Oh, how the mighty art fallen
Lucifer, son of the morning star
Behooved by manner of thy own devices
How pompous thou hadst become to refuse to bend thy knee to man
It was pride that filled thee to burst
Had it not been but a few millenia later
Even your knee would have bent to the King of Glory
Whenst He did stoop down to the level of man
Even you wouldst have cried out "Lord, Lord wouldst thou not take upon thyself my raiment of glory? Clothe yourself as a king, not as a commoner."
Were it so much that us being made of dirt and you of fire that your proudness could render thee blind to our beauty as endowed by our shared Creator?
Though our mediums be different, were the Crafter's hands not the same?
Wouldst thou haft only humbled thyself, a different world we could have
I pity and thank thee, oh fallen one
For showing me how not to be

Remember art class in the big room
with spray painted concrete ground
where you were given a tiny mosaic
square and asked to recreate it on a
much larger piece of canvas when
you knew full well you weren't an
artist and you never would be? You
spent the time mixing blue and white
acrylic paint together on a small piece
of a former gallon of milk, adding and
adding until there was more than you
would need but the color matched
perfectly and of that you were proud.

Now you're older and you know a bit
more about hue and saturation and how
difficult it can be, working with imprecise
mediums, to do that, to make something to
fit a very precise set of guidelines with no
missteps, no miscalculations, no question
as to its perfection. You wonder if the color
really did match back then, or if you are
remembering something that never really
happened, if you wanted it bad enough
that it changed your recollection.

That day, everyone's large square canvas
pieces went together into designated
spaces on the wall to make a composite
image and all the blues were different
shades and that made you frustrated
and nervous and disappointed in the
other third graders sitting around in a
circle on wobbling stools wearing dad's
old dress shirts as smocks and throwing
brushes at each other and giggling as
eight-year-olds do. You stared at the
tidal wave on the wall made up of all
these disparate pieces and you told
yourself that you'd notice when things
matched as though they were meant, as
though they were destined and divine.

You see the waves lapping at the beach as
we stare out at the vast Pacific. We stand
on the shore and you tell me that my eyes
match perfectly the colors of the Sitka spruces
reaching their arms out wide behind me. Your
flannel shirt matches the gray November sky.
It took all the way to Oregon until it happened
again, but you keep your promise to yourself.

You notice the matching colors. You
smile to yourself and look down at me.
You grab my hand and pull me closer.

Your mind is on the moon and your heart is the sun
The guilt of yesterday beating down in waves that leave me floating helplessly in your atmosphere
Without a helmet i am hopeless
No guidance as my thoughts wander through time and space through no mediums of significance
If only i could see your face. Embrace for impact
The lust for landing
Closure
Solid ground                            
To feel safe and sound
This world we create for ourselves
This interstellar wonderland
Lets lose our way
And save it for a rainy day
Find each other again in the midst of a storm
And our love is reborn

The moon holds my very first steps
Gently embracing the tracks I leave on earth
She puts all my drawings on the fridge
She is my brightest star
With her, I do not hide anything
And I always finish my sentences

I have always been an emotional being
My emotions leave me breathless so I use other mediums
Thus ever since I was a child I traced poems in the sand
Made memories filled with love
And while words kept me company, sandcastles gave me a home

So
With sand and my toes, I made my very own chapter
With shovels and buckets, I made a book
Made ink out of water
When I was angry, I traced fire ants blazing my feet
When I was lonely, I traced the 52-hertz whale swimming into the earth
When I was sad, I traced the mountains too high for me to climb
And when I was happy, I traced songbirds sweetly singing a tune at dawn

All of this for me to wash them away with the tides
Emotions aren't something I like to talk about
Nor do I like to draw them
I feel vulnerable, it makes my skin ache
When I actually say what I mean it hurts
The possibility of rejection is painful
Like winter does to cracks
Like fire does to skin
Like violent wind does to paper
It is everything but enjoyable

I am as open as a sonnet
I do not lie
My metaphors and imagery are my truth
My rhyming pattern is consistent
My theme is not a red herring
I do not lie
Please trust me on this
But just like a sonnet, the twist happens at the end
And I always cut myself off

Our memories cannot be put into mediums.
There are no photos or videos,
No stories to be written,
No prime time television episodes;

The indescribable, undeniable energy fizzing,
Binding you, finding me, winding us,
Joined in divinity.

Every way I could make
Our moments into art,
I fall short, full stop -
Are we already art?
The way you affect my heart?

Is it living in the moment?
When we're listening or kissing?
Missing no other component,
No further desires or wishing?

All I feel when around your field,
Is that I'm drinking up Life;
That this is the consciousness I was gifted to feel.
And whether or not reality has anything that is actually real,
Layer by layer, the truth becomes revealed.

It's my observance to every occurrence -
The flow of Nature's currents;
What, in life, has pertinence.
Every interaction with you is marvelous,
and of utmost importance.
You're the physical form of happiness.
And I run into a hindrance,
When relaying my senses,
To anyone else not witness,
To what we feel together in this -
Mysterious, beautiful, eternal, immense.

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I'm pulling metaphors from the air
Gliding over my fingertips and through my hair
What am I willing to do for a few pairs
Of rhyming words on a page?
I think I've let my passion protrude further than my happiness
And I find a thought lies in my head
It tells me how I am so in love with being alone
Obsessed with a search for a quiet home
I fight for the right words at the wrong time they say
While I try to run from the one who doesn't want me feeling that way
I can't atone for the thoughts I own
Because I own them nonetheless
And I can't contain the sadness attained
So I write and hope for the best
For through eyes as dark as mine
I've learned to document this horrid mess
And with stone heart inside my chest
I learn to live with less
I never thought that this facade would ever meet an end
But I saw art that's not as dark and prompted me to spend
A little time inside a light transforming who I am
Dispelling the cynical mediums
Between the ideas I thought of as menial
Maybe my hope lies not with loneliness
But rather it lies inside of your liveliness
And perhaps instead of silence I long for the laugh between your lips
I would move mountains for your love
I would drain seas to feel your bliss
In you I've found a future
In you I find happiness

a cocktail of fear,
self loathing, and ego
swirled into the mist
of love, lust, and longing.
this mixture bleeds into
his words, which bleed out
of his heart, and fall into
places no one sees; pages,
places, and mediums such
as these.

"enough of those poems.
you'll never move on just
writing the same sad verse
overandoverandover again.
jesus, this one is even more
pathetic than the last. whatever chris."

Ink boiling, pure thought toiling
Vibrational frequency high taking us to the place of all knowing
Would shadows and dust leave us pale when we do not trust the rhythms lush?
Best we trust this echo speaking volumes of rough diamonds and crystals
Poet's Society, a kingdom of advanced beings, trusted messengers of Light beings
Spreading the truth to the world beyond what the eye sees

Arousing godesses, yes deities, over eighteen
Caressing the vapour of waterfalls
shaking the tips of mountain peaks
massaging the waves of lakes and leaves -
all in thought.

Poet's Society, a pilgrimage of enlightening
Recepients of complex thought forms from sacred future stations
The poets, stars, prisms and mediums - the tether between the seed of Creation and young races elevating
Evolving, their hunger deep, their sense (dull) of belonging
Voyagers they are taking you to the moon, the sun, stars - galaxies high above  
The Keepers of Ancient Timeless Wisdom
The Monks who are always on song in a world out of tune
Omniscient beings seeing the seed and creed of all being
Searching for the fruits of life in gardens where the darkness has taken over
The time-travellers, the creators, the aid of knowledge seekers
The poets who live in Poet's Society
In Temples of sacred Wisdom
in multiple bodies carrying out missions
The poet's eye is the vision, the picture of television; division
Feel it within intuition for it is a call to the see Light for which many are wishing... And it is poets who are on the mission.

Old telephone lines like fossils prehistoric, outdated
So many cOnversations by glowing screen
I could have been something you were really good at
Rhymes and rhythms shared over many mediums
Canvas, air, virtual, paper stain love
It's always the words that stick around
A mind can change anything into what it wants it to be
These pages turn yet still they remain unchanged
Tattooed, scarred into lyrics and get away car(d)s
I miss you
Whispered a mantra across the thin skin of your spine
Tingling the hemispherical split of right and left
Blind on one side, defective
The vision of freedom all at once clear then blurry
Catorax agoraphobia with a hint of I-will-not-open-for-anyone
Wish I could get the taste of unrequited desire out of my mouth
Burn clean the haunting of murky waters
Your sharp incisors still emerge from those depths to keep festering the wound

They say a picture is worth a thousand words and I'm looking to make murals in your likeness
Something that would reflect how truly beautiful your soul is to me

Maybe a watercolour based painting or would pastel-coloured chalk do?

Should I focus on the brightest hues and play down darker tones?
                                                          ­           But your darker side is the part of you I love most.

Let's play with the lighting;
                                               shadows and rays make one more aware

I'd love to create a backdrop, possibly a place you feel most vulnerable and bared
                             The limitless possibilities, the mediums and the inspiration you bring me

Perhaps barring your soul is a tad too blasé?
               Let's dig deeper and find something more suitable for your mural

                                                          ­                                                                 ­        How about an impression?
                                                     ­                                                                 ­                     How I feel about you?

Oh my, that is personal...
                                                     ­   yet entirely too brilliant to ignore!

I could just go on and make a mural that much clearly expresses how I feel about you
The way you talk, the way you walk;

                                                          ­      That particular smile and glint in your eyes
                                                            ­              when something intrigues you
                                                             ­                 and you're up to no good.


Ah, the marvelous mystery I have yet to uncover that is you!
                                                            ­         But the fun is no doubt in trying to capture your essence

Ah, here I go prattling on and on about mysteries and emotions,
I'll get to work and I'll set up my drafts and display them to you...
                                                          ­                The Mural will be breathtaking.

but of course, not as fascinating as you.

This one day I was awalkin' down the road,
to Chicago, winter o'seventy, worst in thirty years,
'saw this young fella in a army jacket, shiverin',
his feet was cold.

I walked up and said hello, you don't know me,
but I saw your feet was cold.

I got some dry socks and bread bags that'll
keep'm dry, you can have 'em if you will.

He said thank you, sir, real polite, but
cold feet is what I'm gettin' past,
gettin' over it wit m'mind. A guru taught me.

Ain't working is it?
I saw your feet was cold.

Nah, it ain't, now yah mention it, and I'm hungry.

So he bought me a burrito, and I told him about angels,
and how some say cold feet are symbolic,
one told me once,
many's the wish gone awanting
for lack of a reason to try.

I had cold feet, back then.
walkin' to Chicago, tryin' to. Again,
wit my mind. And bread bags, this time.

Angels, I believe in, they all are helpful as can be,
within parameters, y'understand, but evil angels,
ain't no such a thing.

Not no more any how. Jesus fixed it, came and saw,
damright, conquered war by loving and forgiving,

All while the Iron-legged montrosity from Italy,
was squishin' Jews and Christians in mud

that stuck like clay to the Iron-legged beast.
Ironic, ain't it?

You don't know? Whoa. These are the last days,
all the sealed up stuff that lion's den guy
got from the angels, messages from YodHeyVodHey,
Jesus's our father, from the prayer,

on earth as in heaven? There ain't no evil angels
in any heaven you ever imagined somebody imagined.

Loki, don't count. There's jokers in heaven.
Probably.

Mark Twain imagined a hellish heaven,
but saw no evil angels there.

They're mythic materially, literal wills o'the wisp.
The idea of evil hybrids,
that was then.
This now, now angels are all they ever were,
messages in the medium.

Mediums are something past medium now, hot or cold,
media-evil memes can manifest from a mob in the medium,
but they are bubbles,
right? Professional testers of the patience of the saints,
protesting the end of time,
so what?

Some movie on Lifetime
ends itself.
I feel like i should
push these keys again
and try to make
some sense of self…
but overall i’m disappointed
because I know that it’s not self
that i’m trying to make sense of.
I’m trying to make sense of this computer,
and the sewing machine
on the table next to it,
and the air conditioning,
and whether or not it’s acceptable
to mention modern innovations
in poetry.

For example, if,
in a poem alone
(because i can talk to you through other mediums),
i tell you
(we’ll get to who you are in a bit)
that i
(don’t worry about who i am)
texted a girl,
(and she’s just as nameless as you are)
does the fact that i mentioned something modern
detract from the significance of the poem?

Of course,
poetry is all about the use of words as well
(sometimes we hang them from the walls
just to see how they make us look),
so i guess really the question is
whether or not
you managed to make it all work
in a way that makes sense to you.

Because honestly it’s worthless what I have to say;
you’re constructing these phrases
piecemeal
(in your head)
as we
(yes,
i’m there too)
push the buttons
(ahh, can you feel it?)
on this computer
to make us
spit out
images.

Haha,
psyche.
these are just black specks
on a white background;
our mind only attempts to give them significance
because we lack it as well.

There is a part of me that knows you'll always be my favorite song,
But there's a part of me that knows that I'll always remain a record player
While you transform and reform and expand and compress
And now you've become a ****** mp3.
While music is a universal language, our mediums have changed.
So my old fashioned needle and your new fangled  encoding do not coincide.
But you know what, you know something? That's fine.

Who is I?
In the Now. I am of true boi essence.
A writer, a recluse, abandoned only of fate: Destiny ever alluring in the palm of my hand.
Limited only by my own inabilty to be present in only one consciousness.
I am split between reality strings.
A permeant spectre, caught betwixt parallel dimensions.
At times incoherrant, lost in esoteric translation.
I am physic(al) - I of breath + flesh, perception being my holster, corruption my armoury.
Intuitively, i am harmonious, sanctonious, welcoming of illuminations and the darker side of each unfettered moon.
Awareness sleeps by my side. Each waking minute guarded. of commonality.
I am enlightened.
I am bouyant.
mobile, fluid-like in kinesis.
Conventional existense being the foundation over which i fly.
Arms outstretched, willing risk to be my pull.
Enticing Love to be my drag.
balance, mediums, equilibrium.
Lifted high amidst winds roaring with possibility.
I am stark in naked complication, although often prone to cover up in cynical, self critical analysis.
I am given of self; being the taker a refreshing discourse to which i stray accordingly.

Of culture i am a liar.
By nature i tend towards honesty only straying when survivalistic path need tread.
I am of blood,
private yet optimistically open to scarring.
By custom i am trained, civil, content.
Of instinct; native raw tongue, i am rampant, rapid in force, compelled to grow then emerge.
Only.
To submerge
is to take full scope.
i am telescopic
in view of A/all else to which i drown my vision.
I am unsure if i am young,
Although certain that my passage is still being lit by the glow of its entrance, dark passageways luring with their shadows and cavernous corners.
I am liberal, random in speculatory silence. I am idle, often motivated by industrial desire.
Mechanical in process, structured of cerebreal architecture, yet somewhat discombobulated in particularity.
Sporadic be my strain, its think tank choking always on the weeds of sorrow.
Essentially i am nothing: yet overwhelmingly everything.
I was
I am
I will
therefore i
Exist
to i as
A/all and nothing.
As yesterday is to tommorrow, and visa versa, i am a window, a door, a channel:
as closed as i am open.
Dependant only on my own deliverence of influence and potential.
Driven by the promise of future and the demands of my past.
I am a vehicle in time, my presence, my motion, my journey
is I.

Betting on plays
And whether teams could pull it through;
Factoring rates given to the risks
Versus stats, records, and rankings,
Of losses, successes, et cetera.
Whether physical or digital,
These playful monetary mediums
Like domestic feline & bengal tiger.
Like dog as like cat,
It's a different reaction to them
And connection with them
Having grown up around them.
These paper jaguars & plush lions,
So much for the fear of adversity
When you're trying to crunch everything.
If you're always in the middle
Of working through or thinking about something,
Punching an equation,
Then how can anyone hope
To knock you off kilter?
It's just another component-
Another addition & subtraction,
Division & multiplication,
To calculate & sum.

You've gotta be in it to win it,
And you're always just one bet away
From winning it big.
Making it good
Sometimes takes all it can take,
And even then you might not
Break even.

I sense disturbance,
See some malign figure,
In your line of reason.
Yet, through our conversations,
No appeal can be made to logic.
The calculations offer a grime visage.

Play with your heart, play with your gut,
As your head will steer you wrong.
If you're thinking about it,
You're thinking too much.
Just lay it on the line,
Bet it all,
But don't bet too much.
Listen, it'll be fine.
Tomorrow we can
Recoup your loss.

The contradictions are lost,
The irony was over
And you took the under.
The spread accomplished
Chose the given
And you were taking.
If something flew
You were beneath it.

She loved to dance,
the music didn't matter much
It was the feeling,
freedom, surrendering,

I think it was a way of communicating for her
A switch of the hips,
tap of the foot or snap of the wrist 
Illustrated her innermost feelings

I could never read dance
So for me it was only ever an obscure but intimate moment shared

Spoken words are my tools and I amplified my pointed but spinning feelings often and in person,

With no music playing, no time to reflect or poetry to serve as a conduit,
She would freeze and struggle in the immediacy of my spoken words,

These tools constructed small wonders leaving her still
For all the wrong reasons

Dissonance grew beneath the roof of these wonders
Breaching the walls,  
always at nightfall,

We were slaves to our mediums
Our mediums enslaved us
 
She never knew the steps I was shuffling in were mimicking hers,
I didn't know the routine and her music muffled my words leaving them weak, 

Hindsight, reason and honesty our last chance to dance and speak.

Even now, as we lie here, heartbeats like a metronome for the coming storm, I write songs in my head for you. And though my voice will never sing them, they are the soundtrack of your kiss. Each record scratch on my heart like a pressed vinyl love letter. Shaping my sinking chest into drum skins that my pulse beats against.

If I were covered in magic dust, you would be my happy thought. And all my childish notions of what it means to be romantic would be written down the sides of Chianti bottles in melted wax, like an oak. And in that bottle we would keep our hungry mouths.

And still I find my heart adrift. Ripped sails and ropes leading skyward like veins. Split and tattered and stitched haphazardly together, waiting for the lightning to strike twice and bring it to life. My throat a bricked flue, leading to an open mouth, spitting smoke from the torches my heart fears but always seems to carry.

And I stretch my spine skyward. Trying to wedge my head back into the clouds but manage only to cast the shadow of an orchid that has begun to lose its color and wilt at the edges of its wingspan. Coming to terms with the idea that it may never be picked. Not even its petals, even numbered like a deck stacked against it that it might lose in a game of being loved and loved not.

We want for a little more time. Arm wrestling clock hands into submission with god like fury. Ticking tongues to dampen the prophecy of false mediums. We practice fighting so we may fight for each other. Fight for the greener grass on the other side of the pavement walls we draw our chalk hearts on.

The clock tower is a lighthouse. The lighthouse is a windmill. The windmill is a giant. The stories never end.

Even now as we lie here, heartbeats like a metronome for the coming storm, I write bed time stories in my head for you.

The Fox sisters of Rochester
lived in a haunted house.
A spirit there was stirring
That was probably not a mouse.
Spirits rapped upon the walls
and on the window panes.
The sisters Fox would rap right back
according to their claims.

The Foxes were sensations,
The Belles of Halloween
Their Séances well attended
By the credulous, T’would seem.
Spirit fever gripped the land
With rapping on a table
(Maggie Fox was double jointed
And the whole thing was a fable.)

It’s hard to sell your real estate
when it’s a haunted home.
But when spooks rap, rap right back
You’ll never be alone.

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...

i live in a world
of sheets littered with
pen marks, used tissues and sweat

mind you, the pen marks are black
because i only write in
black ink, blue is too foolish,
if that makes sense,
although i'm quite certain
that it doesn't

i lay my head on torn
out pieces of poems, better
left unfinished
and i breathe deep
mostly because i love the
smell of worn paper
and a little because i
don't want these words
to feel unloved

i'm a writer who knows
her mediums better than
she knows her self