snappy synapses predict the end of the world
and i am growing tired of growing older
while the year without a summer continues plummeting
toward my house in time
and we bide our time on our backs
smearing the yellow pixie dust of sunflowers on our eyes
because at least the yellow makes us smile
asking can the moon tire of orbiting the earth
and break away like a rubber band on its last snap
triumphantly spitting into the windless night
until our lips are dry as oxygen-starved mountain air
but I know better now
than to judge a night by its morning
because the truest words have always been written
on the bitter parchment skin of almonds
masking the cherry-sweetness of the flesh
and the artist may be starving but she is never starved
if she can learn to feed on pits and branches
for the flesh of the fruit is never quite as sweet
and in a dewy stupor we raise our faces to a dawn
that shatters the illusion that we are encased in a racing darkness
that slides under our feet with the slippery stealth
of the thin layer of water evaporating off the top of the ocean
to join the ranks of droplets that gather in the sky
hanging enviously above the surface of the earth
but always in danger of slipping back down
and splashing into the great blue depths again

‘OLD AGE is a SHIPWRECK’
Charles de Gaulle

Some boats sink themselves slightly in order to
sleep—they awake with grog hangovers, leaning against

rocks, tillers askew as sea is softened by golden dawn.
The boom swung, tipsily; when the drowsy sail

was hoisted it groaned: *auxiliary! Poking its prow
through the greybeards, the cutter then gathered pace,

parting plungers and apologetic waves as it cast off,
taking leave of the harbour in a cloud of spindrift.

The sail was slumped dizzily on the once-strong
shoulders of the mast—it sighs for its sorry spar and

state, remembering arduous journeys on seas of glass,
but no one dares say how conifer bark rains down in

flakes when it sleeps. The signal lamp, once brilliantly
bright, fraternising with the stars each night, is now

outshone by the eyes of abyssal creatures; see it
wrapped up in a pea jacket, perched on the yardarm.

On the weatherdeck mop and bucket are talking
scuttlebutt and canonising shipwreckless legends of the

past—when the laughter stops, and the deployment of
nets, perhaps they stop to think why, and sloppy work

and holystone and, sky…



Kittee-wa-aaake, kitte-wa-aaake—looking for a
school of fish whilst, in their numbers, orbiting the

vessel in an ellipsis; suspicious eyes on our walty
cutter and its measly midday catch. Tragic wrecks of

birds and ships alike, who is to say—to draw the lines
and make divisions of sea and bird and wood? Birds in

their collective strength move like waves, how they
could carry ships! This one is anchored fast, riding it

out as if a storm. But this collective strength, these
birds with villainous intent nip at the weather-worn

fishing nets and lines and a few ***** are lifted. The
barnacles sleep, nightmare visions of keelhauling—who

knew they had such wounds to heal?—forgotten
underneath in the darkness, they are plucked from their

shells by beaks regardless.

Back at the harbour the boat and its weary flanks and
planks and parts and hollow and hull are comfortably

submerged and sleep. The sun is sinking too it seems,
melting on the tongue of the sea. The broken-backed

vessel, dead doors shut, sail folded, mast
unencumbered. The signal lamp, intimidated and

outnumbered by the many who are brighter in the sky
with light years in their eyes, it decides to sleep out

and keep check for the night for the crows in their
murders covet nesting spots on board.


Splinters and vibrating minutes and the bitter end,
perturbed by the day of eddies and unseen internal

waves, nipped by the endless Kittiwake, they are
consulting compasses for the correct hour—

but no response, just the obviousness of the moon,
even from fathoms down and not a whisper.


As in every dark night here there is no silence for the
utterance of water and rustling of stars. You can hear

Sargasso **** dreaming, after hundreds of years afloat
without making root, dreaming of something better or

at last nothing at all. And in every creak of wood there
is a year of bad weather. And within the strength of

every bird is an empty stomach and a restlessness of
wings. In every decomposing fishing net there’s an

echo of vengeance, heard beneath the ringing of a bell
on the harbour. And in every compass there is a needle

tirelessly at work, endlessly referring to the stars—

The red-tipped needle in its binnacle tower
—confused it still spins and swirls

and in every skiff, freshly built or sea-worn and sore,
there is always a desire it will never speak of:


   to
   dive
   for
   pearls


                                     on the ocean floor.

I’m the moon
Orbiting around your pull
I’m the humid june
Wrapped around you like wool

I’m the palm
Of God’s trembling hands
I’m a ticking bomb
The Saharan sands

I’m the forever
I said I never could be
I’m your latest endeavor
As alive as the Dead Sea

Unite in your unions!
Unite in your unions!
Unite in your unions and throw yourself face first in to your work!
Don your shirt or overalls,
Overhaul your boundaries to concreted foundations,
Regardless of what nation you adhere yourself to.
Still you work yourself to the bone so your home can pull through.
Pull through what?
This so called "economic catastrophe"
Will work turn into something done for free?
Used to create social links and acquaintances to support our future selves.
Favours like cans, stacked on shelves.
Cashed in for food to much,
Blankets for warmth,
A place to rest and huddle and slump.
As positive as it seems surely that'd backfire.
Paid work becomes something where few are hired.
An explosion of willing workers in their millions,
Forcing tired feet into the smallest of doors.
Hives of men and women, children, fathers and mothers,
Striving for space while engulfed by their brothers.
Enclosed in forecourts once commercially used,
These families that hustle and bustle get bruised.
Although this exists in the present, and past,
It's a consequence of utter nonsense.
Hopefully (and I say this wholeheartedly)... Hopefully...
Our "leaders" will cut out the rotting impurities and corruption in this economy.
Allowing us to be what our full potential shows us we could be.
Like countless Sci-Fi shows on TV.
Intergalactic human beings,
Where all politics are subdued by feelings.
A plethora of nations on orbiting space stations.
So unite in your unions people of Britain,
Unite in your unions people of China,
Unite in your unions people of Russia,
Unite as a world and demolish these dangers!
Goodbye.
Zàijiàn.
Dasvidaniya.

Passed, tense
           Under the glass, we shone;
the windows, daring each of us to shatter, was my
           feeling.
But there we idled, I sat up adjusting my lap--
           unmistakably you inched back.
What air, bag, hallowed, spinning!

          We give gas and speed off collectively, until the light
Source leaps into the dying sun or mutates into red.
          Your mouth, inaudible above the unstifflable drone
of the exodus from the city-- the people rushing out, away
from what sustains them.
          The light, falls into position, bekonning, you coward.
          Passed, tense
          Under the glass, we shone;
and you were the heaving globus--
          nothing, but a tertiary object
          clumsily laden with meaning by
          the tides and orbiting bodies in
          the cooling sunlight.
          With your archaic gleaming
Who would have guessed
          that I would follow you to
         Saturnalia?
Why Cleave, me, useless, tire!

slur your words,
as bottles pile onto bottles,
and the dreams you love,
have come to haunt me,
glowing orb,
orbiting around you,
keeping you away from the storm,
that pours from your mother's eyes,
about how her two lovers have died,
Her wailing drowned out,
over the buzzing beating plastic world,
created by by gones gone by,
of the greatest generation,
who died to produce,
the cubical living room,
we use to be gods,
on our virtual battle ground,
where we now stand,
face to face,
I stand with solidarity,
with your mother's loss,
climb into the life raft,
before the storm gets you,
and you drown in your flood gates,
that have rotten with filth,
you freely dump into your mind

I guess I used to look at him like he put the stars in the sky, as cliché as that is.
I used to revolve around him, kind of like the moon orbiting earth.
I used to be too scared to kiss him or move or speak in his presence
Because he was this tall, graceful creature and I was anything but that.
He was full of wonder and mischief and I had always wanted to achieve that
(to this day I still haven't).
So I guess, that when he yelled at me and told me I was worthless I took it gladly
Because any words that fell from those perfect lips had to be true.
And I can still hear his voice and I can see his smile if I close my eyes and focus just enough
And I think that maybe I miss that more than I miss the times my mom would hug me.
But I guess, that when he cheated on me it didn't hurt as much because his words were like stepping on glass
And if I treaded too hard I would shatter them and
Truthfully, I was never good at stepping lightly.
So I took his betrayal in stride, adding more shards to my shattered collection.
And in the end,
I suppose that I left
And it wasn't for me or him or us or any of the reasons that I gave him,
But more so for the people who did love me and told me that he didn't.
It was more for the people that were disappointed in me,
More for the girl they told me they missed.
I guess that it was for them,
And how they told me he didn't love me
Even though I desperately held onto the words he said
Between kisses when it was dark
And all I could do was trace the outline of his face
And try to commit those words to memory in case one day he ran out of them.
So I suppose that in the end,
That song is right
And that two can keep a secret if one of them is dead,
Except we're both alive even though we tried not to be.
The only thing dead is our love
And the secret is that he never loved me.

On this new day I was born from my bed with a fresh but somehow still tired perspective. It is early but the world has been orbiting for hours. I am always late to everything. But I still try and pry open my eyes with cups of coffee, hoping and hungry for what has not happened yet. If I survive the blank stares and empty prayers of strangers, avoid the ****** and the danger, then bless my ambition when I rest my head with my decisions.

You can feel it spinning
                                         fast
the Chinese, Japanese, American and European junk
orbiting at several thousand miles per hour could
                                                           ­                             punch
a hole in your armor, future. Thanksgiving passes, then Christmas.
A nuclear detonation, we absorb that fact. The scientist in us
delays sadness by recording observations. What is is,
sorrow's for tomorrow.

By reducing probabilities to near zero I hope to avoid sorrow.
In yr suburb.
In history when there were many fewer people we still found reason
to cross space, explore, trade and war. Now
                                                             ­                 overpopulation
may not be the problem but food and water shortages
get our attention.
                              I have Korf's fears.
And hear what I want to hear.

Some hear singing, some hear speeches or complaining.
Martin Luther King sang his complaints, dreamed of a brotherly nation
which came to pass, spinning fast, past Thanksgivings, past jailings
into reconnaissance, small wars, drones, renaissance, inventions.
At the border,
                         where the Juaristas fought Maximilian:
Benito Juarez (1806-1872) Zapotec Amerindian who served five terms as president of Mexico. He was the first Mexican leader who did not have a military background and also the first full-blooded indigenous person to lead a country in the western hemisphere in over 300 years. For resisting French occupation, overthrowing the Empire, and restoring the Republic, Juarez is regarded as Mexicoxs greatest and most beloved leader. 

Each soldier chooses what war at what border, or just
                                                            ­                                   shows up
spinning with the planet.
The neighborhood and surrounding nature is orderly.
But always there is implied force, violence holding it together,
                                                       ­                                                       chaos
is contained
kept out of the playground, government buildings, childrenxs games
but lies within
the force maintaining order, a spinning tumor, a gyroscope of
                                                              ­                                                inertia.
The force of the spinning, the speed of the force bring one to one's
      death
seasons, weather, earth.
                                         While the emperor's being beheaded
enduring seeds are discovered and invented, cross-fertilized and bred.
Corn, yams, potatoes, sunflowers, rice.
                                                           ­       Food is life and a good study,
useful discipline
                           daily meditation.
                                                     ­   The fighting man protects the farmer
and the farmer feeds the fighting man.
They elect the governor
                                        who serves the people. Peace out.

Peace and war are transitory manifestations of spinning
electrons, planets.
                               The sun's a nuclear detonation, essential
to spring and planting. Food is life. Seeds endure
if man goes to his daily discipline. If woman is man.
Birth and death
                           together are orderly, the border can be known,
voluntarily. How we live together, by prayer or force,
is our story.

Knowledge
from laboratory to starry corridor keeps us very
                                                            ­                         versed.
Did Juaristas consider the rights of animals not to be eaten?
Not during that spinning.
                                              And perform the history that surrounds us.
All that can be done
is written in the spinning:
"The people of the land, the Indian farmers of North America - like their counterparts in Mesoamerica, the Andean region, and the Amazon - have continuously cultivated maize, beans, squash and other crops for more than five thousand years. One of the salient features of their traditional farming systems is the high degree of biodiversity. These traditional farming systems have emerged over centuries of cultural and biological evolution, and they represent the accumulated experience of indigenous farmers interacting with the environment without access to external inputs, capital or scientific knowledge. In Latin America alone, more than 2.5 million hectares under traditional agriculture in the form of raised fields, polycultures, agroforestry systems and the like document indigenous farmers' successful adaptations to difficult environments."

Every couple days I see him
Standing, never sitting
Head bent, leaning with the car
The other people are constellations
But he is this one lone star

He never looks up or right
Just down with crinkled frown
He doesn't know just how bright
His light shines through this brown

This brown, this palpable ****
It covers us all
The fat, the lazy, the fit
It clings to our shirtsleeves
Pulls at our cuffs
Slowly burning our tree leaves
In slow deliberate puffs

But here he is
Every other day
Devoid of this **** and stank
Simply moving with the sway

I sometimes think of getting up
Of telling him how I feel
Mister you are beautiful
A wine glass where I am a cup
A plastic one with lines to tell
How much is too much
From *****, wine, even 7up

Though I never will

Sir it's not just that you are beautiful
It's because you never sit
You just stand and sway
Flexing your mighty wrist
You never stumble at the stops
Your ******* headphones
I doubt they twist

I know what I'm doing
Or at least what my mother would say
I've turned you into an ideal
A bet that will never pay
You'll be mean, jealous or loud
Sorry or far too proud

But how can you still shine like this
Each and every other day
An orbiting star standing three feet away
In this ***** **** covered subway

Eli tossed the ****** novel aside; a radical tale
of painters in the far future when paint itself
would be illegal; arms dealers, drug traffickers,
*** workers gathering in dark interstellar holes
bored into passing comets & orbiting meteors
docking illegally at satellite ports & unloading
chemicals frozen into place by the artists
who can never let their identities be known;
all colors on earth are registered & trade marked
by the Beast's Corporation & so Space Art is
highly sought & lucrative but lethal as it can
made to explode w/ enough energy & radiation
to leave a small planet barren for millions of years;
the Beast is reasonably worried as Space Art, or
Action Painting [after the ancient school] is wildly
popular & traded openly for billions of dollars;
the Beast may be able to keep everyone stupid
& greedy but Art liberates them into heights of
ecstasy & kindled wisdom; freedom of thought
the last frontier no one suspected & so abrogated
their intelligence & imagination to fembots
     who pump their heads full of colorful action sequences;
the illegal paintings too stiff,   just stand or lean
& look back                       at one w/out blinking
& the female-computer-network unable to bear the silence,
initiates automatic shut-down of itself;         femportals
           abandoned on stations where the painted images
          projected on microcells to the clandestine buyers,
                 spread as an unseen mist through the various
                                             artificial environments;
                  the distant star                     paint miners
                  smoking up a storm & using steam-powered
                                                               fembots
                                      to mine for their oil & charcoal;
                                       Eli putting on the kettle for tea,
thinks about the fembots in the novel & calling a *******
demands she not speak; the girl arriving naked in stockings

Figure a trigger
pictured fingers
scratch the brain
pick it ****, exposed;
******* minds only craving one more dime.
Insane
vein blade
neck noose
she drinks some to feel loose.

creeping
convulsions

chills christen me a martyr
King of the opiophiles
Christ of the smackheads
Conquering coconaut
Hero to heroinites
Majesty of the methodonians

Glitches in systems revolving
rebel against or kiss them
Ring the bell to bring out the MOB and roll your future to face the dice
who are they ask for advice?
You draw towards these demons while behind you attempt to bask
a mask
Cody raises a flask of poison resentful regrets
Brody the roadie is always on the move
that ****** basement edm dub scene sure did become crass
which only leaves you, alone to groove
and we drink my flask our flask and bask in romance and death
Sorry Sir that you asked…but wait I have one more thought before the session reaches the inevitable conclusive aspect. Listen to my
Unexplained Law
Of
Academic actualizations
Basic casualization
Capital causes compound connections only resulting in casualty
I am orbiting you
Blazing comet
A simple sultry satellite
cold convoluted
Sad
at my farthest reaching far flung Aphelion
Warming and safe at my closest approach to You
Blazing life bringer
Holy holy holy art thou oh Eye of all
Allow me to forever remain at Perihelion
The laws of Keplar could not keep us from colliding
in the end
fire
will be all dividing

there is nothing quite like being with you ...

sitting cross-legged on your warm crumpled comforter in dim amber light
with hunched backs against the white stone wall,
silently working to piece each other together,
merging thoughts and shoulders,
falling into each other's gravity and orbiting like stars–
we couldn't figure out
how to get any closer ...

we lived in shoeboxes then,
in ***** laundry and ramen-flavored freedom,
the soundtrack in our background
shuffled steps and muffled laughter through thin walls,
pencil scratches and elevator dings,
wooden doors and heavy coats,
cars in the snow rushing by our open windows,
hot cocoa, creaking bedsprings, and
singing–

I have been listening for the music in the things here–
I have searched in comforters, in stone walls,
in laundry and ramen,
in slippers and open mouths and pencils and elevators and doors and coats and cars and snow and windows and chocolate and bedsprings and everyday I try to remember something else I can dissect:
some texture, some melody, some pattern, some rhythm
where you might exist too,
but your music
is nowhere else.

we live in big empty houses now,
in hardwood floors and toothpaste-flavored loneliness.
I can still hear our shoeboxes
and feel the pull of our gravity
somewhere
fading ...

How would I know it was her if she tried to hide in disguise?

As clever as she may think herself to be,
With a mustache as thick as a Redwood Tree,
I would hardly need wits to peg her identity,
Because I have learned a few truths that require her to be,
And they are as follows:

She is a herald,
Of inspiration and joy,
Moments merely mundane made miraculous by her being,
Make me write and smile.

She, a vision, floats again into mine,
Simultaneously sitting beside me she turns every jagged edge in the world into soft colorful things with all the warmth of a sparkling room filled full of familiar faces and old piano songs,
A girl whose eyes talk more than her lips and say things like, not so fast,
So just try and say that to me.

Thinking back now,
I have never seen her walk,
She seems to glide, to float, to hover, like she does in my mind,

And I would consider myself a fool,
A green, spontaneous, pup of pitiful perceptions,
A flight of short stairs without poignant reflections,
If not for the wild burning inside,
Caused by my dredging artist bathed in light,


I lose my heart from time to time because she gently leaves it for me to find at the bottom of the ocean,
A place where distance has not yet been conquered so nearness is still cherished,

In these depths I often see cankerous beasts swimming slowly among me,
Orbiting lazily like planets in space,
But I do not writhe in the deep,

And the beasts swim away, always onward to other prey,
So in the dwelling that I feared, I now want to stay,
Until I remember not to leave myself in such a dark place,
Without the presence of my perched herald there to say,
That even though the push and pull of the tides above are much to bear every day,

There is still the moon to calm the Seas,
And to light the thoughts of the men who will dream,
Of her.

Master of self contained combust
sustained breath ******
bust pushed back words cut
swords clacked knacks “nails ‘n’ tacks for snacks” lacked facts
Your facets flow-faucets expel droplets: fire
where the burnt bed liar lies crying -- you

Filled glass full brims past with *****
line crossed etch embossed last sonnet promise
kept not-sigh-Stitched inner eyelash
compelled to expel by belch lost items:

sash

bonnet

truncated candles

defunkitated mandibles

Overflowing belly ripens open
bile burns sigils thighs sizzle
urns drizzle ashes past my battle axis
orbiting faxes from your praxis
binds my essence to my existence

Peaceful waters rest
this *** is glass
Forgiven and Clear

Hello, allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Jocund, The Gardener.
Living lucid, a fellow mind traveler.

That’s kind of like a chill Childe wanderer
Of the flowing forest floor,
Feathered cotton or greening words
On the wind unravel-er;
Gone’a’wandering in untraveled soils,
A seed settler.

Tragedy left my face sneer metered,
Mouth stretched sideways,
Toothy as a dumb grinning jester.

Yearning to make one stupid gesture,
So you’ll see I’m not too interested in being above or lesser.
Just on a mission,
Learning how to be both student and teacher:

Drawing abyssal blueprints,
Joining the disillusioned,
Describing a dynamic curriculum
And coding oaths like Odin’s to bind Cosmic-Woden’s
--Mr. Omnipotent to us rodents—undying reticulum.


Re-programmed to generate runic music
Nomenclature shaped in the underlying resonating
That is every particle operating in unison.

So I'm riding the chronicled-Euclidean space-time continuum
Of balance known to us as equilibrium,
And can you feel me breathing?

It’s the giving and taking and pushing and pulling of gravity propagating,
Bending light under and rending sight of what will be and what has been.

Oh well,
[Where], (when), {how} I am is what matters most to me.

“Jinkies!”
“What is it Velma?!”
“I think that’s Relativity.”

So, speaking relatively
I’d rather deduce from what’s relevant to me,
Lather rinse and reduce the divine to dust in the winds of time,
And maybe see the truth behind {who}, [what], (why) I’m-

[{assburgian]}: high functioning and genius,
Mumbling, s-st-stutterin', tic tic-ing and tremblin’.
it's ****-chilling and tedious.

But wait! There’s more.

{(Bipolar}): slightly manic, and comically dramatic.
Severely depressed and in a silent panic.
Practically sleepless, it’s fairly fantastic.
My memory I mean,
If all my senses witness a scene
The info is sealed within me perfectly,
Perceptually and verbally,
Non-mutational, stability.

In the short term, unfortunately,
My focus is overloaded with scenery
Of bullies, abusers, and over-users.
It’s misery listening to scratched records on repeat,
Immune to wrecking.
For that I thank my ([ADHD)]: predominately inattentive
Wtih dsylixea, definitive alcoholism, drug addiction, and the list goes on.
So yeah, I’m on the spectrum, I’m a functional positron.

“That guy’s *******, He can’t even act right.
He’s emotionless, a mindless robot.
There’s no empathy in that golem.
That ugly alien’ll never be like you or me,
He’s clueless, aloof and downright foolish.
So let’s just forget that freak, he kinda scares us.”

Oh yeah?
Well keep that **** in your ******,
Order the facts and double check’em.

“We're not so different you, me, and them.
We just built a bent border 'round the word disorder.
Sure, that’s the preference, to make no inference.
Ignorance is bliss, right?”

For my defense?
Well golly-gee thanks, that’s all lovely and great.
But now the neurologically typical person
Thinks they can fix me, without knowing my burdens
Like, “you’s gots a d’zeez cuz’a factseens”

This "cray" **** gets me irate.
Diagnoseez wrapped in fear-mongering, seen with hate,
And convinced to wait for a miracle.
Well too bad so sad,
The difference is anatomical.
So treating me means training me
To be “normal, deviations nominal.”

(Am I ******’a dog, what the ****?!
Wait, back it up and mix that bit up.)
“What the ****, am I a ******’ dog?!
Oh, if they knew the truth they’d think I’m a ******* demigod.”
(Ha right, more like a log full buried eternally in'a boggle.)

My parents tried and tried for my birth,
They almost considered me impossible.
I was nearly inconceivable.
Then the multi-verse cursed,
And that message was receivable,
I heard it was a freakin’ miracle.
Not that mom cared, she was irresponsible.
Wanted to be a free mirth queen.

Aww, she just needed security.
Even after my birth on Friday 3/13/92 into a noose,
Loosely scorned and hardly lyrical.
They had to remove me surgically from the womb and
Now I've grown oddly into a super human body.

I’m physically atypical with an extra lumbar vertebra.
Some think me mythical, my hearts cage is even, part of a
Hard skeleton wearin’ *** appeal and a
Strong fresh sheath of flesh that’s quick to heal.
Ask me to speak, out comes a voice so deep you’d think the sky fell.

I’m mentally inexplicable,
Thinking in infinite Voices simultaneously painting imagery indefinitely.  
It has me lagging in a neuronal-conundrum.
I’m containing a brain wound up and
So over-wired it's redundant.

Making my head so heavy the ground is over-tired,
Barely overcoming addiction to dilating mundane details.
And a bit slow to obtain'em,
Those growing verbal-perceptual rains of information.
It's why I'm highly aware of the visual-spatial patterned puzzle pieces of existence.

So my mind is orbiting off in the distance,
Oblivious to non-verbal relation,
Just spaced-out communication.
I'm nearly incompatible
With most people in this global nation.
Everyone's got recipes for lemonade,
And I've got durian, that's **** ironical.
I told you, the difference is anatomical.
Can't be changed, so forget being normal tragically!

“That’s great and all,
But you still can’t communicate,
Associate,
Or surmount your human viewpoint
And recreate.
So what’s the point, you’ll never amount
And you shouldn't be allowed to procreate,
Just **** yourself.”

Shut the **** up, mate!
No one is beyond help,
And I'm in good health.
So who says I need your help.

I’m a catch-it-all trainer,
Long distance sprinter,
Heavy weight lifter,
Martial arts practitioner,
And Muay Thai fighter
Of the metaphysical plane or
Flyin’ my x-wing, taking out tie fighters.
Muckin’ up misinformed storm troopers,
Shovin’ **** back down their word poopers.

Yeah, I’ve tried playin’ The Game
That society designed.
But that sick joke
Was painfully lame.
And the punchline,
All but broke me.


I died philosophically.
Spent three days regenerating.
Re-writing my subconscious poetry
Like The Doct-uh,
The Boo-duh,
Or Mist-uh
Believe-in-me.

Pulverizing words into compost,
Composing metaphor to re-code seeds
Set to regrow self-trees from the ground up.
Splitting myself up into three categories,
(Mind), [body], and {me} all clowned up.

It is a truly significant allegory,
Greening my being with jocundity.
Creating profundity for gardening,
Generalizing and broadening the concept
And applying it metaphorically.

In the attempt
To join fantasy
With reality
And become truly
One with “we”;
Livin' and loven'in
Disparity and hilarity
Of you,
Me,
And every fellow
There is to see.

So, “hello
i am the gardener and
i am jocund and
…|[{(i am)}]|…
quite pleased
to meet
we.”

i had dreams of meeting outer space
running laps around the rings
alien murmurs like whispered sweet nothings
snorting cosmic dust
leads to
eyes that grow like eclipses
starlight sticking to my skin
initials carved in moon rocks
hurled through the stars like a telegraph service
it wasn't until i met you
that i felt the gravitational pull
it was you holding me to the earth
i didn't mind
suddenly space felt empty
it was small and you were vast
i pulled my head out of the clouds
and laid it on your chest
your eyes shone with the glitter of the cosmos
putting the twinkling stars to shame
black holes were filled
in me and in the universe
i stopped yearning for the undisturbed quiet
the minute i heard your heartbeat
through thin fabric and skin
and as cold as it was above the atmosphere
it was no comparison to the cold felt
when your body was away from mine
similar to how the moon would feel
should the sun ever cease to shine on it
the chill of unprepared absence
you became the center point
a bouquet of warmth and light
and life on earth
without you
was no longer possible


                                                      ­        *smndi

She was spinning,
the world flowing around her.
She was her own axis,
everything revolved around her body and mind.
Who knew that one person would make it all stop?
Who knew that one boy could change the orbiting?
Surely, the girl didn’t.
He came from nowhere,
but from everywhere at the same time.
He knew nothing
but everything all at once.
He smiled at her,
but was stern with her.
He loved her,
but he was infuriated with her.
This boy changed her world,
and she changed his.

He was watching,
the world a film before his eyes.
He was the audience,
watching everything play before him without interaction.
Who knew that one person would pull him in?
Who knew that one girl could change the characters?
Surely, the boy didn’t.
She came from the top,
and he from the bottom.
She was shallow,
and he was in so deep.
She scowled at him,
and he could only smile at her.
She despised him,
but he loved her.
This girl changed his world,
and he changed hers.

They were dancing,
The world in their hands.
They were the leaders,
Controlling their fates with a small gesture.
Who knew two people had that effect?
Who knew that two people could bring such change?
Surely, they didn’t.
They controlled the world,
Without knowing it.
With a smile,
The sun came over the horizon.
With the tears,
The rain drenched the world.
With a kiss,
The people fell in love.
With a fight,
The people created chaos.
They changed the world,
And the world changed them.

Here I lurk
Clutching my shadow
In my fists
It shivers, shrivels, sighs
A flame shushed to silence
On its ashen throne
Here I grasp
Grasp the oozing, burning night
That drips down my fingers
A palm beneath a palm I place
A palm beneath another
It the creamy tiles kisses
And will come to me no more

A rumble wobbles
around the room
Of laughs and talks
And talks
However do I mingle
In these faceless folks?
However do I fathom
All these massless worlds
Orbiting around ecstatic tongues
That birth them
Birth them on and on
Birth them meaningless, and birth them blind

I think,
Maybe when the flood dies out
I think,
Maybe then I will see
Pick up the shells this land could not drink
And read the tales preserved
In their wounds
Maybe the drunken ghosts
Serving all these brightly dressed drinks
Will approach me too—

Not yet though
Not yet

I pull little hymns out of my throat
Roll them around in my mouth
It is there they sway,
There they wilt

A gaze chained to my eyes
Wanders about
Like an injured fly
On one face it rests
On one chuckle stumbles,
A crack skipping down the wall
A high-pitched laugh blooming
In the corner
There is a bleakness, believe me
In this world

A bleakness so pitiless and rotten
Its stench covers all that is born
All that is not
All—
There is a bleakness
And I often mistake it for my own
But I do not now
It is there in every eye
In every corpse hanging between the ribs
It grows up like a sturdy ****
On arms and legs and
Bones
Up and down the aisle it flows
In this classroom twinkling
with childish mirth

Up and down
It pats heads and laughing cheeks
It is there
It is there
And will not still
Will not stir either

I think,
I must warn them
These energetic faces trying
to resurrect joy
From the flesh of stories all skinned alive
Warn them
I must, I must
But the words pile up
And floods pile up
One upon the other thousands
And I lose myself somewhere

The chatter blends in with the chortle
And I cannot tell
The shadows imagined
From cloaked figures swaying around
I would warn them, believe me
Warn them I would
If only
If only I could grasp hold
Of this darkness
That mimics me everywhere I go
Ghost of a black lamb
I once sacrificed for
A purity I loved to violence

And longing never became
A shackle so well

I think,
maybe when the flood dies down
I will breathe,
I will breathe maybe
Here we lurk
A slave upon a slave rests
A slave beneath still
Two ghosts I birthed,
Two lambs opened up,
One will not love me
And one will not not—

She fixes her hair, passing before

A ***** glass door—

They see her through pillars of paper

Coffee cups hiding difference of taste

Yet together, her change escapes them

Or remains a treasure, a harvest nourishing

Her reflection smiling with fingers trying

To ripen while reaching, to soften to smooth

To straighten and sooth something that seems

Pleasing.



So the conversation is stopped—a smile

Has arrested, through ruined paper pillars

Of empty coffee cups, broken

Through the pale reflection of her hair,

Tangled in the ***** green tint of glass, glances

Sideways,

Wondering:



Is her smile meant to pierce the door and lay naked

Invitations to rest upon the pauses, the places

Where the conversation is deserted by words?

Or to dance silently back and forth; to remain

Like a jeweled earring or hair tie on her wrist

Orbiting the rushed morning’s hushed

Reminders written alone.



Ah, but for the beating ocean nothing is broken.

Her hair, her braids, never break, never

Break like the tide, on rocks into mist to kiss

The ocean-side air

Like crystal clouds that coat the sky,

That crack and clear and come to call

A bit of blue to splinter through to split the sky’s

            Sheet of grey to shine.

She stares still.

Blank.

Searching, thinking of fixing something shining

Brushed and sharing the sun with the sky.

Words
***** of fiery gas
swirling galaxies behind your eyes,
those constellations tell you
stories, stories of how you
became who you are.
Stories of how God gave you
what you have.
Stories of

mornings and evenings and sunrise and lilacs and comets and red dwarfs
and green grass and  black holes and the lack of understanding we have of it all.

The words tell us
we are
elephants to the
Earth when we are
ants to the milky way.
There and gone in an
instant,
an eternity.

When you realize that
what you believe
is just an illusion –
the thought takes your mind by storm
Once it’s there, it’s caught
a comet
in the cosmos of your mind
swerving between your thoughts,
planets,
caught in the rings of an
orbiting idea
who's to say it'll
ever end?

Cosmic Ball

Dressed in a suit of pinstripe stars,
He’s discussed war and played chess with Mars,
Far, in foreign solar systems,
He chuckles with their planetary distortion,
He’s gambled for the diamonds of Neptune,
Bowled infinite starlit lanes with Jupiter,
Witnessed sacred scry’s and change from Saturn,
Witnessed lies, severed ties,
Much he has seen, he who walks starlit skies,
Martini’s of primordial soup,
With a scoop of star,
Shared in lieu of chaos, with Venus,
Knocking back a few, so far,
He’s raced Mercury around the sun,
Every lap done, feeling victory, whether he’s lost or won, praises they sung, harmony rung,
He’s sat on the surface of Sol, sunglasses dawned,
Other then growth and to learn he has no defined goal,
Just playing a role,
Breaking energetic chains,
And immortal bars,
He slow dances with a myriad of stars,
Celestial bodies of divine will, power, grace,
Orbiting around him in suits, silk, suede nylon and lace,
All dancing to a distant interstellar song,
A long distant echo of light,
A throng of stars creating the constellations mighty heights,
A universe locked in constant cosmic push and pull,
Never empty, never full,
He reflects, riding the back of a wild cosmic bull,
Riding back to mother, back to varied perspectives of what is true,
Back to a planet of green and blue,
Till the next invitation come queue,
To another night in primordial stew of sights and seeings,
Another quaint Ball with fantastic cosmic beings..

at this time in the past right here

it used to be real

oh!...oh! for another reality

to leave this false perception

and go...go...go to feel the wind

on another's face

to see with another's eyes

how the colours appear to them

to hear what another hears

with an innocent ear

to feel the euphoria

that slows the world down

to have another's departure

from all perceived notions of reality

to a new understanding

another reality

where brief encounters with time

start with the embarkation of a sentence

that causes a curious disquiet

to race through the nerves

ricocheting in a vibrancy

of vatic vitality, a creative tension

transforming the cortex

creating new unforeseen images

a new reality where thoughts are visible

and circulate, orbiting moons around the mind

dazzling with a universal symbolism

that with a kaleidoscopic vengeance of words

scatters and amplifies the distinctions

of the senses, into a new reality

one of convulsive voices

oh! this new reality

it causes me to walk to a stranger

who is myself

and forms a true disintegration

of a controlled focus

on a beautiful disorder of

chaotic discourse of a volatilized impulse

of the emotions, where blood stains smile

lavishly with a different vocabulary

destroying a predictable reality

and forges a new one that entertains discovery

of other dimensions.. which are the figments

of another's imagination

it is solitary encapsulation of ideas

that glitter on my tongue

where conflagrations of burning water

swirl dramatically in difficult articulation

of the smells and rancid ***** stains

of the ordinary that tries but is precluded

from the stream of consciousness

rushing in a discord of sympathies

through the inner geography of my mind

and forges a symbolic relationship

with these inplosively brief encounters with time

causing psychic post apocalyptic

predispositions to a false mimesis

Rock me gently
to the memories
of yester-past
as they leave your mouth
with nostalgic melodies
that tuned my days
with smiles

Run your hand through my hair
and untangle all sense of doubt
it won't be easy, my hair is curly
knotted and messy
and your fingers will have to smooth
them, to make their way to the end

Slide your hand up my spine
and enjoy the ups and downs
of every vertebrae, leading all the way
to my shoulders, broad and standing tall
they had to be, always.. for you
but sometimes, they did sway

Silhouette my curve
and familiarize yourself
with my body, the one that screams
"woman", and not "just for fun"

Cup my face
with hands whose past
vandalized your image
with graffitis of hate
and feel as my cheeks
burst with heat, the kind
that warms the coldest of moments

Lock your eyes on mine
and drown in the well of feelings
I have held for so long
I have circled it with beautiful blue hue
just to cover, what's been there

Slowly slide your fingers
down my neck, where my nerves
would melt for your lips
they would shut down their impulses
and bask under the soft feeling of your kiss

Rest your hand on my chest
and tame my heart that's gone wild
unsure of reality, it just reverted to insanity
my ribcage can only hold so much
my heart remembers, my heart feels
rest your hand on my chest
and feel the cracking noises of a once broken heart
glued together for someone special
maybe with potential, but this heart
was always careful
and beat for no one the way it once did


Make your way to my belly
who was starving for attention
days and nights alcohol infused
hoping you'd tell me I look pretty

Embrace my waist
pull me closer,
a big bang is in the making
I feel the energy burning
the stars are shooting
everyone's wishes are coming true
the world is anew
there's unexplainable energy
in your finger tips
on my skin
in our eyes
I feel it
going in circles,
orbiting ....

"I love you"
it slipped, you said

Open your eyes
look at the skies
a new universe
has been created

Feeling blue today
The truest blue and slew of good wishes
And feelings
And moods.
All is clear in my field of view.
Better than borrowed
I feel new.
It’s true
I’m blue.


She’s livid
A shiver of silver
Livings and fear of what mother will say
When she see slivers of shining silver
Shattered on solid floor.
She’s shaking
Scraping silver slivers
Into shaking, sweaty
Palms.


A rotund belly
Yellow sash orbiting
A loud yellow suit standing outside
A back door bordello.
A cello’s titillating echo
Feeling mellow
Look at that swinging yellow Othello
What a fellow
Those midnight secrets he’ll never tell, no.


He is orange
And no one much cares to rhyme about him