caught off guard
by yet another downpour
unprepared again
he could shelter
from the torrent
tormenting
and tempestuous
beneath the hung branches
of this laden tree
overreaching
beyond its means
but he knows
it cannot keep him dry
for as long as
he might need
from bough to branch
to leaf and bud
down the back of his neck
through layer upon layer
soon sodden and soiled
those discomforting drips
will expose that
which he didn't want
exposed

I scribble on
With a half lobotomy;
A radar seeking Hell by looking up
And another dictionary
From another time and place;
An alternate timeline
Reaching right and left
As well as fore and aft;
The beard of a ******
And naïveté too;
Undiscovered depths of emotional manipulation
Unseeing, unthinking,
A new old structural familiarity
To abduct and probe
The time-honored, vacuum-sealed
Ineptitude of ideology
Whose meat is sweet
But suits the skeletons of standardized educational theories
Like a pair of jeans at age eleven that you expect to grow into;
In hope of justifying
Overuse of monetary resource
For the sake of bonus states of mind;
Scouring the depths of discarded everything
With hooks catching on to all the similarly forgotten names
Who live in fear of obscurity
Clinging, not unlike insects
To their sixteenth minute of fame;
Finding in myself no way but out
To understand that which lives inside;
With disregard for any thread which weaves past me and takes no hold,
And loathing for the ones that do but unravel before the eyes;
Lightheaded, ending any sense of continuity
When, prostrate in the comfort of another tapestry
I stand abruptly, let my dreams be drained from me through tendrils
Like the passing of a temporal existence;
Drinking in the dust and glue of crowded bookshops
In fear of losing inspiration
To the insatiable jaws of my consumerist natural state;
Rummaging in a bargain bin
In search of someone to tell me, “Stop!"
With heads in clouds and bodies in ice trays,
Stealing lines of logic and lyric,
Throwing down and hacking into
Elemental bits which fit into my own vernacular
Sacrificing beauty for originality and vice versa;
Choosing idols idly with the tides
Of knowledge and of art
Rising and falling without fail
Never apparent and never blurred by motion;
Searching for a style like an odd-numbered jean size;
Finding greater inspiration in waves of unopened mysteries;
Following examples laid by unsuccessful fictions;
Learning ethics only from the prologues of ****** novels,
Unsuspecting victims snuffed in interesting and lurid ways;
Letting technological distraction detract from the projections of psychological complexity
Which I, from atop the high horse of my own pretensions
Pretended to embrace;
Committing massive acts of thievery, fraud, and infinite lethargy
For the sake of juvenile, illegitimate art forms;
Seeking other seekers who exist autonomously
For the sake of personal independent credibility;
Leading unsuspecting, overreaching, overeating, understanding, undemanding,
Too forgiving, not forgetting,
Victims of domestic warfare
To a loveless watery grave
For the sake of my own loneliness;
Patronizing every segregated buffet
With courage enough only for a small taste of everything;
With the flavors of the day swirling around
For me to shoot them down
And pin their carcasses to elementary school walls
And Mormon tool sheds
And nature centers
And all the forgotten places of summers past
In the hope of rediscovering
Some old buried treasure
Be it wondrous or worthless;
With the uneasy insincerity of a rodent who pretends to understand a city;
With adopted methods
And repeated thoughts
And ideas which came to me in waking dreams of my own retirement;
Sharing, for a captive audience,
The formidable giants which
Inform our common denominator
Searching through myself for only the most indecipherable
With the fear of being understood
And the fear of being ridiculed
And pretensions of some preternatural predetermination for greatness;
With acceptance of predisposition for obscurity,
The cost of the inundation of the new airwaves.
The series of tubes that feed us intravenously
With information, information, information,
Having killed God and left material validation in His wake;
It could be that new gods are born in the minds of the innovators,
Those wonderfully wealthy
Whose social structuralism
Was a beacon to us all;
In the darkness of an architectural anomaly
Where lights extinguish as my body lies dormant
Alone and abandoned
Only by my own subversion;
Confined ever to a convolution of passages
While above me all my peers still carry on;
Overstaying welcomes
And letting emotionality
Color conversation
A sicklier green,
A green of a tree only just sprouted,
A green of a new recruit,
A green of an inexperienced schoolboy
Faced with the daunting and timeless act
Of copulation;
Somehow taking in the sights and sounds and smells
Of advanced mathematics
Even occupied, as I am,
With explaining my actions
Most eloquently;
Devoting myself to another cause,
Another, another, another
Always relaxing my grip by losing focus;
Desperately hoping not to let my fellow travelers
Lose their innocence
While I reluctantly, dogmatically
Keep mine on a leash;
Always keenly aware
Of the universe of worlds
Beyond my control,
And even my understanding;
On the increasingly frequent
Intrusions of risk
Into my significant reality
And the iota of explainable truth which guides the motion of my body but most frequently my mind;
Questioning the meaning of all words
Without thought or coordination;
Considering another restful journey
To clear my mind of human language
And in its place acquire thoughts and emotions from the street;
Without foreseeable direction,
Malice aforethought
Or noticeable signs of critical reaction
Giving birth to litter
Forgetting articles
And floating my sense of time up the Ganges;
Taking only seconds to counter the possibility of
Accepting more responsibility for myself;
Complicating matters with an interesting or bitter goodbye.

There is music at dawn in the song of the koyel
The tweeting, the chirping, the warbling,the cry
The medleys that float in the morning air 
As birds sing a welcome to a rising sky 

There is music in the span of feathered  wings 
The steady drone of the humming of a bee
As the sun revels on his throne at noon 
While a brisk wind whisks leaves on willow trees 

There is music in the silver drops of rain 
A gentle drizzle or a thunder squall 
Music in the flow of rivers and streams 
And the sparkling cascade of a waterfall

There is music on slopes of lofty mountains 
In echoes that reverberate of a water spring 
In the soft rustling of a valley of flowers 
Of blue irises and pink hyacinths 

There is music in seas and oceans blue 
Waves overreaching to meet the shore
Rippling in sounds of frothy ecstasy 
Whispers of pearls and ocean floors 

There is music at dusk when the day rests 
The throaty croaks in a nocturnal sheer
As moths flutter drawn to light 
'Tis music of life that I hear

She said it was wisteria, florets draped
framing her windows
vines climbed overreaching the rooftop
swallows flew by, just before night skies
twilight flashed orange, pink in lavender blues
fading into black
a vision soon of sparkling
starry moon
jasmine flowers to float upon
evening's scented pond

I foresee at day, not distant,
when armed drones patrol our skies.
Where people labelled dissidents
will be killed without a trial.

In the cities of the future
walls and ceilings will be glass.
Big brother will be watching
like George Orwell once forecast.

In the future called panopticon
You never will feel free.
You will never know whose watching
and you won't know what they see.

If equality of outcomes
is your wish and fervent prayer-
go and lie down in some graveyard
You'll be sure to find it there.

Otherwise, arouse yourselves
before it is too late.
Don't be a useful idiot
to an overreaching State.

Go ask the Pakistanis
about the war that never ends
Ask how they've been treated
( and we label them our "friends")

The drones we use in Pakistan
will soon be loosed on you.
Will you enjoy a tyranny
of the many by the few?

whittled down and disavowed
by an overreaching society
the pomp
and zeal
with such appeal
and airs of impropriety

unbelievable populace
chickens
chickens
chickens
free of heads
still peck, peck, peckin' ya

copulate, then like you less
pickens'
pickens'
pickens'
slim as anorexia

Act Now!
Don't Wait!
the finish line?
keep runnin' straight
you can go to class
...don't be late
or just go tip the magistrate

pointless?
I doubt it very much
more fish in the sea
spontaneous lush
oink less
piggy hush!

buy, buy birdie!
consumerism's sturdy
making up makeup
makin' me look perdy
hopin' I don't wake up

Live as hard as you can
just to die before you're thirty
if practice makes you perfect
then perfection makes you *****

I used to think that I didn't need anyone.
I used to think that I could be complete, alone.
Trying to shut my eyes to the frozen shards in my heart-
Will I become blind?

But-I was lonely.
I was sad.
I wanted to try, even once-
what it felt like, what love was.
I was always by myself, watching from an overreaching balcony as society passed by.
I swore that I would be complete alone,
But my body refused to accept that fact.

The sunset that I saw was stunning, that's for certain,
but to call it love,
would be a disgrace, wouldn't it?

I've always wanted to tell a special person,
who've I've been gasping for on that painfully cold winter night-
huddled up like that-
"I'll never go back to that cold world again."

And, sometimes, sitting on the window rail,
I wonder.
Is love warm?
Is love bitter?
Stunning?
Is it beautiful-
or is it different for every heart?

"And,
let's go exploring.
If it rains, let's play a game."
Such times
were meant to go on forever,
really.

But-
to be honest, I am scared of love.
That frightening concept of brutal heartbreak and
dangerous happiness,
do I deserve such things?

When my heart finally stops beating-
I want to leave,
knowing that I was truly happy.

Until the time I can no longer be myself
I wonder just how many times I can still say "I love you" and not cry.  
So let me be grateful for the fact that I can be here-
Thank you, simply for the fact that I'm alive.

With no one here, will the world wither?
Who is left-
Will they say the world's final confession?

And I wonder,                                       
when I meet the destined person, will I know?                                          
I guess, to make sure, I won't let go of anyone.

I've always wished for spring.
Because I was so afraid of that cold world, covered in white-
I curled up in a tight ball,
huddled against the raging sleet,
I never took a good look at it.
The soft snowflakes falling silently,
The beautiful forest that was as beautiful as a white lily-
If you have a special person to share it with,
I think-
This white world can be inexpressibly beautiful.

My buddy the quarterback said to go long
music to my ears the chorus of my song
I could easily outrun all the puny secondary –
the guys from one block over on wealthy Dewberry.
We were all better at football on Lillian Street  
beating the crap out of those guys was oh so sweet.

Now mulling my interests, passions and such
I wonder why I love football so much
what with a life of writing, thinking and teaching
my football mania seems a tad overreaching
but still my arm flexes watching that heaver
connect in a perfect arch with his swift receiver.

Being Cajun in Texas where sports are king
probably explains something of why I’m so keen
and my pulse quickens as I remember
the neighbor boys’ shouts and calls in September
to meet them in our favorite autumn spot
down the street in that vacant lot.

Most of my life I’ve gone for short passes
connected with ideas and English classes
no novel for me, I fell for poetry
nor did I brave the rigor of a PhD.
Now finally, with my scores of years its not so wrong
to watch, leave it alone, wait a while, and go long.

He Said:

Climb aboard,
Lift yourself into dream,
I will only take you,
You must surrender,
If the sky should fade
Or the heavens fall,
Hold on—
Never doubt I may love
You.


She Said:

Hold me,
Look into my eyes
Forever and only say what I,
Already feel, already know,
I will, will happiness,
I shall keep tenderness,
In a box of joinings
And lavender,
The mystic blue
Of earth and sky
Is in my hand,
Overreaching.

.
In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waiting eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.

Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly                                                         ­   
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.

Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.

Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.

In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.

On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.

Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.

In disused field is a blooming temple.
An ancient apple tree waits eternal,
This stone bold sculpture was forged
With nimbus hands and windy eyes.
In hushed airs, Shiva dances to light,
Waves, sacred arms without swaying.

Bearded ones come to pay homage,
The solemn chickadees, the ranging
Sparrows, red robed robins— priestly                                                         ­    
Doves, all who see are one enveloped
In graces of the New World Bodhi tree,
Waiting for blossoms so dearly come.

Edge of boughs brim under heavens
Landing with mystic verges of spirit
Into the mind of the eyes of nature—
Kali-flowered ears of lichen are pale
Green in their devotions, pummeled
By seas of seasons, foggy to the fray.

Finches, yellow, reflecting in a star,
Devout wee lamas golden with halo,
Are kneeling above berm, this nobby
Trunk, stave, inside bodacious stupa
Bell who sings clear, without ringing,
Body of elder grace, wisdoms, ages.

In cast irreverence, seldom do crows
Visit, when they do there is menace
Of the Jinn, dark giants in the levels,
Mercifully, out of shame, they do not
Stay, black wings due, die in luminous
Day moon, rain soak sun, balmy mist.

On pilgrim journeys, whirlings, prayer
Wheels, guide shy flocks riding gnarl,
Indie goddess, to overreaching love,
By sores of hollow in the steps, open
To being, brindles of myriad meadow
In temple blossoms— numinous suns.

Of both earth and sky, shines a beauty,
Whose form is written in blistering bark,
The ciphers of tongue to Sanskrit leaves
And lost fruits, given over, unforbiddens,
Within old apple tree a great wilderness
And all the branch of wings are knowing.

He Said:

Climb aboard,
Lift yourself into dream,
I will only take you,
You must surrender,
If the sky should fade
Or the heavens fall,
Hold on—
Never doubt I may love
You.


She Said:

Hold me,
Look into my eyes
Forever and only say what I,
Already feel, already know,
I will, will happiness,
I shall keep tenderness,
In a box of joinings
And lavender,
The mystic blue
Of earth and sky
Is in my hand,
Overreaching.

To life there really is no meaning,
all and all it's simply being.
To cherish the touch of pleasure,
or wine and dine in equal measure?
To have a good time,
is that how you unwind?
To amass wealth beyond belief,
will that bring you relief?
To be famous or rare,
and trust masses will care?
To give rather than receive,
is selflessness what you believe?
To leave the world a better place,
for humankind of every race?
To moderate in every way,
and keep indulgence far at bay?
To explore and be adventurous,
and put your limits to the test?
To pass along your selfish genes,
immortalize by any means?
To believe in God or faith in being,
does even that have any meaning?
To perfect one's self to be the best,
far overreaching all the rest?
To overcome the struggle of life,
and charge headlong through all the strife?
To love forever as the dove,
do all you really need is love?
To gain wisdom, knowledge, philosophy,
is that your reason for reality?
Or is it fitting we decide,
not why but how we live or die?
To life there really is no meaning,
all and all it's simply being....you.

My head against a wall,
Continuous contact,
Cracking, though I know not which.
For this life is a wall, as tall as it is long,
Overbearing and overreaching.
Is there a way around?
My head says no as it cries out.
What will be the first to crack?
Bruises, scratches, pain does not stop the continuous contact.
Not even contemplation concludes the cracking.
Which is harder, stone or bone?
Can one’s cranium bare such solid and stoic cement, stretching and stretching.
Continuous contact.
Until one cracks.

Could I possibly climb across?

He Said:

Climb aboard,
Lift yourself into dream,
I will only take you,
You must surrender,
If the sky should fade
Or the heavens fall,
Hold on—
Never doubt I may love
You.


She Said:

Hold me,
Look into my eyes
Forever and only say what I,
Already feel, already know,
I will, will happiness,
I shall keep tenderness,
In a box of joinings
And lavender,
The mystic blue
Of earth and sky
Is in my hand,
Overreaching.

The woods resounded with each thought in your mind
But the words were tripping over themselves
Like the ancient trees, their overreaching roots, deep underground
Like the canopies, so intertwined, no tree could claim ownership
Like those worms who made their homes everywhere, and lived everywhere, all at once

The woods resounded with each thought in your mind
But the words were unintelligible; hieroglyphic
Like those haunting sounds at night, when the insects crawl and cowardly predators prey
Like those etchings on beautiful trees, bearing a hundred year old story, be it love or revenge
Like those indiscernable twines of creepers, snakes and curly twigs; sly, deceiving, inviting

The woods resounded with each thought in your mind
But the words were just a mingle of whispers
Like the spider's sweet rumblings to the flies, invitations to his abode
Like the torturous immigration of winds, tree to tree, blade to blade, a shrill tune in its wake
Like the chantings of night fairies, wishing health and wealth and death and breath and everything, in hushed melody

The woods resounded with each thought in your mind
And I reached out, caressed the stringy trails, tripped over some, embraced the halo of your presence
And I let them struggle with me, smiling as if that was the essence of peace, and then inhaled the torturous wind
When I could breathe again, I recognized the words on that old banyan tree where you and I became immortal
All hail the homeless, the hieroglyphs, the whispers; and the woods spoke no more.

Centuries stretch into decades
Decades crumble to years
Years dilute to months
Months spoil to weeks
Weeks transform to days
Days pass through hours
Hours scramble to minutes
Mintues fall onto seconds

And it goes and goes
With a logramthic speed
While I stand still
To contort some truth:

Man made measurments meticulously made
May mark mere moments
But
With words witheld within
Wallowing waves wash white, "whys?"
Away.

And...

I speak in riddles as I should
When faced with nothing
But left with the word "could?"

Could of? Of course. Could I? Yes.
I could do anything, definitely
But no I would never
It is a hopless endeavor

And death ushers who it will
And brings their heart to a still
As we all look to how old
To comfort us
From death's hold

For his grip is unrelenting, arbitary, overreaching and perpetual

That last thin thread of trust
Well it unraveled, It broke
Another friend,
Another love lost.
This is why
I stopped trying to hope
Prayers are meaningless
When they are not heard
And I will no longer
Ask for answers
Where there are none.
This world is crumbling
And you tried to do
The right thing
misguided as it was
I know that now.
Overreaching your place, your power
And finding it too much
You’ve redeemed yourself to me
A thousand times in my dreams.
And every night
That I look to the stars
They seem darker
Missing the one point of light
That fell down to me
and tried to stay.
You lit the sky once
And now I wonder
Are you really gone
Or just too far away
For me to see?
Are you a shooting star somewhere?
Will you come back to me?

Love out of touch, we could not bare
Alone, with loosed arms overreaching
And love sparkled dancing,
On the breaking rim of a star,
Innocent and new under the constellations
Of the pinned gods' eyes.

We told ourselves the story of ourselves,
Each one, a penned, perfect fable,
Each one a journey into the dark,
Under the faint and rising milky ways,
Where even shadows, poor,
Are always, almost, lost.

Out of conception, and pining dream
And the myths we most want to make,
Out of dream, would we soon awaken?

This then is hope, a stroke, as we dressed,
Children spinning yarns below the stars,
Is the game, the game of let's pretend.

We would not bare, love out of touch.

He Said:

Climb aboard,
Lift yourself into dream,
I will only take you,
You must surrender,
If the sky should fade
Or the heavens fall,
Hold on—
Never doubt I may love
You.


She Said:

Hold me,
Look into my eyes
Forever and only say what I,
Already feel, already know,
I will, will happiness,
I shall keep tenderness,
In a box of joinings
And lavender,
The mystic blue
Of earth and sky
Is in my hand,
Overreaching.

Love out of touch, we could not bare
Alone, with loosed arms overreaching
And love sparkled dancing,
On the breaking rim of a star,
Innocent and new under the constellations
Of the pinned gods' eyes.

We told ourselves the story of ourselves,
Each one, a penned, perfect fable,
Each one a journey into the dark,
Under the faint and rising milky ways,
Where even shadows, poor,
Are always, almost, lost.

Out of conception, and pining dream
And the myths we most want to make,
Out of dream, would we soon awaken?

This then is hope, a stroke, as we dressed,
Children spinning yarns below the stars,
Is the game, the game of let's pretend.

We would not bare, love out of touch.

Oh how I would love to say
How overreaching your mind does think
From simple tones to colored words
Complications are born by your hand
I have no quarrel of your ways
All I say is let it fly
But as fruit does fall not far from tree
I have in fact invented thee
And so I take the blame

Love out of touch, we could not bare
Alone, with loosed arms overreaching
And love sparkled dancing,
On the breaking rim of a star,
Innocent and new under the constellations
Of the pinned gods' eyes.

We told ourselves the story of ourselves,
Each one, a penned, perfect fable,
Each one a journey into the dark,
Under the faint and rising milky ways,
Where even shadows, poor,
Are always, almost, lost.

Out of conception, and pining dream
And the myths we most want to make,
Out of dream, would we soon awaken?

This then is hope, a stroke, as we dressed,
Children spinning yarns below the stars,
Is the game, the game of let's pretend.

We would not bare, love out of touch.

He Said:

Climb aboard,
Lift yourself into dream,
I will only take you,
You must surrender,
If the sky should fade
Or the heavens fall,
Hold on—
Never doubt I may love
You.


She Said:

Hold me,
Look into my eyes
Forever and only say what I,
Already feel, already know,
I will, will happiness,
I shall keep tenderness,
In a box of joinings
And lavender,
The mystic blue
Of earth and sky
Is in my hand,
Overreaching.

.
Love out of touch, we could not bare
Alone, with loosed arms overreaching
And love sparkled dancing,
On the breaking rim of a star,
Innocent and new under the constellations
Of the pinned gods' eyes.

We told ourselves the story of ourselves,
Each one, a penned, perfect fable,
Each one a journey into the dark,
Under the faint and rising milky ways,
Where even shadows, poor,
Are always, almost, lost.

Out of conception, and pining dream
And the myths we most want to make,
Out of dream, would we soon awaken?

This then is hope, a stroke, as we dressed,
Children spinning yarns below the stars,
Is the game, the game of let's pretend.

We would not bare, love out of touch.

Love out of touch, we could not bare
Alone, with loosed arms overreaching
And love sparkled dancing,
On the breaking rim of a star,
Innocent and new under the constellations
Of the pinned gods' eyes.

We told ourselves the story of ourselves,
Each one, a penned, perfect fable,
Each one a journey into the dark,
Under the faint and rising milky ways,
Where even shadows, poor,
Are always, almost, lost.

Out of conception, and pining dream
And the myths we most want to make,
Out of dream, would we soon awaken?

This then is hope, a stroke, as we dressed,
Children spinning yarns below the stars,
Is the game, the game of let's pretend.

We would not bare, love out of touch.

Love out of touch, we could not bare
Alone, with loosed arms overreaching
And love sparkled dancing,
On the breaking rim of a star,
Innocent and new under the constellations
Of the pinned gods' eyes.

We told ourselves the story of ourselves,
Each one, a penned, perfect fable,
Each one a journey into the dark,
Under the faint and rising milky ways,
Where even shadows, poor,
Are always, almost, lost.

Out of conception, and pining dream
And the myths we most want to make,
Out of dream, would we soon awaken?

This then is hope, a stroke, as we dressed,
Children spinning yarns below the stars,
Is the game, the game of let's pretend.

We would not bare, love out of touch.

In the book of Genesis
Joseph, son of Jacob
Made a prophecy based on the pharaoh's dream
He determined there would be seven years of abundance
Followed by seven years of famine
Joseph told the pharaoh to stockpile resources
By taxing one fifth of his subjects' harvest every year
To prepare for the impending hardship
So that they may live and not die
And during that time of famine
Egypt remained powerful
Because of their divine foresight and communal mentality
But what I wonder about that process is:
During the abundance
Did the Egyptians complain about the new tax?
Did they say it was a tyrannical government overreaching?
And during the famine
Did they feed on the fruits of frugality
While remembering the contributions that saved their nation?

Love out of touch, we could not bare
Alone, with loosed arms overreaching
And love sparkled dancing,
On the breaking rim of a star,
Innocent and new under the constellations
Of the pinned gods' eyes.

We told ourselves the story of ourselves,
Each one, a penned, perfect fable,
Each one a journey into the dark,
Under the faint and rising milky ways,
Where even shadows, poor,
Are always, almost, lost.

Out of conception, and pining dream
And the myths we most want to make,
Out of dream, would we soon awaken?

This then is hope, a stroke, as we dressed,
Children spinning yarns below the stars,
Is the game, the game of let's pretend.

We would not bare, love out of touch.