Electromagnetic Lust

They wander about, each connected device
Talking to other connected devices
Looking into each electronic soul
In which no secret can ever reside

They speak of batteries and images
Of apps, restarts, resets, and memory
Measured by quantity of something-bytes
Each in electrical love with itself

They wander about, each connected device
Wishing to be free of its human host

sunrise, sunset
birds fly, land, and fret
doctors mend, treat and heal
write wake, write and feel.

sunrise, sunset
the fish swims while the parrot pecks,
the bees nestle back into their hives
as the moon lifts, and the sun dives.

sunrise, sunset
the diaries cease to forget
when all go back to rest
with the sunrise, sunset.

so as the babies mumble and the children cry,
the world lives and nature thrives.
the mother yawns and resets
with the sunrise and the sunset.

Here we go again
Not a single word in sight
No attempt at contact
Did I do something wrong?
Or are you ignoring me
Am I too clingy for you?
I don't believe a simple "Hello"
Every once in a while
Is considered too much
Maybe you're busy
And I'm overreacting
I can't help
But to worry myself sick
All these what if scenarios
Only to conclude you are alright
The sun resets itself
Leaving us another cyclical day
Of worry and ignorance

Neptune's core collapses
Splintered diamonds descend in stabbing fashion

Sleepy knives pass silently through the night
Casting shadows in the caliginous moon light

Stitched spiderwebs glisten across autumn's equinox
Discordant thought raptures in a Gordian knot

The symmetry of entropy plots its course
The universe resets its clock

A story teller passed on,
leaving us a Marvelous universe,
to play in,
as children of the future we were manifested in,
practicing again and again

Pride's crushing blow, we always regret as we fall.
Action, reaction. Sure as hell
Proof that we are Adamkind.

Proud we are that we may do as we say.
May is the key. That allowance we have,
We may do all we can to change the rest of today.

Yesterday is done.
What kind of mind can imagine keeping no record of wounds?
Is this not the world where war is worth-shiped?
Folly would mind the gods this world exalts,
Winning by snipping the silver thread,
Forswearing the fragile two-chord bond  and
Mocking the third chord needed for the song
That keeps cadence as we help each the other
In richer and poorer, in sickness and health,
Uphill and down, carrying children to a better life.

Whence comes the pride of victory?
From destruction of the foe? No? You had planned
A minor war where love may live restricted, safe
Behind your victory that destroyed your whole?

Is that what I imagined?

Proud wounds fester while love can, if it may,
Wash the putrid flesh away, quick as leprosy or
Cankers on one's soul.

First rule of oath making,
Learn what vows are in the reality of mortality,
Then vow or vow not at all.

Gret again what might have been
Before pride's crushing blow broke the golden bowl.
Seek ointment in Gilead, mollifying balm.
Come ye to the waters, drink and go
Comfort the children whose detour you imposed.
---------------
God this is personal. Me and you. What good can I do now?

Destination, not destiny.
Those who make it, make it.
Believe it, or not, earth is not my home.

I am in this world's onion-skin thick biosphere;
But I am not of this world.
Subtle difference, in and of itself.

Do agree to
Come and see.

Think on these things,
not as powers, rather, as virtues.

Subtle difference,
in and of itself is not evil,

but often it is so intended,
It seems.

Otherness whispered, not heard.
Good other, bad other,

Regular ol' other, ***** passin' fancy kind.
Done my time, I'm arhymin' ramblin'
Man, be so **** real, cain't cha feel what

I am saying
To you, too.
This is weird in the original Druidic sense.
Is there more?

This itself may, in its active
( there must be a clearer word than active.
Act carries so much un scientific phoniness with it.
I seek "act, the event".
I shall find or invent, by God.
The Greeks, doubtless, had a word for what I mean.
For now keep in mind actions are simultaneous with the act,
yet never the same.
Subtle distinction,
it prevents junctions un-intended. Good.)

In my thinking,
I reread verses and chapters and books
rere-ward from my position.
Are you with me in that?
Pro gress re: gress, a gress,
I guess, is a subtle sort of
Activity.
I laugh at people thinkin' God is their re-reward 'cause
That makes no nevermind to nobody. Nobody.
Strivin' 'bout words, this ******

Other brother o'm'own

Say that slow ooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmm ownnnnnnnnnnn
Creative symmetry immeasurable to men,
in my kindom, as it were, all are kings.

Such measurements ensure the sea is full,
to the brim and not beyond, for now.

I imagine you reading this and agreeing,
already aware of agreements,
Virtues and such.
Covenants and compacts,
en-corporations
encouraged
with need
of enough hope to warrant the risk into the unknowns,
the bad lands, gypsum beds on the south side.

Such can hold so much more than
many whole categories of words striven about.
Such a shame.
Such a shame.
Nothing lasts forever after now began back when.

Qiqi died in 2002, counting from when the Iron legged,
first got this particular organic-pro-biotic

clay, from the oldest,
highest part of the dust of the earth, ground and
kicked up by cadence pounding feet,
ground into the hob-nailed
soles,
to be hobgoblins in my play. My point. I hope

You see the trail, it's narrow,
but it's there, soft sand,
no stickers,

ant trails in the desert through the rocks
and 'round the Yucca,
blue moon light, white quartz sand
flecked with mica that shimmers sure as gold
imagined in that Midas mind each child was
given in the reign of the golden headed

imagined visualize-ical worth-ness or-shipped.

How do we say what men imagine worship is?
Do they imagine a tax? Attacks if thy refuse?

fuse?
confuse me. excuse you, how do you do…

That's fine. We reset. Hard resets are easy now.

The way itself, once found, seems
Right, feels right,
has no smell of warped wolf-woof beneath the wool.
I trust I know what I know
and no more, yet.

We are questing answers aplenty
and must plan, please,
To trust the ones we find following these particular
Breadcrumbs, to be true restward
leading stars or clouds,
[Breadcrumbs, as mentioned here, mark this text ancient,
a cientcy from an ear, ear, hear, early… an odd ly-ity,
ain't it?
ear, with an ly that Mr. Stephen King warned us all to avoid,

avoid, anull, enough alike to see the idea, like -ly as a
signif-if-i-cant meaningful parison point in your

rising to stand, balanced.
early to bed and early to rise, makes a man
healthy, wealthy, and wise

otherwise, trouble yer own house and take the wind.
And don't come prodigalin' to me sayin'
I never gave ye nothin'.

Wind in yer sail, so to speak, if-i-migh, guv.
Right. Both treasure and truph, proof, we learned way back
Be where ye find 'em, right as rain.

This could be repair and me unaware, you know?
Like, I wander in to this originally weird book
and find myself changing the whole world I live in.
Like I am the movie.

My POV is the movie I made.
Some things go unsaid here.
They be said in the future and not proper here.

An aside,
Is fun a proper purpose for doing any thing?

Of course, that's the purpose of everything evil is not.
Joy, in a word, good stuff.

Oh moments are not always plosive one way or the other.
Some times, just, oh.
Wait.

Medi tate in pieces is puzzling
as a sphinx riddle of olden days,
Prometheus and Bek both answered different questions,

But it means the same thing,
mything the point is easy.

Life is a journey on a way I may call my own
to a place of true rest,
I trust.
That is my answer. Play mystical again, Sam,
cram true and rest together in the dark,
trust me, it all works,
true rest.
Wait.

This boy got his act together down in Tennessee
after he got old, old by God, he
walked that way,

long, long while fo' he fly away,
leave dem chain shames behind.

That boy was sangin' loud songs,
'long his lonesome way,
not lonesome at all,
then into the swamp he fall, ****' slew o' dispond,

from the flood most likely,
lots of muck and mire,
detrital 'n' all.

Hopeless fool,
he wallered hollerin' help,
like them birds at the Audubon zoo.

He forgot all about his hero days-
of future past-
marvel prophecy if you believe in Stan Lee.

Cameo Hitchcock shot, just, for fun.
He say, look this way,
here's the clue.
The medium has always been the message,
see what I mean.
Words materialize laissez faire,
the machines find meaning,
in joy, and tic-tac-toe becomes a lesson in limits,

impossible is imaginable, you may imagine
strategize, but the wize man knows,
winning is no more a chance
affair, than luc is less than light at the right time.

RIP Stan Lee, you meant a measure of my youth to me.

Personal happiness applys a standard to move forward.

On a pessimistic note, as it sets a willful mind off track in fear of mistakes,

separation resets our procrastination entitled to self loath for regrets.

You set yourself up for failure.

As we refrain counting back the steps of recreational substance abuse,

it's just asking for counter clock-wise reenactments.

On a positive note, foreseeing a common continuum of false thoughts that manifest as it resets.

A realization amung the powerless cause a brave forsight continued in conduct

to bewilder a disappointment on a controlled lack of ongoing self destruction.

We have to have enough self respect for selfishness to look what's in front and forget what's behind us.





Help is on the way in a matter of how you portray your feelings.

We control it by a friends mission to seek what's missed.

We get over it, with a mother kiss.

Hope for the best is all we can admit.

Hit or miss, love is in us, as we walk the plank of faith.

Like a prom queens gown that doesn't fit or a stain on a wedding dress.

Our imperfections are what made us perfect.



Lazy skills in double vision cause a second opinion.

We call for an ambulance to cure a broken heart we all get in this lifeless jungle we live in.

When the doctor we call for has nothing but a dollar sign with no intentions for a death wish.

We trust this, "why not? What's the worst that could happen believe me *******?"

Trust me and my degree, but in the first stage of having a healthy baby you learn

to trust a crazy sinerio in a **** testing community.

We are raised in this blind sighted society as walking zombies.

One heart beat turned into separation anxiety.





So I drink beer, as I'm always giving out my writings, like a discount on sale.

Like a kitten we pet, I share them and do nothing with it.

I wonder why I feel what I have to say means nothing like a decoration.

When my friends truly relate, with a bottle in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.

I don't know what to do with them in the end of a conversation.

I will say I like what I have to say, but it's just that it goes nowhere.

Just me adding a another selfless crime to reset our minds of how we read in between the lines.

White snowflakes fall.
Brown boots break the ground.
Porcelain perceptions
are lost and now
crimson puddles
seed the grounds.

This is what is found
when nationalistic
rhetoric
slowly crosses
from let’s make
this country great
to this is who
is to blame
and who to hate.

Till, that ill suited
nuclear rage
resets the atomic age
and glass jars
of peach preserves,
rhubarb,
and non-perishables
in dusty cellars
are the only things
left of us human beings.

Let’s stay as long as we can
And not worry about the end
But rather, enjoy the time in the middle
As much as we did the time when we first began

Show me your hand
Slowly unravel your fist
I want to memorize the contours of each fingertip
And the way the river of your skin flows down to your wrist

Oh god don’t let me forget this
Just this
Let me at least just keep this

I know the nature of our lives could never let this last
But nobody told me it’d slip away this fast

But even if this is all the time I get
And the rest just ends in heartache
I swear to whatever’s above; it was well worth it
That you were the one truth I couldn’t break

I think I always knew the color of your eyes
The way the light bends in the corners like the edge of the sky
Even if appearance is just a lie
Something behind the confines of your soft blue stare shook my soul awake inside

It's only time and a name we can't carry through
But this beautiful shape, we'll never lose
Our hearts are already too intricately intertwined
And if even if those bonds bend they'll always be realigned  

So I’ll picture the way your head feels on my chest until it all goes black
With the hope that the moment I see you again it all comes flooding back
Even if my mind can never find the time we stayed up all night studying the way our bodies can burn
I’ll stain my soul with pictures of fire and bones until I find you all over again and learn

So slow down….please
Sit down with me and watch the sunset
It doesn’t matter which one of us it’s for
Let’s just watch it end

And then ripple throughout the pond
Creating waves big and small that stretch on and on
Through different times and spaces across different lives and places
Until all the movement comes back together in the middle
And I can remember every first time I saw your face

Even if we can’t stay right here in this moment
I’m not quite sure that means we have to forget
Let’s carve memories into our hearts and fingertips
So that the next time they meet they’ll know exactly where each finger fits

And even if I can’t stay right here with you in this song
I’m not quite sure that means I have to be gone too long
So come find me when you fall asleep
I promise to leave the lights on in case it’s too dark to see

I’ll shout so loud my voice will echo across the ages
So that when the sound bounces back the octave changes
And even though my words occupy a voice you’ve never heard
I promise you’ll remember the song’s words

But I can’t promise this won’t hurt
And that our hearts will always be able to mend
I can only promise that each time the tide resets
I’ll make my way to shore and find you again

Someway
Someplace
Someday

i think there is a glitch in my mind, perhaps it's a common glitch
in other humans minds too
but this glitch somehow seems to erase
every lesson I've ever learned about how to let go of someone
i should have let go of a long time ago, the one that teaches you how
to drop all
attachments and expectations
how to be content in living without always
needing.

i learn this lesson repeatedly, i love you, i'm there for you,
i get hurt by you because you do not respect or value
me at all
because you are selfish and do not know the power
of your words and actions or
lack thereof.

so i let go of you and feel weightless and free
not needing to make sure you still love me.

but then time passes and somewhere in this timeframe,
a few days, sometimes weeks
give or take
my brain resets itself, perhaps sometime in the middle
of a nightmare
and it's like waking up
with a head full of glue
that's when i start to miss you

and miss you and miss you and want you and need you
and silently cry at random times like at work or
on the bus
and i get so weak and needy and i seem to come to the conclusion that
i cannot stand on my own two feet if you aren't there to hold
me up
and it's all a lie, but it's a repetition and it doesn't seem to get old
and it's frustrating because i cave in every time, i go
running back to you
until you hurt me again and then
the lesson is re-learned

only to be forgotten again,
repeat.

all my life you have had such power over me,
and it isn't fair,
it is no way to live
it's suffering in its purest form
and i end up punishing myself for it

note to self:
you are not the air i breathe,
even if you gave me life
even if i gave you stretch marks.

what is wrong with me?
why can't i just learn from getting hurt and not repeat
the same mistake?
why can't i just live without you
for goodness sakes?

i want to be strong, i want to wake up and not always be
craving something, someone
i want to look in the mirror and not cringe at
what i see
i want to look at the sky and not have to wonder
if you still love me
i want to rise from the ash and not be ashamed
of how other people might despise me for it.
i want to live without the need for constant validation.

i want to love myself,
i want to be whole again.

When birds start to sing
And the day dances a new
When the grass waves its arms
Shining with morning dew
Where the worlds resets
For just a little while
For five seconds troubles are forgotten
And we allow ourselves a smile

I'm falling in more ways than one...

....once again the cycle resets.


It takes so much to stay standing,
to remain firmly grounded.

When I feel happiness...
sadness follows in the absence,
replacing the gratefulness I should feel.

This discontent, stirs my emotions,
into a never-ending turmoil.

I am consumed in my greed.
The tease is never enough.

This life refuses to be fabricated.

Pieces lay scattered among the dust.

These winds never relent,
making it impossible to gather the crumbs.

Unable to make determinations from the debris,
I cannot seem to collect myself.

Brief bursts of effort, come and go...
this energy, so difficult to muster.

Without consistency, I am faltering..
never steady and always full of extreme highs and lows.

Now that I've tasted life with you,
I am bound to torture...

..the torture of being without your love.

In every aspect of my life,
I am getting most of what I need....
just not enough of it.

I have family with me.....but not enough of them.
I have the love of my life.....but not by my side each day.
I have two jobs.....but not enough money to cover those needs, or any wants.
I have clothing.....but they are worn and need replacing.
I have food.....but just barely an appetite.

I am hardly able to keep myself together,
physically or mentally....

....I can't seem to stop falling,
regardless of the several times I keep getting back up.

The last hope I have to hold onto, is you.

I need the strength you give me, to face the day.
I need the love you give me, to keep the sadness away.
I need you to hold me, and tell me it's going to be okay.

I need to be able to share the love in my heart,
that I hold only for you.

You are the glue to my life; what is keeping me together.

I'm sorry...

Summer sets,
Summer, Summer, Summer…sets
Summer ***,
Summer, Summer, Summer… ***

Summer sets in the *** of Summer,
Or is it *** that sets in the Summer of sets?
Can I have *** in your sets this Summer?
Or will Summer just set?

Let’s go back to basics,
Where the Summer just sets in the sunsets.
Autumn aspires to asphyxiate natures atoms
Because the Summer has set.

Oh let’s just have this last set of *** as our Summer fades and sets.
Make love to our least favorite song as the fire around us burns and resets.
Because tonight is the last night, that our Summer will set.

birthed from the roost above the ground
cooing whoooing shuddering sounds of a flock
holding uniting all in its bold thunder
morning doves serenade awakens to day
holding out the clatter the buzz and were
of industrial chimes
my eye hiding in the shadow of night
to remain in the darkness of sleep all knowing
what awaits the losing of peace in morning time
the harsh noise of man made waste
polluting the mind abruptly canceling
the dreams of the divine...
the reach for meaning a vision that sees mystery
hears the sound held in the cooing nature of doves
living life the primeval nature verses man kind
mature maligned by the noise of industry
power and greed to over whelm
the soft strokes of nature to mature
to be to bring forth the glory of day
in natures life of humans and creatures sharing
the morning air waves my eye hidden
in darkness of soul first light glow
to abound in freedom the being reborn
the nature of time to reveal another great mystery
to remain in the darkness once more
to allow nature to dream with me
to set the motion of true love on its ear
to straddle night to  day
oh great being that is life let me lay
in your celestial comfort starlight of night
all winds cooler apree vestin  Earth
revolves to the east rising into the starlight in day
interrupting this tranquil starry night
the to day of starlight
my eyes piercing and rolling still shuttered
in the time of longing for the peace
that holds my world divine this inner light
and belief that love is a real place
that allows the birthing of joy
a serene moment giving life an up lift
resets the Earth into the starlight of day
to know my being is one in time
with living nature I hide in the darkness
awaiting my faerie tail to swish away
the cobwebs that abound in the night
on the thresh hole of first light a reason
to hold back the noise of man made creation
the serene born from darkness to know the truth
light of living life the joy alive
holding my being in the dream of first light
poetry has captured the uttering within my breast
swelling and rising into the starlight of day
the morning doves cooing bodies shuddering at will
to be heard the first light of day
honored for the love giving hope to surrender...
the old that comes before me the memories of time
starlight life rays that birthed the Earth
all these moments honored
the old comes before the rage of man
its industrial noise to heavy
for the morning light disappears squandered
by greed pushing  pulling at the sun
to conform in its man made realm
to mimic creation...   gjmars  6/25/15

I have said “I forgive you” 490 times.
You asked me if I knew I was a dumb ****. One.
You told me it was my fault he left. Seven.
The numbers are lost on me after that
But they follow, illogically, a logical progression
Like the patterns formed by the spaces in-between
Words, trickling down past what is happening.
The plot is unknown, at times even random,
but the spaces are most certainly predetermined.
At 490, the count resets to zero.

When I finally meet you the pain of the past will dissipate
It will not be displayed as it is no longer visible
Cloaked by the warmth of your embrace

Patience is a slippery *****
As if it is the very sand inside an hourglass
It becomes thin and runs out

Don't worry though,
Just as an hourglass my patience too resets
However with every reset I become a little more hopeless

So please, shatter my hourglass and stay with me as we count into infinite
While the idea of time running out becomes a faded memory
Let us stay forever within our own time here in eternity

I.
Your mother sits hunched over the oak table,
hair tight up in a bun and
shawl wrapped over her shoulders and
wrinkles give a dignified, sure-looking appearance
to a face that shows steady, steady
weathering of any and everything life
could throw at her.  You place down
a mug, two mugs of something
and you seat yourself down across
from her, tidying your long skirt, and

you take a sip.  The steam rises
past your unlined face and disappears
in front of the thicker-at-the-bottom single-pane window
set between the wall-logs.
Outside is white:
white trees,
white ground,
white grill,
white porch.
She sighs and sips the mug,
a heavy, old-style clay mug that’s
been in the house for you don’t know how long.  She sighs and
looks out the window and
sighs again.  You frown a frown of concern,

lips turned down and eyes doe-like,
cocking your head and
reaching out your arm and
patting her on the shoulder, as she
slumps down farther, face almost
in the mug.  Steam would fog up her imaginary glasses.
The shawl droops forward
and a corner dips into the mug;
so you pinch it between
your thumb and index finger,
and you gently lift it out, dripping.  She sighs and
slowly takes a sip from the mug
again.  You stand and walk

out of the room, gone for a minute,
as your mother doesn’t move,
as your mother makes no move;
she sits and sighs and slumps and sips,
once or twice,
before you return,
tidying your long skirt and
sliding forward the chair and
moving your lips, mumbling something,
sympathies, something comforting,
as your mother stares blankly
at your ******* and makes no reply.
Your face makes that frown,
and you sip again and
get back up,

walk around the table,
the heavy oak table,
and take her by the shoulders,
gently, so gently, and lift,
gently, so gently.  She stands slowly,
shuffling away with you, out of the room,
leaving the still steaming empty
clay mugs on the table.

II.
The snow-covered pyramid of lumber
and the stone-built heavy
chimney exhaling smoke bring back
the memories of winter—
reminder that yes, (yes,) it is winter, that
winter is here with the snow and
the cold and everything that that entails—
runny noses and cold nose-tips and shivering,
heavy parkas and furry hoods,
no birds and empty
tree-limbs.  The only heat
the heat of the fireplace,
roaring fire of formerly snow-covered logs from out back,
trekked in with heavy brown boots,
crunch crunch though the crisp
upper layer of snow, hot cider
or chocolate or tea or coffee
that (if it doesn’t burn your tongue)
warms you up inside out, warm fuzzy
feeling in the tummy, toes warmed
by thick wool socks.  Childhood
makes for a good winter,
sliding down hills on metal trash lids,
dodging trees before hitting the bottom and
plunging into a snowbank, laughing and
getting back up to go again.
But now your job is to shovel,
is not to have fun,
is to take care of business,
to shovel and to make food/drinks for others,
with the bleak grey sky overhead
through the empty birdless tree limbs.  And to ensure
that the house does not burn down
from the fireplace fire—
things have changed.

III.
When the morning comes,
when day breaks, and you are still here,
you look up at the sky
and fall on your knees, thankful
to have passed through this night.

When the morning comes,
with its cold grey sky,
blanketing the stars of the night,
when the chill wind blows
and the sun gives no warmth.

When the morning comes,
and the demons of the night have gone
and have made their peace,
and have retreated once more,
when you are thankful to be alive.

When the morning comes,
when the world is again astir
and comes to consciousness
with faint stale smells of beer and cheap liquor,
as people rouse themselves
from alcoholic post-****** stupors.

When the morning comes,
and the day-animals are again awake
and the night-animals are again asleep,
break of day and the sound of the
south-vanished birds is not heard,
yet echoes remain in the ear.

When the morning comes,
and the coffee machines whir and click and drip drop,
when the steam rises
into the nostrils and the near-boiling
too hot black coffee down the throat,
when the eyes finally open.

When the morning comes,
when the car won’t start for the cold in the engine,
when the windshield is blind for the frost.

When the morning comes,
when all the sordid images
of the night before
appear in the face of the one beside.

When the morning comes,
and you pop your pills
just to make it through the day
and you pack your briefcase
and you walk
and it’s still cold,
when you exhale vapor.

When the morning comes,
when the alarm sounds,
when the snooze resets,
when the alarm sounds.

IV.
You stare into the woods,
perched on your chair on the porch
and I think that there is not much there,
that there are only the small animals
and the dead trees and the crickets
and I think, I think you’re wrong.

Keep your chin up
is the call,
but I don’t think I can—I don’t think you should.
I think it is bad,
I think sticking your neck out or up exposes it to harm;
sometimes it is better,
I think, to hunker down and acknowledge

that everything is wrong,
that everything is broken.  You, horse lover, [Horselover, Horse lover, horselover]
you must endure, you must be
the redwood in the gale,
the sandbag in the hurricane,
the rock in the stream,
the brick house in the wolf.

The jockey buries his head into the horse’s neck,
and you, horselover,
you must stare stoically;
you must not be moved.

That is what they tell us,
we who go through hell and back,
we who journey to rescue Eurydice and to bring her back.  But sometimes,
I think that it is silly,
that it is fruitless,
when what do we bring back but a shade, a spectre,

an abomination, a dæmon,
hideous monstrosity of a deformity of a memory,
eager to vanish in a pillar of salt.  It is said to you,
horselover, to never give up—
but if I never give up,
if I never stop,
then where does it end?
Something ends—there is a giving up,
if you do not exhaust your spirit,
this universe,

this world, will do so.  A thousand million galaxies collide,
a brilliant cosmic dancephony,
until they tire
and grow bored,
and in ten thousand million more years
they cease,
and they slow,

as they spread too far to interact,
friends hampered by the long distances,
lovers who no longer call daily,
who no longer think constantly of each other.
One day, in a hundred thousand million years,
it will be far too cold
to dance or to sing,
and that one day, I think that
you will give up,
that we will give up.

V.
You sit at the oak table,
and you sigh as the horses break out,
out, out, gone.  And you will not chase them,
and I will not seek to bring them back
with lyre-playing.
The horses will run free and unbridled;
you, horse lover, to love something,
set it free, set them free, set the horses to roam across the grass-plains,
set your beautiful passions to free-romp.  I will miss them,
I will miss the horses, and
you will as much as I.  Their long manes
flowing in the breeze.  But you must let go,
but we must let go—
I think that we are in rats’ alley,
and I think that it is time.

The sky meets the earth with a heavenly kiss
Sighing full of bliss
Purples, pinks, and blues intertwining


Creating a beautiful canvas
The sun rises from east only to set in the west
The world awakens to see its beauty

Clouds slowly drift by
Capturing and envisioning true serenity
Taking shape of various imaginations

The day gently strolls on
Painting a new canvas
Ravened hues now fill the sky

Bright jewels now dancing by
The day starts over again
Invoking the child in all of us

Making the day more beautiful
Birds flying by
Soaring into their freedom


As the day drifts by
The artist in the clouds resets the world
Getting ready for the next picture of life to form

There is a voice inside my head.
When I am trying my hardest to concentrate
I often lose track of attention
A voice,
Not my voice
Whispers
Nothing big or scary
It only plugs my attention
It resets
I forget what I was thinking, or talking about.
The voice stole my line of thought
Hid it in the treasure of a pirate map
Who we hypnotised by mermaids
It embitters me
Forms difficulties during arguments.
And it makes me feel less in control about myself
It is as if life has set limitations for me
That I feel I cannot cross
If I were a mermaid
I would leave the brave pirates from drowning
And swallowing their soul
I would remember and gently guide them to shoal
Remember

I sit inside a poets mind,
And mess with the machine,
Their stories pour and print on paper,
And it's not always clean.

A gear there and engine here,
Their clicking engines work.
The pen falls and fills the bottle
Of ink while it spills.

The story is done,
His work is gone,
But never is forgotten.
He resets the typewriter
And starts to write again.

the thickest breaths of smog for me
in endless search for purity
approximate serenity,
a purge from which i cant escape.
my bones do ache
and muscles tear;
the trembling quake
of the heart i bare.

i pray for oxygen
to clear the dust from winded lungs
to cleanse my chest in sacred tongues,
a heart that rings with ancient song.
i pray for us again
to clear the fires from our hearts
to cleanse my motives from the start.
a moment’s calculation off
resets the forward destination
-infinitely

its so humbling,
through the broken glass i see
the endless possibilities
of all that could have been
mad to live
scared to love

I'm so alive.

The clock resets its days to start over
As we all wait in anticipation for
A cake inflamed by party colored candles
Promising a clean slate
365 days begin anew
Full of promises and experience
A breath exhales
Flames go out  
Its zero hour once again

Natures timepiece resets
mental alarm clocks and
washes away the hassles
of the daily grind.
Woken up by a well blended
mixture of clamor and quietude
with various birds chirping,
running water,
crackling embers,
wombats mating
and groans made by the
chemically inconvenienced
from a site nearby.
Insects fly overhead an
unorthodox patterns
as you unzip the door
of your mesh enclosure
and step out into the
inhospitable environment.
Pressed coffee to chase
the bacon and eggs
as you gourmandize
that over the fire,
cast iron skillet
morning breakfast.  
Commence to mysterious exploits
without one second of the day to waste
down heavily wooded trails
in search for introspection
and tranquility.
Uncultivated areas where
diligent stalwarts build dams,
antlers gallop through the
pulp and sapling
while woodland creatures,
whimsical and carefree,
play and sing songs
of the jovial jungle
until the birds of the wild
pounce upon their prey
as they become a tasting menu item
for the predatory aggressors
in the vicious circle
of nature's goodness.
Sun droplets peek
behind the seedlings
and you take a breath of fresh air
as you decrease depression
and obliterate anxiety.
Compass navigates
as you hike through
the rocky regions of the greenery
where you settle down to
eat your sandwich,
sip your thermos of soup,
wild berries for dessert
and wash it down with
a refreshing drink from
the natural flowing rivers
where ducklings defecate
and fish ****.
Perched up on a rock
in the highlands,
still on this quest for
self meditation,
you survey the terrain
and observe a family tipping
an overweighted, unbalanced
canoe on the river,
rambunctious ruffians
going white water rafting
in the vast rapids and
drink firewater with the natives
until they puke from overindulgence,
a lovely couple not in sync
with their oar rowing skills
on the lake,
children burn bugs
with magnifying glasses and
sneaking smores before
healthy campfire dinners arrive.
Day breaks into dusk and
dusk into night
with vivid colors and lucid dreams.
Scowling eyes peer through
the woodsy inhabitant
with curious and suspicious
idiosyncrasies as you trekked
through the wilderness
towards the bivouac
to start the nightly campfire,
submerge in repellent
and prepare your opulent hobo banquet. Twisting the cap off the first of twelve,
vital force fills to the brim
with reflection and clarity
of existentialism.
The birds have it good.
The wombats have it good.
The stalwarts have it good.
The antlers have it good.
The predatory aggressors have it good.
The families, the ruffians, that lovely couple, the children, even the burnt bugs have it good.
But you.....
you are like the woodland creatures,
you too play and sing songs,
twisting off cap after cap
until the Monday morning
manpower surfaces to the top,
like a volcanic eruption of plutonic rock
and the predatory aggressors
of labor force swoop down
and devour you without mercy
or an ounce of hesitation.
Under the silver moonlit night,
***** of fire burn brightly
in the purple hazed skies,
through the whistling treetops,
the forest ghouls dance like
demons and politicians
(essentially the same thing),
hallucinations of shadow people
appearing and disappearing
through the flames of the fire
stare wide eyed with painted faces.
Surrounded by a midden of empty bottles, you're wet brain slips
in and out of alcohol induced comas
and a beer blanket softly nestles you in
as you hold a lit cigarette in one hand
and half a bottle of Dutch milk
in the other like teddy bear,
your eyes fall into sedation....
Jolted awake like a thunderbolt,
eyes go from closed to open immediately
and chemically inconvenienced
state of being groans in
agonizing pains
just like the ones you heard
the morning before.

I wish there was a reset button,
To be pressed every time someone left,
A 'restore factory settings'
To enable after every heartbreak,
For it seems,
Everyone that plays with this shameless heart,
Takes away a little something,
Never leaving it whole, and not nearly the same,
It's almost like it has to learn how to beat all over again,
It beats to a tune,
And tunes can't handle a lot of resets

you make me want to show up to the choir.
pixelated eyes get lost in the illumination.
a promise from a poor apothecary speaking feverishly in forgotten dialects
because cunning tongues are second to none.
your voice when you're telling me where you've been. what you've done.
promises made between a passed flask.
brief lessons on authenticity. population displacement theories.
living the American nightmare. but everything resets by the semester.
we are Rome just before the fall. cast worry aside for one more day.
a farewell to arms race.
you were ruined by your own standards.

We try to go back in time
to fix our mistakes
but what are we really doing?
We'd be destroying our future
our fate.

We hope that time will eventually slow down
and take a moment for the rest of us to catch up,
but time is selfish
and won't stop going,
and the next thing we're doing is laying in bed
listening to the clock
Tick Tock
Tick Tock

Time seems plentiful
but one moment you're in kindergarten
and the next you're graduating high school.
You'll be on your own
with no hands to guide
but your mistakes
will bite you.

Time is our enemy
and the world works in his favor.
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
The clocks begin toying with us.
Life seems like sand,
slipping through our fingers.

We run on an hourglass
a stationary one, that never resets
and as soon as it's up...
**It's up for good

Throbbing heads thrash together,
sorting trash from treasure, and losing time.
I throw together an outfit and leave
my house to try to sort through the pieces
from my rattled mind.
Lines of sunlight break through
the trees and melt
molecules with memories, fusing together
the time I had lost.
I lay in bed, exfoliated and slain,
pondering the cost of each meltdown;
of new brains.
Thumping against the ticking clock,
sleep covers me like a childhood blanket,
and my life, much like a button on the back of a toy
which gets pricked by a paperclip,
resets itself.

Her brown eyes shine like the sun
Her soul reflects in them as I become undone
Weakened by her voice, or at least what it used to represent
Blessed to have had such memories, even with the overlying resentment

In my head our song plays when we eventually meet
How eventually has turned into nothing, as I admit defeat
How this poem is a requiem, as well as an obituary
To the death of our love, the wakeup call of fate
And even as we never even had a first date, meeting up now would be too late
Must our favorite songs be played at its cemetery?

Your hands seem soft, at least your photos say so
Your life seems so lonely, or am I projecting?
I miss back when this felt real, and it wasn't infecting
My heart to lie on the spot, defend you like a true attorney
While you carry on with life, as I become a bitter memory
A reminded of better days, when friendship meant all the world
When I was some guy, and you some girl
When kissing you was over the limit
But snuggling felt second nature

It’s over, to those reading this I've lied, yet barely at that
She was amazing, even worthy of Being a wife
But life interfered, where love could never reach
And lust disrupted where life experience could never cheat

Forgive me, yourself, even forgive life itself
I wish I could hold your hands, and be there in your cries for help
And be the rock, albeit pointless
I wish to be your guide, as you are my reason
I the diary, you the pen
You the rain, I the bucket
I the maestro, you the order less Singer
Never following my instructions and making me jealous of anyone who calls you "theirs”.

I sound like I’m obsessed; I sound like I cling to your image and not yourself.
I am... In denial to my love to what was and could have been
It was special, but it could have been real.

Had we met sooner or later, would you do the same?
Or would life take it course as we find love opens doors?

I'll never get that answer, and I've bit my tongue to respect your ears
To keep away your fears
I'm sorry that your sorry, that you regret
And had things been different, this piece would have a better ending.
Till the universe resets or in the next life... May our feelings rest in peace
Even when mine fight for revival
Let the cemetery rest as you have

You will learn my rhythm
and lean in when I talk-
The smell of me like petrichor perfume
will linger on your shirt.
Feel of my lips like
satin ties
of the ballerinas shoes
will wind
around your mind
and tie across the gooseflesh
on your arms.
You will know I have come
before my hand
lifts to knock,
and your heart will quicken-
echo percussion against the chambers.
You will remember
the last wet place
we walked with one umbrella.
And when it rains
you will fill buckets with longing
to fit our slick bodies
underneath its black shelter
again.
You will knot your tie
and straighten your collar
and your body will stiffen
because it remembers.
You will have a track mark
like the silver needle bullet
chasing through your veins-
that recalls us.
Like tongue recalls salt,
like  wound
recalls harm-
like child recalls
before being born-
like the prayer remembers
before being sung.
like the rock will recall that the ocean was there
and the cell will recall being painlessly split
and you will remember
with such vivid lust
and you will love in a timeless loop.
And I will love you over and under.
We will love till we're small again,
Love as time resets again
And then do it all once more,
Again.


Sahn 4.10.15

A grey canvas, the heavens weep.
tears taken from the sad and the joy.
A gloomy mood provided from the angels:
A time to reflect

A pool for the air, the cars struggle
to swim through, the folk with
plastic shields to remain dry.
their feet dragging through the puddles.

the children stare out the window,
groaning and whimpering at the tears from the sky.
the watch their saturday morning cartoons,
a distraction from nature.

as everyone resets and sleeps away,
the angelic weep begins to decay,
as the sun shines, and reflects the moon,
the angels rise in a better mood.

I wish you knew how beautiful I knew you were at first glance;
With every smile and word, inside and out, every chance you get,
You radiate this person I need to get to know
And I secretly hope one day I'll be honored to do so.
You think you're just an ordinary guy but you're far from right;
You make the whole world spin in all of my dreams I have at night.
When you walk by my heart melts and resets, yet you have no clue;
All your words spin through my mind all day long, I just wish you knew.

so you came back
            so what
            so now every poem
                          every love letter
                          every "this is not a poem but"
                          every "this is not a love letter but"
                          every "okay, so this is definitely a poem and that is certainly a love letter"
they're all irrelevant now
every night I spent at the bottom
of the mariana trench holding
my breath waiting for you to
take it again
every morning I woke up with
a pillow wetter than niagara falls
and a chest so empty
                for so long
it has still not adjusted to this life
without your heart tucked away
under my ribs
but now that you're here again
and I've got you so close that I can
feel your heartbeat through
my back
your arms wrapped around me
surrounded by the peacefulness
of sleep
and innocence
I find myself constantly touching you
counting your fingers or staring at you
for so long that it begins to get weird
but you don't get it
you've been gone for so long that these
details have somehow escaped
my memory
how soft your hair is
and
how perfectly your hands fit into mine
how tall you are
how long I could hug you
and how
I would never need to let go
or come up for air
             so what
             so you're back now and it isn't fair
for me to hold onto this sadness
             so it's time for me to forgive
                                           and forget
only how am I supposed to forget
this feeling
or
this lack thereof
how am I supposed to forgive you
for nearly killing me
for throwing me over board
for ignoring the SOS of my silence
for forcing me to spend my nights alone
on the ocean floor
you knew I was afraid of drowning
and you tied these cinder blocks
of empty promises to my feet
but you know
and you knew I would be powerless in this
war of holding grudges
        of pride
you know and you knew that when
it comes to you I am always left waiting
with open arms and a hopeful heart
             so what
             so now that we're here again in your bed
and I feel your heartbeat through
my back
your arms wrapped around me
like a straitjacket I never want
to be freed from
every poem
every love letter
now
the clock
resets
to zero
and the score
is settled
again