Thousands of doors are going
To open Today
After a Long Day
Of Sultry Dark
Slowly moving Clouds
But what it is!
As if the speed of the wind more than
A Hurricane

Extreme sound Rocking the Sky,
The Home
And the Expanding
Barren Field,  
Repeatedly being Thunder Around
As far as I can See
Across the Horizon
The Rain has come down
As Cats and Dogs
 
Dim Light in the Room
Hope, despair shaken
Windows Open
Southern waves
Randomize the Poetry Books
Flying Pages,
Never before or after in the

The Scent of the Poetry
In the Air
Sky-word Sentences
I have seen my Reflection
In the Light of the Short
The past Knocking
On the Closed Door
To open the Wide Sky

You have sat down
In the Horizon
That has reminded
The First Love Poem
Where I read
And planted my Dreams
Bringing the garden
Roses,
Marigold,
Sunflowers

Where there the moonlit
Of moonlight has
Crafted the Dreams  
Like an Imagination
As if,
Unclogging Peacock's Feather

But the sudden wind  
Increasing the Velocity
Light has been Extinguished
Yet the Flame Alive
But don't see my Reflection,
In the distant Glass,
In the Poetry,
In the Words

In an Angular way,
Through the Windows
Rain coming into the Limelight
Put away the Poetry
And the Dreams
As the Books of Poetry has Seemed
Like the Stones

But Yet I'm waiting,
For The Next morning
Where the Hope will Come Again
In the Shining Smile of Light

I write subtleties,
Thoughts that randomize in the wee of the morning,
The lover longing for something past its expiration date,
The curtain billowing in the breeze of the dark,
Fingertips reaching blindly for hems coming undone.
Bits and pieces to pluck away,
In the wee of the  morning,
When thoughts randomize.

You may not entirely understand the reality of a 'dank existence,'
As the ranks of society have used interpretive dance as resistance
To the lime-green light that illuminates that room in the brain,
Where interpretation of thought drives explanation insane.

You may not entirely understand what is real;
From the epilogue clearing fictions fog to what makes an orange peel,
As it's not a simple way to live every day,
But it's found that, quite obviously, it is the best way,
Lacking the patch of reality's seal,
It truly is the only real way to feel.

To say that my mind has gone mad without power,
Is like saying pop-rocks from '67 aren't sour,
Or a Peoples Republic won't rise like a tower,
Over Western metropolis, and the President's glower.

And to say that my brain is subdued within chains,
Is like claiming humanity never made it to space.
It's a possibility, but from any value of face,
The assumption is old, and conservingly fake.

Lets say we randomize all events in our lives;
From the time we wake up, to where we close our eyes,
And the constant adventure, as to 'where to go next,'
Finds that our past is quite static once the next second is vexed
And the constant thieving of the ideas that we steal,

Makes life an existentialists ideal meal,

With the past, and the present, and the future entwined,
It's a smorgasbord of endeavor drawn outside the lines,
And we love it.

NEEDLE!  Through the middle of a razor-edge!  Face in face out face sin face spout!  I cannot see through the masochism of honesty, corrupt the faucet and leak and drain into a towel of wet PAIN!  Holes rid themselves of fantastic-type dust! (And on the cusp of agony's grateful constitution hereby is a sitar scimitar). Unwilling to grow old into throats of bold and I am here today so what does it matter?  Cough n' clap n' clasp n' rappin' sapping my soul's voidy tounguester. Have I become throats?  Or abomination ropes?  Tungsten blow-hole deep neath the depths of water-disgust!  Rapture came along with whipping writhing throngs of toothpaste convolution tongs pulling out the wrongs and wrong doings of King Kong's rightful songs.  Randomize architecture so that a building can grow from blue dirt into the sky and spread at the top and cover the entire planet of the human-beings where there'll be forever-shade shading shaded, faded, blue.  Tuesday is a monkey banana bonanza bizarre bizarre scarring n' scaring little toothpick carrying caring creatures faring their merry way past curds and whey fields.  Acclimate to constipate and betroth-berate irritate-type tube tape.  Youthful castor plaster made from youngster disaster number: one.

On the edges of things, I see
Bosch’s vision of hell
with dark comedy thrown in.
So many actors, all at odds,
acting just for themselves.  

Actions indescribable, vile, senseless,
confusing and chaotic,
occasional good to randomize.
Chickens chasing corn.
Is there a collective moral consciousness?
Shifting, transactional alliances,
where is the common good?

Outside, I see a constantly shifting scene,
so many moving parts,
all independent, all self-indulgent
Kiss up, kick down.
What can happen next?

Better to be insulated in negative space,
disassociated from the brawl.
Or am I just being smug,
thinking I’m not a part of it all.
The empty self-delusion, that I’m different,
There is no negative space--
I too am in the pit,
fighting to survive.
Minute by minute.