I met my neighbor today.
Well, he's not my neighbor yet,
but he will be when I'm forty-two
and have that burgundy four-door.
He'll have two kids by then,
one from a previous marriage;
loud mouth little *****,
always reminding his step-mother
that his real mom wouldn't stand for
what she wants to call discipline.
I should really remind his dad to return
my rototiller when I see him next.
-
The meteorologist called for sleet
and I still don't see any ****** sleet.
I walked to the fuel station and got a fountain soda;
I counted six stray cats on the way back.
One of them used to belong to a woman
by the name of Jamila who moved back to Atlanta
in July of last summer.
The cat never liked to come to her,
so it stayed behind to chart star patterns.
Sometimes, when no one is out on the street,
the cats meet in alleyways to gossip
about the state of affairs in the soy city.
-
I buried seven heads-up pennies
underneath the yield sign on Union street
last Wednesday, I believe it was.
I'm still waiting on a reply,
but Mr. Cuttlefish isn't known for his punctuality.
No one is around here;
it's bad for your health if everyone knows where
and when you'll be.
They say one of the neighbor kids
found a piece of amber the size of a plum
in a box of Rice Chex from the corner market.
I knew someone would find it eventually.
-
Every umpteenth sidewalk slab has an "X" engraved
in the top, right-hand corner.
It signifies a meeting zone, and if you wait their long enough
I can probably convince one of the
silver men from the condemned apartment building
to let me borrow their aural symphonizer
so I can finally see what it's like
to extract one while it is still alive and roily.
It wont be too long of a wait,
as the men are always brief with conversation
and always seem to blink and breathe
at the exact same time I do.

I have a gift for them.
I should wrap it first.
Blue and gold ribbon
wound tightly to keep contents from overflowing.

I have been preparing their gift
since my birth, gathering the pieces
year after year
trying to connect carefree summer days of youth
with the concern and worry of adults.

Many teachers are on this planet to impart some knowledge to the future generations.
Roy G BIV, Please excuse my dear aunt Sally,
Columbus sailed the ocean blue in .... Yeah, whatever.
Knowledge like this can help children attain their dreams, they say.

I want to give them something else
Inject splices of film from my life into their vision.
Let them see first hand
the memories
Let them see first hand
the mistakes, the recurring nightmares of shame and regret

Take this gift
I see them suffering from their lack of insight,
like death by dehydration
at the river’s edge
I try to make them drink.
Drink up, Drink up this gift.
But their tongues swell with the cotton mouth of youth.
Only mumblings of in-text citation and Shakespeare reach their ears.

They write love poems, sicky sweet lines about prom and how his eyes twinkled like the stars.
“We will be together forever.”
They write adorable break up poems.
I want to tell them to run.
Run because that part only gets worse.
When he pawns your heart for a new leather jacket you were going to sell  to buy your childhood back,
Run.
They tell stories about bullies
on the playground.
Broken hearts and skined knees.

Please take this gift., Drink up.
I know how this goes.
None of it makes sense.
We spend 12 years trying to be cookie cutters of each other,
the rest of our lives we want to be snowflakes in January gust,
individuals dancing free in the wind

If they would just take my gift,
tip open the lid
peek inside.

This is not the end,
these four walls for four years.

I want to give this gift to you.
You need to know what I did not.
Pour your heart and soul into this.
Your life starts here.
Grab every opportunity that comes your way
Grab it like a life raft.
Love everyone,
that dorky guy in the corner, The mouth breather,
Love him the most.

I take it back,
Make your own mistakes. You are a clean slate.
Your life is that favorite coloring book,
create your masterpiece.
Go outside the lines.
Like the magic 8 ball, my answers are unclear, you fill in the details.

The bully doesn’t go away after high school,
It morphs into the bill collector, the tax assessor,
Your mother in law.
You will still be faced with deadlines, due dates.
You will still worry about how you look.
Trade your Proactive for Oil of Olay.
Your hair gel for Rogaine

The mirror reflects a new face back to you.
But you will still be you.

It is not the end, these four walls
for four years.
just the beginning.

I shaved away the edges until there was nothing left, but a dream of what could have been, and so with frustration i accepted the jagged.

A common law of common flaws, as my face morphs into mask.

I still wonder, when it all will collide, building up inside ...
So much.
Too much.
Electrified in the the allure of my ruthless retorts, as i struggle in futile resistance to the inevitable.

The feeling is incredible, when you let all just go.
As it gently flows from the empathy into ecstasy, learning to love thy enemy, even as they are metaphorically stabbing me in the back.

Euphorically to react to the sensations in my lap when shes next to me.
Hexing me in a shellacking smack to my mannerisms
Her summer dress to address my cynicism, as it flows back from whence it came.

Detained in her image.
Restrained, in questioned worth.
Worth a thousand words.
Words never heard but seen in synesthesia.
Synesthesia saving my amnesia from forgotten verbs that be-heave us, in forgetful stumbling of the loving mumblings before the kiss.

The kiss dismissing the winded blue lips from the fumbled wits of love.
Love drown the fires ablaze as it spirals away.
Away from the journey.
Journey of the uninterrupted.
Uninterrupted in the hunting of my comforts.
Comfort in the squiggled lines.
Lines that pack a little comfort.
Comfort in the blinds, as i sacrifice my obedience for a little bit of expedience on the smile that awaits, this toothless face.

Bludgeoned stupid, as i pace at half mass, blinded in the tall grass of empty lands amassed in colors unseen with tunneled eyes that refuse to defy gravity.
Gravity in your roads chosen.
Chosen in the glow of abodes ablaze.

Amazed in starlit eyes.
Eyes to dream.
Dream of better ways.
Ways to clean the bad away.
Away with my wayward words.
Words observed in zero.
Zeros the point in which i met her, blinded in the blur, as im pulled to her.

Here.

Here is where the mumblings stop and the singing begins, even if its off-pitch and bad toned, its beautiful and real and home. I can feel it in my bones, the resounding yes that this is where I belong. These people may not hold my soul, they may not be the closest to me, and I may not fall in love with them. But I love them still, and they are my family without blood, they are my green family, smiling beside me, trying to make a difference.

We all believe that the world could be a better place, and we all dare to dream that maybe, just maybe, we could make that difference. Its a magic I've never felt before, being silent in a room and just feeling intoxicated with comfort, like no eyes are watching and no words must fill the silence and no monsters are peeking over my shoulders.

The weight of the world is gone and I feel at peace, dipping my fingers in applesauce, being as me as humanly possible and for once not being judged and not having to explain and simply living.

Belonging in a silent room. I never knew it would come to this day, but it has. Its a day I've dreamed of, a day that has always touched the tip of my tongue but never quite been tasted, at least until now. And now it is here, bare before me, and I am reveling in its beauty. If I could draw, I would paint you a picture, if I could compose, I would write an Aria, but alas all I have is these silly little words to caress the eyes and sooth the soul and hopefully make a little difference someday.

Because that's all anyone really wants, right? To matter. To have it all matter, life, happiness, career, future, past, present, death. No one wants to go out like a light and have no one miss their warmth, everyone wants at least a shiver of something once they are gone, and to have everyone know they made something or someone better.

We're dreamers, my people and I, and I think that's what binds us; our endless capacity for hopes and dreams and combining the two to pray for a place better than the one we have today, not one worse tomorrow.

Tomorrow things may change, tomorrow I may not feel the same way as I do today, but today?

I belong is a silent room, and it is glorious.

T'was the gleaming dawn that those fairies poked from the veils of flowers and caught on hair were the pedals of the healthy sun. When the age was young and time knew not of itself, the hills were not corrupt.
   The wings of faeryflies and butterflies were tarnished not, but were glode upon by the winds of aimless grace; Thus they were always at Heaven's feet. Racing upon the glorified mountains were the badgers and bears lined in unison, smiling and perfect. The sun bound its rays to the shoulders of grass hills like eyes of Gods upon their children. Stood ***** were housing trees of the nested kind, fertile and lush.
   Lazy and idle slumped man happy and lethargic, hypnotized by that herbal glory that was his natural home. That of a kind that had been stolen in past tales but was revived in that timeless moment that could be lived and lived again alone in the forest to the east. Winged reptiles fluffed with fur dove from penetrating limbs and sung to the distance in inspiration. Perked were the ears of the majestic and gorgeous felines, born of the deserts that were the companions of kings. Not caring to hunt, lapped the wolves and dogs laying with the enemies of ages gone. Now only peace was reigning.
   Books and poems spoke of nothing new for the moment had found itself in heaven. The poets had no magic to convey and the authors nothing to tell, the scientists nothing to document. Thus the dreams of Children and Gods poured like water of the loveliest kind, sparkling with diamonds quenching the soul of the population. Food grew lush and free like fruits of divine knowledge upon that giving tree!
   Ritual and rite spoke of many diverse Deities and contact was non-denominational. Praise rose to the highest and rang of the clouds which were glided upon like notes of bards to which realms beyond one could go no further to speak! This was the realm from which language was born and art was bare in its true identity. This was where the onyx was carven by the Lord's anvil, given by the spirit of blacksmiths, and craftsmen of the like. Within those onyxes was night's essence and dwelling within the diamonds of day was a rainbow of fantasy hills free from decay!
   Giants gave free rides to the ones below with lifted songs of magic, levitating them free from natural bounds! The trees grew miraculously at speeds unknown to time lines perceived but was of time construed as God Speed. Bushes bared fruits of rainbow colors and iridescent visual illusion! Beautiful and bold were the tastes that quenched the deepest of yearnings. Salt liquid would drip from the children as they skipped from haven to haven with baskets woven on crafty mothers said to know of love. Those mothers would lullaby their babies to worlds of sorts known in mythologies of ageless civilizations! Lifted and beaming the children were transformed to angelic entities with harps of berceuses. Emanating were visual paradises transcendent of worldly nature but only known to the angels and the ears that were graced by glory!
   Proud were the further generations of what had been laid out by their tall, masculine birth fathers. Unholy language was unknown but only the ecstasy of heaven poured from lips like nectarous liquor.
   The forests were lined with prairies of diverse flowers sprinkled and gazed upon by moons and suns of worlds magical and beyond! Stumbling, the mossy giants wore clothes of Pan and draped were their leaves over their limbs reaching for love and what may lay beyond those wreathes.
   The soaked floor of druid woods were vibrant and lively. Untrodden paths bore magical potions and herbs that once ingested sung through the guest's frame till ecstasy was found and language no longer made distinct the inevitable unison that those vibrations of time had strung through countless, and meaningless ages. Entered would be a realm beyond form, void and the concept of either. But only would love and the moment of now float like stars of unfathomable material buoyant in the womb of worlds. And sprung from what would be perceived as void came all the heavens and what lay beneath those shaman's and kahuna's ingrown feet.
   Embedded were the children of time, one with nature and naked in themselves and free to breathe what ever purified and holy air that cuddled their outlines like a mother does her child.
   Spoke from ten thousand horns were the tales of Lords and Gods and kingdoms that laid harmonious upon mother earth. No matter how the bard of the local bar was spoken, crazy he would be deemed by men who now hid this knowledge from those who knew not of the possibility. In all languages that soul would speak to all ears ignorant to difference but had love for only the song. And now still the gift of imagination and the boundless feats that it could manifest were passed along like feathers and leaves upon the passing river. Sought and caught were the treasures of language to those who knew of translation. And lullabied were those Gods and Angels who heard of the transmissions.
   But now only the drunken bard lay sloppy and tired beneath that tree that somehow taught him of nature and the wisdom that it held. And off into the distance sprang the vibration of his passing mumblings like songs of nonsense upon that aimless wind.

The tik and tok of your life
cannot be described,
full of nothing
except hope
for something new,
something
waiting for you
to make life what you
dreamed,
yet only a dream
comes true
when you think.
The world spins around
the few
because
really it's
true.

fingers tapping against your thigh, music note mumblings. subtract everyone else and watch the feeling
m
  u
     l
       t
         i
           p
              l
                y
disassemble and reassemble the ensemble and allocate your earnings as earnestly as you can without appearing overeager. overhearing a conspiracy between my lips and your neck. a secret isn't a secret unless you whisper it, so do it, make sure the russians don't hear us as they rush off to give reports on that look I just gave you, the one that is oh so telling. reveling in it. living in the revelation of your skin, pouring down your presence like honey, like sweet molasses dripping thick and sweet, simmering under the sun, glimmering in the water like a jewel, jealous and ****, painful and dark and dazzling. beating only in anatomical hearts, out of tune, cacophony and cruel crimson, missing someone not something, left wanting and waning in the light of a lopsided moon, farsighted and fingers that prune in purple light rippling across the walls, willing to travel the planes of your body, embodied travesty traversing the sahara, dunes doomed to be swept away by the wind, breaking and kept away, each grain unable to touch one another more than once, gorgeous enough to be pain, staking your claim on misery before the misers bury it in their own backyards, backwards discovery, a convenient amnesia, believing ruses and runes to decipher in delicate dictum like tricking a language into translating itself.

almost too much of not enough.

EMILY DICKINSON:
You gave us the bumble bee who has a soul,
The everlasting traveler among the hollyhocks,
And how God plays around a back yard garden.

     STEVIE CRANE:
War is kind and we never knew the kindness of war till
          you came;
Nor the black riders and clashes of spear and shield out
          of the sea,
Nor the mumblings and shots that rise from dreams on
          call.

as i drowned myself
in the depth of my tears
flooding the land of my thoughts
i have lost everything i ever owned
i could almost say
that death
was my middle name
and as i walked
between faces
i would hear mumblings
and it sounded like screaming to me
i was going insane
i did not see the sunshine
i couldn't bear the thoughts
of never being good enough
my hopes were limited
and my dreams were slowly fading
and i was
lost
within the sounds

I try to explain the world--
the deeper meanings to my mumblings
all of it a frustrating mess,
an artist canvas splashed with too many colors--
that it becomes impossible to depict which is what.
Is that blue or is that aqua, I don't even know anymore.

When it comes to understanding my thoughts,
it becomes a psychotic break from reality--
where I imagine my fingernails scraping
chunks of flesh from my neck.
I plead for my hands to place themselves around my throat,
"Please suffocate yourself please just let me out"

Begging for someone to understand the mess,
that the khaki colored object actually means something.
Each splotch a representation of myself
every detail aligned to explain a greater idea.

As arguments end, they scribble deep within
a sketch book of sickening black ink;
Marks its place in the drippings of my thoughts,
making those colors lost in translation
so not even the painter knows how they feel.

As so it was as we put to sea.
The Dark pirate captain and me.
Aboard a ghost ship decorated with bones and skulls.
I listened to hear creaking and the circling gulls.

Twas a dark and dismal day, with a ghost green sky.
Her main mast atop the Skull and Crossbones did fly.
Holes in her jib and Poseidon’s pitch fork on her main.
Our dark and treacherous ship was the high seas bane.

A purple fog hung over her deck, coiling and twisting.
Up the masts and sails dark spirit existing.
Born out of the ancient timbers and the toil.
Born out of heartbreak and roil.

I was first mate on this ship of the dead.
One and thirty nine hands that bled.
On the ropes and the sails.
On the harpoons and whales tails.

I counted 14 cannons on the decks.
I found more on a midnight check.
She had seven eighteen pounders deck under.
She shuddered and rolled from the thunder.

Listing to port or starboard from a volley.
Recoiling on the oaken dolly’s
No cannon ***** would touch her.
The purple fog protected those that were.

Aimed at her masts and broadside.
Swatting them into the deep I watched wide-eyed.
She deep sixed more ships than any other vessel.
Their captains hung from the stern trestle.

We came upon a man adrift in a whaling vessel.
The captain swung the ship around to nestle.
The small boat’s gunwales were shattered and torn.
Her occupant screaming wide eyed did warn.

“Avast your voyage twas Mermaids I fear!”
His face a ghostly pale and his eyes were queer.
The Captain brought him on board.
And he brought with him a fear that roared.

My Captain held him at the point of his sword.
The man’s eyes became as fire and he roared.
Deafening, it was out of his empty mouth it howled.
And with it the very air was fouled.

And the purple fog recoiled from this man.
Round and round on the decks it ran.
We all backed away from this apparition.
A horror straight away from Mariner’s superstition.

And he collapsed on the deck.
His pulse I did check.
And he did not have one.
I listened for his heart beat and there was none.

Filaments of his former self arose.
And Hung over his dead body close.
“Beware of White Cap Bay.”
“Tis where the Mermaids play.”

Came a watery cold voice upon the night air.
And we all stood there and stared.
His tortured soul wailing into oblivion.
And he passed on by aspiration.

Of these tiny stars that surrounded him.
And his likeness became dim.
And then he was gone.
The purple fog again was redrawn.

There was no body from whence this came.
Upon the deck where he laid, a blue flame.
And no man could extinguish it.
The Captain touched it with his sword, it split.

And became two, and ran off the starboard side.
“It’s gone!” the bosun cried.
We all stood there at the Captain we stared.
For the first time ever saw the Captain scared.

“Who’s afraid of some Mermaids Mates?”
“I like Mermaids more than pieces of eight.”
Our Captain said in a falsetto voice.
He did nothing to make our hearts rejoice.

And so we sailed dead ahead into the night.
And the crew held their fear with all their might.
A red litten gibbous moon to steer by.
The wind through the tattered sails sighed.

There came into view a huge rocky bay.
Bathed in the ethereal moon light lay.
To the starboard stood a huge stone monolith.
Surrounded by a ring of small obelisks.

And in its top there stood a giant mirror.
At first I thought its purpose unclear.
The closer we sailed I finally understood.
Twas a warning beacon if you would.

Harken to its brilliance unto its warning.
Listen unto its mourning.
And green sea foam licked round its base.
And the wind howled in its face.

And there were queer holes and vanes upon its top.
The wind sounded through the holes an octave drop.
Which made a strange, deep reverberation?
And it shook the deck and masts with strange gyration.

We dropped anchor in a quiet nook.
The Captain said “Lads let us look!”
And several of the old salts were superstitious.
And mumblings of spells and things malicious.

Ran through the crew like a runaway current.
For reasons of truth and things that weren’t.
Then the Captain became enraged.
Said he’d use his enchanted sword to engage.

Any man not worth his salt.
He’d be locked in the forecastle vault.
With the purple fog and the demons of the ship.
Forever in death’s grip.

So nary a man stayed aboard.
And we all crossed a small tidal ford.
And found ourselves again on dry land.
Our sea legs making it strange to stand.

We came to the monoliths huge door.
Adorned with strange hieroglyphs it bore.
Testament to some earlier time.
To some odd number prime.

I stepped into a gigantic hall that was lit with no light.
And I saw a most impossible sight.
A giant sapphire ball floating over a deep shaft.
It radiated beams of light from this strange craft.

It danced on the walls like a giant kaleidoscope.
The men were about to abandon all hope.
I saw a huge aperture above the ball.
That opened like an iris above the hall.

One of the men found an elevator of sorts.
And its doors had rows of oval ports.
And our Captain stepped inside.
And so the crew filed in wild-eyed.

We found ourselves walking out of a strange mist.
In a room atop the monolith.
A huge mirror affixed to system of lens of strange hue.
And I saw in polar equatorial it would slew.

And our Captain looked upon it with an uneasy eye.
“Tis a light house Capm,” came a wistful cry.
“Not like anyone I seen.. says I.”
The Captain touched one of its wheels, “Aye,.. aye.”

I saw upon the wall an imprint of a hand.
Surrounded by a solid gold band.
And it shown a deep blue.
Its color the same as the orb’s hue.

And the boson’s mate was about to touch the object.
“Hold fast there mate!” the captain checked.
“We dunno what that’ll do?”
A blue halo around his hand flew.

And it pulled his palm unto the wall.
And he could not remove it at all.
There came from under us a rumbling vibration.
The aperture was opening in measured gyration.

Upon the mirrors there came a column of light.
From the orb below a blue-gold blinding sight.
And its countenance you could not behold.
Through the lens and off the mirror it rolled.

And it beamed out upon the sea.
And the men were afraid and began to plea.
And it swung around on its own.
Like some mechanical drone.

Nothing human touched its controls and levers.
For it moved upon its own endeavors.
One of the men was standing above the rest of us.
The beam swung into him and he became dust.

Neither force nor the Captain could stand the men fast.
They ran for the elevator save the Captain for last.
Once again we were in the great hall.
The huge orb was making a strange call.

Calling the Mermaids of White Cap Bay.
Upon the rolling surf they did play.
There were mermaids too numerous to count.
Their passage we could not possibly surmount.

They all began singing as one.
Their mesmerizing melody begun.
These sirens from leagues of the deep.
Soon had us all at the edge of sleep.

The Captains enchanted sword did resist.
Upon our lips it did kiss.
A sharp blue spark awoke us all.
From the lilting Mermaids call.

One of them beckoned to me.
I could not move and I could not flee.
And she came out of the sea.
And was floating in front of me.

Sea-green eyes and golden hair.
A long slender nose and skin so fair.
High cheekbones swept back did blend.
Into her hair unto the end.

And small gold stars within her eyes did move.
In a fathomless green sea did prove.
Their test upon my soul.
Doing their best to take a toll.

On this sailors lost heart.
She weaves her black art.
And her teeth a row of ivory scimitars.
That sparkled in the light of the stars.

She called me by name.
And the gold stars in her eyes danced in green flames.
Her breath smelled like sea breezes and myrrh.
And it reminded me of better times that were.

Then she touched my face her touch wet and cold.
She drew fire out of me and glowed gold.
Upon the night.
As I beheld this wondrous sight.

And her touch was no longer cold.
The spot she touched me turned to gold.
Then she kissed me and I could not think.
The flames in her eyes danced and winked.

And so I was lost to this siren of the deep.
Then her sea-green eyes began to weep.
Mermaid tears upon my cheeks.
Diamond liquid from her eyes did leak.

All down my face and into my mouth.
Salty and sweet, like some wine from the south.
And I began to see sub-mariner sights.
And I soon forgot my own foolish plight.

“For I cannot stay here with thee.”
“For my life comes to me from within the sea.”
“Fear not for I can change thee if you see.”
And she pulled me into the pounding green sea.

So down we went into this emerald abyss.
And I found myself in some strange bliss.
And I could breathe in the sea.
And I felt a oneness within me.

And she beamed at me with her ivory smile.
And pointed at my legs for a while.
As I looked at my legs I was startled to see.
A large broad fluke attached to me.

I could hear her voice inside my head.
We talk this way underwater instead.
And we swam down to a sunken Galleon.
Its deck littered with gold and a medallion.

She reached down and picked it from the deck.
Submerged in the sea this old Spanish wreck.
I brushed away the barnacles and brine.
Etched into its face within fine lines.

I saw on its face inscribed a name.
A name from long ago clouded in fame.
Ponce De Leon from the Queen of Spain.
Her lost explorer who succeeded no gain.

And I saw all my shipmates swimming towards me.
The Mermaids converted them was easy to see.
The Captain looked odd with a large fluke tail.
And octopus tentacles from his face did flail.

He was still wearing his stupid three cornered hat.
The silliest sight I concluded that.
And my Mermaid swam up to me and took my hand.
“You do not belong here you belong on land.”

So we swam up from the emerald deep.
When we broke surface she began to weep.
“When you get old and turn to gray.”
“Come back to sea and we will play.”

And with that she dove down and swam away.
And I think about this Mermaid to this very day.
And in my hand I still held the medallion.
Taken from the deck of the old Spanish Galleon.

A gift to me from my lady of the sea.
At night the wind brings me her singing plea.
“Return my sailor return to me.”
“Return to your home under the sea.”

Now I’ve grown old and my hair turned gray.
And you doubt this tale from me you say?
And I swear it’s all true.
I’ll swear by my tattoos.

Dave Proffitt 2/7/2012




















.

What I see is the product of wholesale hate.... an inexpensive solution to happiness… a scratched table leg...
The memory of laughter around a table or in a red station wagon... Long trips in a car with no air conditioning.. When i found out my feet were no longer kissable...
The thought of " Im Happy"..... Maybe its never a good feeling....
Then i learnt that distance is equal to money... Then it was not watching you eat cake...
My wishes were no longer " Ours"....
A bike ride became an excuse to watch the highway.... high flying jumps as you drove by a honk was as good as a hug....
Being mad as you were always asleep in your spot... Hating the dent on the couch...
Now wishing that the imperfection of furniture meant you were still here...
Watching the spot in our garage fill with picture albums...
Where every garage sale Our memories were only a buck....
That day when our red station wagon became a shiny new truck... Still red but to clean as if we were not gritty....
My Friday nights when ten o'clock was the limit.. And faking sober over minty mumblings...
And soon You would say.. "Dont breathe on mom"....
Even though the truth you hid was like a slap in your face...
Saturday morning where a quiet " Davie son"... Was always met by a simple "Im Up"...
A white lie to cover the truth.... I loved Saturdays more than Friday nights...
Fridays were for friends..... Saturday was for my hero, Black tar in faded cups...
Because sugar must have been a luxury you couldnt afford.... I wont drink black coffee anymore......
The more blue creamers make it less painful...
That time you said get out of "His" chair.... Then everyone knew it was MY chair....
Such a simple thing a place where i learned that a set of blue coveralls was as good as a red cape....
A briefcase was not just for lawyers... It was the place where you could find the last picture of us together....
A sunny day where i watched you turn an empty room into a work of art only now I know WE could only appreciate...
The bending two by fours as you made them a highway for black pipes...
That day i carried both tool boxes at the same time... Thinking why did you park so far away?....
But the way you smiled and winked when i put them down...
I catch myself sometimes in moments of pride winking at her.......
Those times where i can hear You in Me and it shoots out my mouth with a "Jesus Christ"...
Then apologies in the form of gifts... Men don't apologize......
I still cant afford your gift.... Maybe its not available in bars.. Or in measured amounts...
It cant be bought all at once...... Only in payments of my best.....
I haven't made a payment in a while....
But I remember I sign an extension every night.... Signed in tears in an office only visible with eyes closed....
Its the only place my chair still exists... A room with a briefcase on a desk... Slurppes with ice cream Dire Straits over the radio....
Playing in a shop i cant get too....
Where i can still carry your tool boxes...
Then flashes of black cowboy boots... Blue coveralls...
But never a smile or a wink...
Then i come back and whimper "Jesus Christ".....
Real men don't cry... Its been a while since i've been a real man...
Now its just an excuse for bars and measurements……

We are all part of the Dead Poets Society,
in that we are all adeptly capable
of free thought and expression.

The difference, between
true romantics and the (in)expressive realists,
lies in the passionate mumblings which echo across prairies.

The difference is simply that we
cling to life, to dreams, to desperation and to death
as though they are the buoys of a great journey - invincible.

While the realists puncture holes
in dreams and death alike,
sinking with abstract thoughts like great boulders - motionless.

The difference between two polar opposites
is the brazen stroke of being
and the frenzied, wild dash of living.

Each thoughtful pondering
Sliver like descends in inked threads
Removed from within the whirlpool of my mind
To become a living, breathing substance.

Many just cluttered mumblings
Extracted to clear the thoughts and reasoning’s
Of the eccentric soul

Pencieve, I pity you
For now you bear the clutter
That enables poetic inspiration
To bring forth its fruits

Penceive I thank you
For without such as you
True confusion reigns

Have you ever heard the ramblings of a crazy man?  They're often like the mumblings of a sleep-talker. Unfiltered, unearthed from the blackened crevices of the burned truth.
     They're rooted in the torn up letters that you thought you threw out. In the prison of socially acceptable things to think
That send you into a whirlwind of what ifs.
     They're in the things everyone knows are true but are too paralyzed by fear to admit.
     In the vapid humor that covers up the paranoia. In the fear still lingering after the emergence of the Monster Town under your bed.
             But what does one do with these ungodly demons?

Perhaps the answer lies in the disregarded chemically corrected ramblings of a "crazy" man.
But who will be the one to open their ears
and tape up their letters
and open their cells
and embrace their fear for the greater good of the fading humanity?

As a rubber ball
the child’s heart is bounced
from concrete walls
while courtroom antics
are played out for spite by all.
Finger pointing, lying, loud voices
and between times an ice cream cone for a boy.
A boy or perhaps a toy
waits with this one or another, while robes and
books decide on a father or a mother.
Perhaps a Saturday father will be born, for rules
are rules and stated clear, they read that a mother’s
love is best.
Pay no mind to children’s love or reality.
Pacing floors and clouded eyes, stare at yellowed prints
adorning walls of aged wood and words.
Father speaks in turn of days gone by, promises love and speaks
of a son not a boy.
“Times may change” a voice whispers to the trembling man,
“the past may not endure”.
A miracle today they all say, as the majestic rooms hold
mumblings by the score.
Hand in tiny hand they move on out, to streets of hard cement,
where dreams are waiting to be built.
No Saturday father today, perhaps another time.

for the false, convict, predilection for insane mumblings to cease into a void of hell, Nero indulges in the waters of the lethe, to forget life, the void, god.

to burn our cities, temples, is to drink, but to eat.
eat, mind you, the key to our temples, and dare not drink, least burn thy gods before unlocking their secrets, delectable enlightenment.

eat, and let the void's blackness of death be lit with the magnificent magentas, mauves, and cyans,
hue of inconceivable reaches of the potential of empty.
the psychedelic ****** frolic and feel,
pain sensual and dominating.

to the banks with Nero and his abyss of black,
let the cruel absence be filled with the blood of Nero, and the spectrum of our minds.

eject that horrid emperor for your self and your self's liberation from yourself. the ego, burns with Nero, in the fiery waters of the lethe.

In the old back woods

we watched him lay to see

his soul before the world

in this captivity.

In the old back woods

he spoke a language be

in mumblings incoherent

to be as he should be.

A rag, a bone and hair

he shrank two sizes, three

and scampered underneath

the leaves among the tree.

His eyes so beady blackened

he still could stare at me

and he led his army onward

to make the putrid flee.

A tail so long and mangy

flipped two and fro in glee as

he motioned for his cousins

to chant the words of we…

in order to be free.

Dream Talker, wordless in sunlight;
timeless truths in unconscious hours:
Where are you?
Where is your heart?

Are your mumblings of affection benign?
Or is your soul fighting-
fighting to be released from your mind.

You are the flame ignited by the sun,
before Dawns' scent merges with the horizon.

You are the darkness which numbs,
and the silence that deafens.

As you slumber beside me,
you stir a well of words through your breath:
A speech for no one but for Love.

Rumblings and mumblings

That’s all my lips can form.

Murmurs and whispers

That’s the loudest of my sounds.

A twisted body so

Disheveled and small.

Yes, I am

Special.

Stares and glares.

Mockery and discrimination.

Everyday gifts from people

Oh-so-kind.

“Stupid,” my teacher

Whispers to another.

“Into the last class she goes.”

A stinging heart and

Angry tears flood.

I want to shout, “No!’

But out comes a deafening nothing.

You call me Special?

I am not blind.

Or stupid.

Or thick.

I know that by Special, you mean

Idiot.

Why do you look at my

Tiny frame and

Think that since my body

Cannot function like yours,

My brain must be the same?

I can do

Anything I put my mind to.

I can learn.

I can live.

I can love.

I have so much.

So much to give.

But why won’t you let me?

I think

It is you who is disabled.

You are not able to see

Everything I can become.

Who I’m meant to be.

What I can and will do.

Yes, I am Special.

Yes.

But not the Idiot ‘Special’ you think.

I am me.

I

Am

Jane.

Remember that name.

Do you
see
me?

Sitting alone
in
the
dark.

My breath
hitched
and
frozen.

Throat closed
unable
to
breathe.

Eyes quivering
against
rabid
thoughts.

Hands shaking
from
irrational
beliefs.

Muscles tight
fearful
of
death.

Eyebrows furrowed
from
incomprehensible
mumblings.

Nightmares exposed.

Do you
see
me?

Maybe that was
why I was
so afraid
to lose you.
You were
the only calm in
the chaotic
rumblings and mumblings
in my head.
You offered
warmth in the middle of
a torrential downpour.
In my life filled of
confusion and indecision,
things made sense.
You made sense.
We made sense.

Until we didn't.

My brain is a wheelchair
And people think I am flying
Over cities and wastelands
Jungle gyms and green public pools
I assume the role of deformity
I am my very best Judas
Because I am lazy and can walk with the rest of them

My heart is deformed and dumb
And perfect people pity it
They hold it tight and translate
Its mumblings and tantrums
Into innocent sermons
I feel bad for my heart too
It should have been thrown off a cliff
Like the ancients used to do

My hands are plastic machines
And I fear them more than God
They scratch me in my sleep
They poke holes in my stomach and my faces
But worst of all
They write letters that show people
places I’ve never dared to be.

I see that bubble you roll around town in
and I can sometimes make out those mumblings,
calls of, "Looking to find my soulmate!"

Funny, vibration of laughter surrounding you
has not burst that solipsistic fizz and froth
Don't you hear yourself reverberating?

In your echoic encasement
Oh how you shine
In that mirrored concavity
And you love yourself so much

How could anyone else even come close
This is your soulmate speaking
Glinda, you haven't been a very good witch
lately

-The north winds whistling through the eaves
-Your gritty mumblings in deep sleep
-The rain hitting the bedroom window
-Blown derbies upon the panes

These things brew an ointment,
which I will rub into my soul for eternity.

It lingered in the twilight expanses beneath where I rest my soul and head,I heard its mumblings, incoherent not upon my ears was either understood.

Clinging to the expanse of what was underneath,  it was a warm night
but beneath was breath chilled and frigid that my hair stood on end.
I saw its exhalation from form to nothingness.

My mirror in the corner I would swift fully gaze, but all I saw
was darkness and those eyes that followed me across the bed.
Like a cobra it did gaze upon my movement hypnotic in essence.

Wanton curiosity of a mind so young, a finger, a thumb, a hand now I wave under the bed. But nothing heeds my gesture under my creaking mattress i wave in oblivion by nothing signals back.

I rest my weary eyes, then slumber to those places where my innocence does dramatize the actions of the day. but while the blinds are closed it reaches from its depths, it knows i now slumber its time to play.

I walk on the ice skating as I go, but then my feet are constrained and as the moments pass, i am entombed from below to up above, but just before my sight freezes i see a hockey puck, shattered in tears i fall.

Awoken by this moment  gazing upon the floor, there is no darkness
as there was before. Instead there is light, orange in  its glow, it
seem warmer till engulfed in combustion and I awaken once more.

A merry go round of images one as contorted as the former, now I seem to be on a merrygoround of distorted reality. Concluding this is a dream as i moved from one cunvulising moemtn to the next.

I say "No more, as my eyes begin to bleed, as fingers sink deep into the pots. "There is no going home for I am here now till i drain you till your death, I awaken once again to a place I know the best.

But I am indenial as where i rest only faint whispers are heard upon my breath, for this thing that lingers beneath has all but finished its ingestion of my essence as i have only a few ceaseless moments left.

Darkness envelopes me, I'm a prisoner within in a cell, in the middle a bed. A place to rest a weary head, I had fallen prey to that which hungers sleep. For the energy it took now I'm now in tormented death.

The call of the bird could be heard
from many miles around - its shrill
stirred every little berry and seed
from pillar to post, from hill to hill.

It nudged the sprinkling of frost on the posts
imprints left from the cold bird's claw
mumblings from distant old ghosts
leaving it for the morning sun to thaw.

A jigsaw puzzle of green lay about the countryside
dappling yellow fields of corn with bales of hay
this trend went on for many miles wide
the rain now splattering the red soaked clay.

But you know we have very little of which to complain
the seeds themselves leave a positive trail
dancing along roadsides and down the lane
tripping up and down the vale.

The evening sun fades to a silver  moonshine
the leaves around the hedge begin to blacken
the heads of the orange Welsh poppy decline
and the pink of the rose mingle with bracken.

The light from the lamps cast shadows in the night
the bird's call can once again be heard
curtains drape around damp windows shut tight
and on the cold twig sits the shy little bird.

mop handle doldrums
staring through space
into universe
drooling goon doodling cartoon
caricatures of lost loves
silt accumulates
at the corners of his fleshy mouth
soft movements of incoherent mumblings
give rise to spit lines stretching
and contracting
green bodied fly occasionally drawing ire
if not attention
the world seems out of focus though the grime coated glass
passersby unaware of the squalor of a man possessed
frantic scribbling by a chewed up #2
held in scarred and stained paws
webbed by genetics
battered by an uncaring world
unflinching girl
frozen grimace
geologic

there is a something that is coming.
it is coming and coming fast. it is colored like death
until the stars come out of it and dance around me,
and they become lighthouses, impartial.
but that is not yet. i am sailing with you now,
we’re on the way. it is dark.

soon, we’re going to come to a fork in the road.
you have to go left
and i have to go not-left.
i helped you pack - or i guess i should say
i watched you while you packed; all i did
was stare at your mouth and wish
things hadn’t happened like they did.
i held your hand and looked at your eyes
because there will be a time, too soon, when
i will no longer be able to experience you.
i want to experience you,
all of you,
all that i can.

i swim in the sea of you. i wish i could drown.
if there were a time when we could have been more than we were
and better, and good,
then i would revisit that time often in my mind. as it is,
i visit all the times we spilled things on each other’s shirts
and couldn’t get them out in the wash.

what would it be like, i wonder,
to walk in the path of your heart?
making maps of your veins?
i still don’t know you, and i guess i will never know you
for too soon the darkness will take us and the fork
in the road will part us and it will only be
rare occasions when you happen to chance into my life.
while i can, i’ll listen
to the marvelous dirt-road mumblings of your voice.
the way you say things
and how the branches of the trees bend down to listen.

am i a fool to hope for redemption by you?
a cafe in brooklyn in winter. snowflakes.
and conversation passing over steaming cups
like we’re fourteen and wishing for home.
wait for me at december sunsets.
i’ll be there and we’ll make for vienna
just like we always wanted.
maybe i’d ask you to play the piano again
and i would rest my head in your lap for all the times
we couldn’t be everything, we tried and we tried
and we couldn’t be everything. and as
your hand slips out of my grasp
and i cry out for Heaven,
please wait for me.
at the sunset, like i told you,
with your arms open to catch the fallout
of how this will destroy me.