My God I'm so lucky, I've heard it again,
waves slicing through, the clamor of distance,
so hard to describe, the feelings within,
when the softness comes through, I have no resistance

it is the clarity of knowledge, the soul of laughter,
caressing my heart, it rolls through my brain,
such a free spirit, like from the hereafter,
the Voice once again, feel my tachyons drain

the magic of wonders, the wonders of magic,
allowing the register, of sound to emit,
letting it go by unheard, would be tragic,
smoke fills the eye, of that one final hit

has this gone past, the true reason of life,
wanting the sweetness, to fill up my mind,
hearing the drummer, the marcher with fife,
I'll follow the Voice, maybe one day I'll find

Birdman 3/19

I met him, a week short
of being a teen, his number one-three celebrated
on Labor Day that year

his father wanted him to understand
how the "A" word would impact his life
in a peopled world

I agreed, and soon
he explained tachyons, photons,
and other “on”s I can't recall, in my
twenty months as his "healer"

he needed no catcher in the rye
to keep him from falling off the cliff
for edges did not apply to him

not in his world of curved
space and time, quantum quarks, and
pleasing cosmic rhyme

when it came to the bend
in time when we were to say goodbye
he could not understand we would not
meet again, though he was leaving
city and state

for him, minutes, hours, days
were shapes and sounds I could not hear--no
I would never come near, seeing beyond
Newton's silly spheres

but he could escape
the gruesome grip of gravity
without blinking an eye

my final entry in his file,
was the "A" word he would need
fear: Adult, not Autistic

all was calm this morning
and now it's not
it changed faster than tachyons
how can it be?

how did that blue sky
breathing life into the little white flowers
the ones that tell me it is spring
the ones that seemed to smile as I passed them
how did that turn into this?

this torrential down pour
these ferocious winds
the sideways rain hits me like bullets
or at least paint *****
turning exposed skin red on the run
the wet trash is hurling down the street
faster than the rushing creek
the creek that serves as my driveway

how did the sounds of the birds chirping
turn into thunder crashing louder than the ocean
thunder shaking my house
we're in the Yahtzee cup of the God's dinner party
shaking around
no clue how we will fall

I hate the weather.

Death on two legs
Now on four legs
Excess of sobriety
I want to taste tachyons
They just keep coming
and coming
and coming
thoughts like a shattered mirror
7 years bad luck
Bad luck
Fickle mistresses in a ****** dawn
No more eyes
Make me blind
Cut me
Hit me
Make me bleed
Make me feel

Or don't.

I think I'm mad.

Side worn glances draw the skin pale. Half dressed inferences hooked on a nail.
Spiteful nostalgia picked from the nose, of Tom Waits while holding a rose.
Serpentary train of thought, inevitably back to the same spot.

Revert to responsibilities of old, and return to reveries told.

Spectrums of light tumble blindly, refracting in through open panes,
     Opaque shadows cast from blind spots left by stains.

Trying to be poetic for poetry’s sake, resolute in resolve, discovered as a fake.
The lexicon’s been tossed aside, for depressive angst most should hide.
Tachyons convolute the art, allowing the removal of heart.

Starry skies stripped of worth, sanitized sacrilege straight from birth.

Tentative steps, pushing the precursor forward as the floe begins to melt,
   Nudge the idol in, and return to shore without talent, but svelte.

The Voice Returns

My God I'm so lucky, I've heard it again,
waves slicing through, the clamor of distance,
so hard to describe, the feelings within,
when the softness comes through, I have no resistance

it is the clarity of knowledge, the soul of laughter,
caressing my heart, it rolls through my brain,
such a free spirit, like from the hereafter,
the Voice once again, feel my tachyons drain

the magic of wonders, the wonders of magic,
allowing the register, of sound to emit,
letting it go by unheard, would be tragic,
smoke fills the eye, of that one final hit

has this gone past, the true reason of life,
wanting the sweetness, to fill up my mind,
hearing the drummer, the marcher with fife,
I'll follow the Voice, maybe one day I'll find

Gomer LePoet ...

earth wakes like a blinking marble
worm cake
ravine of ravenous hunger
breathing bowl of fruit
and black hole cauldron
of spit and sediment
where life grows like debt

disembodied skyward souls
who's haloed ground
a funeral coif
of etched intaglio grim headstones
that remain arcane symbols
of refuse underworlds
sunken under black beds
shaped like centuries of tragedy
in moldering graves
and dusty trailer park archaeologies

cosmologies eclipse
open pleasures and sultry winds
that form charades of architype golden eyes
impregnating us with dreams
like animated tarot cards
while body-caged man-o-spheres
on apocalyptic mountain sides
crawl and claw in endless nights to thrive
with every breath and squalid gasp
                                *
we propel ourselves through this life
by sacrificing the present for the future
in arduous labors of discord
and glowering autopsies
of smoke & blood
until we remain
unable to live with ourselves

i vaguely remember
traveling disembodied
like a new sun
past empty hulled tenements
where the living dead
perform soap opera cameos
as sliding doors
open and shut
like switchblades
on withered clanking subways
of shuffling bones
all the way to Hades

time bruised and beaten
bedlam of age
we each fall forgotten
grey as pulping zombies
shuttering downwards
from primordial nuclides
of contagion and death

gossiping Doppelgangers
on tesseract winds
witnessed energized prodigies
teaching the dead to construct dreams
with drum stick rhythms
and flutes of savage craving
in meta whirls
that mobilize astral spitfires
faster than tachyons
in a forever extravagant next world
monster infinity

Am I just bitterness
Unfulfilled
Discontentedness
Restless
And anxious
Just want to escape this
Perpetual do-over day
None to blame
But myself
For this dismal, morose,
Woe is me
Soul decay
Which I know to say sounds
Like a lousy clichè
Not the writer’s expressive
Quintessence
Expected
From one such as I
Am by others rejected
Insect among tachyons
God among atom bombs
Nothing else left
Except left-leaning martyrdom
And whom I long
To behold at least once
More before
I return
To this ongoing war with
What keeps me from her