
IN VERY SAME CIRCLES,WITH HER SONS,
ALL SEEM FIXED N SOLID,TRUE,REAL,
IT NEVER IS,WAS,EVER SHALL BE,
CIRCLES SHRINK, WIDEN,INFINITY BECKONS,
THE MINDS CAN IF THEY HAVE HEARTS,REALITY!
WHERE ART THOU? COME LIVE WITH ME NOW,
R U REAL,A JOKER,UNIVERSAL,EVER CHANGING,
MOCKING,MY MIND,REASON,TRUTH,DO SO.
I HAVE A HEART TRUE,WE ALL DO,U CAN NEVER CHEAT,
MY SONS SHALL HAVE THE SAME,IT SPINS,FLIES,
AROUND YOU,NEVER CHANGING,EVER AWARE,
HOWEVER YOU TWIST,TURN,SHALL IT WATCH,
AND PERCEIVE TRUE,YOU CAN NEVER FAKE,CHEAT,
THIS HEART ANCIENT,YOUNG, ETERNAL AND COSMIC,
LETS PRAY FOR THIS HEART,FOR US,FOR ALL TIME TO COME.

A COUPS DE POURQUOI

Time waiting
like a lowly servant

coughing politely every
now and then

to remind them that
ahem...the world is...waiting

their ******* laughing
"So, let it...wait!"

The world tapping a toe
impatiently

eyes turned
up to Heaven

Time shrugging its shoulders
in a "what-can-I do" way.

She laughs at her and him
( it was always her and him )

puppets now of the imagination
memory's home movie

Time's revenge

remembering how it had been
now how

the train hurtles
through a darkness

her reflection made of night
and cold glass

hung there
suspended

staring into her own
crying eyes

knowing it could
never last what

a fool she'd been
she scorned herself

she this living
painting of the past

Reality once again
getting the upper hand

Time and the World
put in their place

the expensive meal
uneaten on the plate

the ship leavng
the town behind

slowly so
reluctant to do so

before distance and the dark
take control

'til the town too
is nothing

but a memory
hostage to the past

Jacques Brel's voice
lost inside her head

"...a coups de pourquoi..."

Now, here, somewhere
in mid-Atlantic

she finds herself
in the middle of nowhere

the middle of nowhere
exactly

where she
wanted to be

"oublier le temps
oublier le temps
oublier le temps."

As the wind hurtles past my face,
Everything goes blurry-
There's a dull thumping of hooves,
A dead weight in my hands-
Getting stronger and stronger.

The strength is impossible to fight,
I don't know where we're going,
Or where we'll stop.

A sensation I used to love-
A sensation I used to thrive off,
Riding relaxed me-
Took all my worries away.

Now I'm petrified-
The courage I used to have, gone.
The worst thing is,
Admitting I'm scared of horses,
The thing I love most.