A dictionary of words
Thousands---infinites!
Little marks to describe a vast world
Lest not care of lacking logic
Aroused by imagination is my magic
Lemon zests the cornucopia of citrus
Are not they a splash of kalopsa?
Charisma, karma, euphoria?
Not allowed to bleed in blanc
Wail in rosy franc
Puddles of messed reflection
Fictions wonder reaction
Wander in the wildest wilderness
Describe the autumn, fall
Moist, solitary
Fawn on the lawn
Reality is the contrary
Refuge in the creamed sugar
Like a cup of iced kiss
Deep burrowed in the mapled hiss
Wait for its marmalade bliss
Head exploding in fireworks
Magnificent, what about nightfall?
Showers and streaks befall
Stars shoot smoke of ball
Cry tears of meteorites
Sprinkle the blinking sprites
Flow streams of sparkling silence
Swim the chasing glares
Enchant me in your chemise, evangelic skin
Leitmotif of mimes' maim, mean?
Speculate the pixelled fairies
Hide in the fruits of Alice
Spark at the dance of hands
Paint the faint trees
Baskets of floating sheep
Bounce in the enigmatic realm
Drooling in
As they transgress the egress
In chiffon blush flushed
Bittersweet caress
Bare grasslands with strangers
Wet the glory shine
Morning then hoots for sleep
Shush, weeping willows
Flowers of your scent hover the grove
Voices sweetly surrender
Linger for tender
Gloam or roam
River of innocence soul
Reaping the afterglow
Aglow my fountained lockes
Blur for it to be clearer
Illusions of ambiguity
As its lips meet the prism
Of brilliant optimism
Breathtaking fauvism
Breathless onism
Succumb in the limitless reverie
Rare of not having aneurysm
Persephone's persepolis
Blood of perenelia
Where Opheus court Eurydice
Winter solace holies
Lakes of beating lights
Bloom irregularly
As the sesquipedalian crawl out from its vine
In the Brobdingnagian it creeps
Line between sublime and wine
Harmony weave in palette
Rhythm rose from my red
Fresh breeze hush the roulette
Leaves blade the crafted well-made
Dusk, dawn to diiferentiate
Eclipse the hysteria and the impeccable
Love waltz
Glide the glistened clarity
Perfume lilies
Stares of lavenders
Rain the clouds of keys
Crystallizing and fractalizing
Mesmerize, astonish, aghast!
Rise your mile
Fragile my rile
Bridge this moonlit immeasurable, fantasia distance
Repertoire of piano choir
Luxury in the polychrome noir
Royal in the loyal wintermelon
Poppies color the spring
Butterflies fly in the effervescence
My painting sings a summer fling
Jump in the pantones
Rest your all
Stones amble swish scone
Wishes twinkle then hone
Will-o-wisps chill your bone
Lend me a wing
Let not be done in a ding
What I fear, free from the fringes of meek
My, this lexicon is not enough!
How to occupy the million, jillion, eternal galaxies
Shout in the rave
Echoing in the waves
Marvel at the bejewelled revel
Image my imagery
Oh, dive away child!
Let us drive in the garden of glaze
Careful not to be too amazed in the maze
In the hummed woodglade
As the critters flutter and flute
No way to chain me out of this loop
Pool of pretty astonishments
Diamonds of nature
Endure, not inure
Words alone are insufficient
These are just mere fantasies
Some are unexplainable
Some needs to be felt
Some needs to be seen
Not just read
Not just dreamt
I may sound dubious
But this is incredulous

Because I cannot write, I cannot tell you what my brain knows and has known since ancient days (such as the early nineties).

I cannot tell you that I know where we go when our bodies die, how to free the Jews, the best way to lose weight, if the tree falling in the woods makes a sound when no one is around to hear it, how to cure the common cold, who killed Tupac, and, ultimately, the meaning of life.

Because I cannot find the words, I cannot tell you what happens to all the characters that collectively make up whoever I am, that all the tiny people who experience life and report back often do so in a garbled mess that I have to accept as my own, that they don't know what they're talking about, and they're contradicting, and so am I (as a result).

I cannot tell the reading community how to straighten circular reasoning into a nice fit line, remove red wine stains, or determine the *** of an unborn child.

Because I cannot make thoughts more concrete, I cannot build a door through which my ideas can run out, like the incandescent light bulb and the printing press did that one time, when they didn't even bother to turn the door **** because they were so **** excited to get out of the prison cell that was their home, when they found out that these concrete walls were obsolete and forgot to tell me, so everyone up here is getting real claustrophobic and vomiting on one another.

I cannot let them free, because my brain, like most peoples' brains, has a "guilty until proven innocent" system with all the tiny thought people, and I can't let them out unless I am certain that they are sober and unarmed.

Because I cannot create anything worthy of literacy, I cannot use words like "contumacious," "ambrosial," "frutescent," "barcarole," and "peccadillo." I cannot communicate to my Chemistry professor the reasons why my answers don't match his and why I am absolutely correct in my reasoning.

Because I cannot be a translator between ****** information mediums, I cannot explain how the sun actually melts at the beach and drips and floats on top of the water in a jillion pieces, that the butterfly that got half ****** up by the vacuum cleaner today looked pathetically like the veins of a decaying leaf, that the sound of knuckles cracking is actually a miniscule drum that your fingers play as an outlet for stress, that there is a partially chemical, partially magical reaction when you're outside sweating out all your insides and the air shifts and a breeze forms for the purpose of running, sprinting right into the brick wall that is the back of your neck.

I cannot convince all living organisms that we invent the universe in our heads, then how we're all supposed to avoid insanity while outwardly moving about in it.

I cannot explain to you why I will walk past my destination carelessly several times without noticing, why I pull out my eyebrow hairs, what kind of construction materials I use for my self-esteem, why I am nostalgic and regretful and satisfied, and why I adore the people and things I adore.

If I could write, I would write poems and short stories and love letters and angry letters and journal entries.
I would not write comparative essays, experiment abstracts, binary codes, or unfunny comic strips that exist in great quantities (and no quality) every day in the newspaper.
I would explain my universe and compare it to yours.
I would write something other than this...

elephants have memories
long,
to my way of thinking,
that must be hell!

imagine, remembering
in detail,
fine and complete.

the days of your life.
beginning at number one,
when all slippery,
slimed and mucked,
you were forcibly expelled,
into a world, of hard knocks.


image, each stumbling step
as you grew,
each slur,
each pointed arrow flung your way,

first fall, first hit, first miss
first kiss and all the desperation, set between.

and then,
you hit your teens.
emotionally bruised and battered
and running for the bell
placing 563rd  in the
contest of popularity.
trying new styles of clothes, dreams and personalities.
hormones raging, momma texing, paging,
virginity flexing
and all the other
****** bluff...guff....stuff
..."hell yeah i can never get enough"

finally you get to remember,
the grown up stuff.
projects due, bills to pay,
finding somewhere half decent to stay, grocery lists,
other people constantly ******,
in a it's all your fault kinda way.
deadlines,
diminishing lifelines, standing in unemployment lines,
waiting to pay a fine lines,
playing mine or yours in
your divorce foray.
and honest to god,
thats just the day to day
k-rap.
living low and *****
until the next pay comes along.

ok, there would be,
indeed some,
remembered joys,
some flowers,
among the weeds.
but thats mere fodder
and seeds,
for a better poem .....
written on a better day.

so finally you are old.
you are so, over it!
all creak and cracks, pills,
bad backs and bengay..

not to mention, the teeth
that sit in water glass smiling away,
all night.
on the table bedside.
that my friend, is just not right.

you are counting down the days, the hours...
watching.....home and away.

til one day,
you make the mortal coil's end...
and your shift is done and dusted.
bucket kicked,
daisies planted,
dirt kissed....
                  .....recalled.

all that.... and ba-jillion more
memories looking for time
on the elephant's mammoth mind - memory  dancefloor.