And winds they wither and they accentuate cosmic dithers
Ducks become swans and butterflies fly in the air of rivers
We should soon begin to question who we are on this plan-et
A bucket or cube, a form of strings finding tune
They said there’d be purveyors and pilgrims
These sages would then show the way in a web of disarray
So the picture plays and their gleam is seen
Incarnating from distant streams
’yes they call them starseeds

They have been helping societies feel secure, giving answers
Contributing to the developments thereto
Some called them heroes, psychics or star-soldiers
It was forgotten that they were merely messengers, creating vortexes so the many
Would get to the essence or heart of Creation and Divinity
The problems began with the worship of the commissars of Divinity
And the gods their parents, being merged into a monotheistic god
For artificial synchronization of stealing light and doctoring it into dark light
To subdue the power of Darkness
So with more people being manipulated and hooked by crystals
And chips, scrapping their memory of their once absolute multi-dimensional divinity
They began to forget and this energy was channeled to the heads of darkness and their fortresses
And as such humanity grew weak and the solutions were left to be found by the so called heroes

With the growing human-farming, as the hybrids being created then were used as mere sheep or even cattle  
With the decaying or ceasing dignity of the human conscience, they were made to be intermediary-conscious
And so the lives of the Messengers and their affiliates became the epitome of living for the many
Absurd as it is, the human races with its varying colours and fragrances, each soul being unique in its right
And now with this bombardment of doctrine that set a standard of being
These laws not culminating the commonwealth of many
Not governing humanity in its best interests, so the heroes began to be sacrificed
Their lives weren’t pure, they were planned before they were even born
Corrupting the consciousness of individuality and essential or sincere being

And they came in Kings/Priest Kings or Sorcerer Kings
And who would blame them, it is their Parents who set out or designed these paradigms
And so these corrupt thought forms of half truths and duality and dark light became hereditary
The times changed and these heroes took on the impressions of Presidents, Wealthy business men or Emperors of Commerce
Finding themselves in the modern Capitalistic World,  a world which was manufactured prior to their reign
The grave concern is the death of Identity and the Integrity of the Soul
And the lives of Pastors/Chanellers/Pilgrims/Shamans  or what have you became the mirror of Divinity
As opposed to Divinity mirroring in the clear view of people having identity and a sincere embrace of the heart’s mysterious logic
So it is safe to say that this would create a world robotic

This wouldn’t last forever though for some Parents are responsible and they care
So the Earth then would be visited by the Golden ones once more
Apparent with the recent UFO Sightings, crashed UFOs and the bodies of Extraterrestrials
Alien Abduction confessions, cavern findings
With this people would begin to remember and would not load their worries or problems on the shoulders
Of a few individuals as they would learn how big the world is
As Humanity would identify, if for the first time, who or what God is
Furthermore Who or WHAT THE Source is
And once the lives of heroes would cease to be manipulated, so too would the lives of the many
We would learn that there needn’t be “special” people for we will have found the Divine elements in each of us
And that the sooner we can enhance Intelligent Life working together without the need for hierarchies we can soon develop a
High Level of Spirituality and be an Independent Race
Heroes are beings too who have lives and ambitions, have flaws and afflictions, have faced convictions and submissions
The gods are beings with their mistakes as well, some who have lied and have not revealed the whole truth to
Protect their children for it could have been noted that they were too “young”
But humans will grow and God they will know, the Source furthermore, and there will be a shift in thinking and thus in being and Living
It has begun, Finding the answers following the Dignity of the Conscience,
Cosmic blueprint, a song sung for parents absent
A play of star glow, uplifting the wayward ways of the big show
Living in the Integrity of the Soul, following the Dignity of the Conscience.

Go away little wisp.
I know what you are up to.
I pay the slightest notice,
you morph into an innocent, seductive puff
strutting to and fro
offering companionship,
comfort,
yes, even love.
I admire you; you gust, fat and fluffy.
I compliment; you explode into a cumulous mass hovering ominously above.
I worry; ashen gray lithely overtakes beguiling white.
Rumbling belly fills with rage and swells with forboding.
There is no longer an escape.
My thoughts
are pulled into shadow
and slapped onto earth
in torrents of unrestrained rage.
Completely engulfed, I choke, and
swirl in great muddy vortexes down lost drains.
Who am I?
Who are my thoughts?
I only have you to grasp onto,
and that is no solace.

i was beefing with another girl
in a two year old inconsistent blip
summer by summer, mad then silent
churning of the rapid water hourly

get nothing done at all, but fall into
a rotation without a darker cause
simply forgetting what it was
exactly that started it

whatever was curved
around the dusky breeze, bro
overtook the over the shoulder look
vortexes into a lazy bubbly whirl
in the lake we would hang out by

i’ll come around if you do
but we don’t talk
like we used to on the way
to the supermarket
but i’m on my way
to the “lost and free as i could be
me”

it’s as all i’m meant to be
supposes me, supposes you.

Going home is a rubber band snap
Knee-deep in a mind swamp
And the only way to avoid the snakes is to befriend them.


White picket fences spell adopted ideals
And horses are reminders that you’re not going anywhere anytime soon

The elk mounted above an unused fireplace says
I have killed what the desert could not


This town is like quicksand,
Consuming you slowly under a promise of rapid escape


The desert seems unkind until you realize that mercy
Is not pumping blood into anything to which you don’t give a shot at survival
Even if that means thorns and a bad reputation


Some creatures are strung out and inseparable like prayer beads around the wrinkled neck of the wasteland
Others have been deemed worthy of solitude
I do not know which category I fall into
If I did, perhaps I would not need a blacksmith and an armory in my morning shower


Having access to water in a place like this makes me feel like a snake charmer
Here in the valley, time is ground down into a fine powder
As if it is trying to become the thing that marks its passing
If we could bottle time, I think the universe would have enough of a sense of humor
To make the bottle an hourglass


Climbing tall things makes you powerful
Here, they blame it on the Vortexes
The local translation of guide-book enticement is gruff and solid and spat out like the chewing tobacco it is shot through
This valley’ll either **** ya in’r spit ya out, but one thing’s fer certain, it won’t do it gentle


When the rain comes in its flooding frustration
I would like to tell it that the ground does not accept what it is not accustomed to
I would like to tell myself the same thing
And would, if I could be swept away as easily


The roads are strong
Still they crumble away at the edges to blend in with the dirt
So do the people
People you know
become people you knew
When your conversations grow punctuation marks


Whoever made this desert knew that some people like leftovers
And mystery meatloaf Mondays
They knew how to sell minimalism in a junkyard
Extending ten fingers beyond old motels and rocking chair cigars
To nudge the shoulder of the Lord with a whisper
Hold me like Shiva and sweet release


I will be the one spat out by this desert
I will arrive spinning like a waterslide cannonball
Into two-sided evolutionary discussions and
Yes, please, make that latte soy
No pamphlets at my doorstep
And a population who is okay with naked mountains and empty skies
Like I am


Maybe that means I’m irrational,
Condemned to questions without answers
But **** it, being lost is preferable
To being found by everyone but yourself

i wish my words could reach you
because maybe then
you would open your eyes
and see
that you deserve every compliment you get,
and that you are a product of the gods;
that the sun's gentle kisses have seeped into your bones,
and that stardust is in your veins;
that your blood is divine and oceanborn,
and that your skin is the sand of that very same ocean;
that your eyes are vortexes of mystery and desire,
and that your smile is the planets aligning;
that your mind is a beautiful enigma;
and that you are simply
miraculous.

but i don't think my words reach you,
and, honestly,
i'm not sure they ever will.

but in the meantime,
just remember that your skin is the sand,
and that the blood of the ocean doesn't deserve to be spilled.

just remember that your eyes are vortexes,
and that they don't deserve the tears that so often fill them.

and,
if you will,
just remember that i love you.

(a.m.)

like some jealous future self,
my writer's clock balks at this moment with you,
i can't explain, so i give up listening. (i have an app for that)

the writing only stops as degustation ends ~
thank you, though ~ i'd like you to hear
regardless of the meanings lent ~
the gymnolexical fear
appearing ornamental far and near.

google files us away, omniscient
acumen of o's and ones ~
words sing to me their luring promise of a lasting hold,
but less and less
as plastic griming fingers sync
with what it seems to be,
a new world search-
-engine culling info freely
do i still    believe    in order?
striving for the fitted words,
a love imprinted input thus on crystal pixel page,
your effect on me distilled--
refracted throng associational
fantastic server metacomfort
for an audience
                     swimming past into this,
now always
ever-new you appear, bursting
at the seams my vision churning
...effluent sourcing, blurry self of others ~
heart-charming river-nymphs!
bolt-hurling sky-satyrs! reeling nations are subtended by your words
that walk, trod, swim across what poetry,
dance with this ever-blooming techne-earth
as i mark your plasmic eyes
we flow and let flow,
we dance our farmer's mud
into the beryl-winding paths
of othernets and cyberplay,
the restful ends reborn bright white
lacing lattice-scopic fibrous
scatters of another wi-fi interlife ~
we stream and let stream,
river-tress girl, your eyes summon
a great coalescence in me,
we dance into the channeled
delta of spring beauty here across the keyboard;
it cascades a slow attentive phosphene
striking pointed notes of color,
ring beneath and through the
green, sylvan silicon throw of mossy html
so that even rocks and sprawling
tree-trunks sing within the disembodied
vortexes of arrowed imagery to browse
my virtual belongings to you,
alone in your sorrow-joy fighting
free love in an all-world-breath
before the screen

It’s February, 2015, a Saturday and here I ‘yam.
Back in sunny California again:
The sun shining brightly again
On My Old Hemetucky Home,
Another mutant Stephen Foster tune.
Hemet: Riverside County,
Southern California,
The so-called Inland Empire,
According to the hyperbolic parlance,
Of sharkskin-suited land speculators,
Truly, the last of the
Patent medicine, liniments &
Snake oil hucksters.
Hemet: little oversight & lax policing
Yield a thriving, local
Medical-marijuana industry.
You are comfortably tucked . . .  
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(THAT’S RIGHT, *******: A ******* COMMERCIAL RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ******* POEM!  GIUSEPPI MARTINO BUONAIUTO--SURELY NOBODY”S FOOL—FINALLY FIGURING OUT HOW TO MAKE POETRY PAY, THEREFORE AVOIDING THE DIED-IN-THE-GUTTER BIT.)
You are safely tucked behind the impenetrable
(www.tucks.com)
Wackenhut G4S Security-
(www.wackenhut.com)
Policed & Patrolled walls,
Of your typical over-55 gated lunatic asylum.
“For Active Adults,” reads the sign,
Whatever that means.
I’ve been thinking about the adventurous young.
What is it these bright,
Wander-lusting whippersnappers
Fixate and obsess about.
Like dropping out & coasting for a while.
Dropping out & coasting:
Not as easy to pull off for 20-somethings these days,
As it was in the late sixties/early seventies,
Flush times for Guns & Butter.
Where is it cheap to live?
Where on . . .
“This blessed plot, this earth,
This realm, this England . . .”
Where on this ozone-depleted,
Global fondue fungus ***,
Can I go to just sit still?
To think:  to make sense of it all?
It’s leisure, Kemosabe.
Leisure cultivates philosophy.
LEISURE:
The very stuff of curiosity and
REACH—
As in: “One’s grasp should exceed one’s reach”—
Idleness leads us,
Gifts us with understanding &
Self-awareness.
You are 21 again, and restless.
You are unwilling to just settle in.
So, where do you go?
Where can you live on savings?
To not work,
But not go hungry?
To just sit still,
Contemplating the state of the wicket,
Be it wicked or sticky.
Today it’s Prague and Berlin—
Or, for the truly decadent: Bangkok.
For us it was Florence or Paris—
Or, for the truly frugal,
Driving our cars to Mecca: Montreal,
"La Métropole du Québec"
Sanctified are the places we’ve chilled.
Shrines & vortexes; each holy latitude,
As Han Solo drolly reminds us:
“It’s not the years; it’s the miles.”
The amount of ground covered,
A blessing devoutly to be wished in Old Age:
But I digress.
Just the thought of hanging out
Some place really cool,
Yet relatively inexpensive--
In a parlance acquired
Over the years and the miles,
Tactfulness learned,
Manipulating the language
For fun & profit.
Common sense is aged in the barrel
And the bottle, rephrased.
Vernacular Viniculture.
Which proves my point:
If you live long enough &
Read enough of the right stuff,
Eventually you’ll discover
A precise, more exact vocabulary,
Appropriate for Old Age inner monolog.
Would Old Age be tedious?
Boring, for those who
Never went anywhere?
Both physically & spiritually speaking.
Are memories our only revenge on Old Age?
And for those hiding behind the barriers,
Safe. Ignorant. Jolly. Dull.
A fast track toward senility &
Evanescence.
Does Alzheimer’s seek out & destroy the
Most cloistered among us?
While those bold & beautiful,
Experienced, still spinning,
Still weaving a tapestry in 3-D Technicolor.
Remembrances of things past . . .
(Get back in your hole, Marcel . . .)
And as the AARP crowd knows so well:
We Baby Boomers really had it pretty soft.
Boom economics,
Conspicuous consumption,
Coonskin hats, Betsy Wetsies & Hula Hoops!
By and large:
FUN TIMES!
No Great Depression,
No chocolate rationing.
A jungle war pretty much optional,
For most of us of the
American bourgeoisie.
We’ve got a lot to remember.
We’ve much to be grateful for.
Electronic media changed everything for us.
Television and movie theaters gave us
Alternative dimensions,
Parallel lives,
Multiple identities.
Experience so real that
To see it on the screen
Was to live it, oneself.
Perhaps those video downloads
Might prove useful one day.
Comforts out on Golden Pond.
Will you still need me?
Will you still feed me?
When I'm sixty-four?
Grazie, Sir Paulie.

All is well except
That the wall is made
Of perspex, transparent
And her wings hit against it without
Making any sound
While
The rift she treasures on her sternum is
Cicatrizing under the sun at seven o’clock
In the morning, while
The smell of flowers is piercing through the path of cold and
The smell of ***, the memory of the stolen candle, twenty
Meters running under the pouring rain, inside
My ears, the city is swimming in
The dark
And it’s ours.
Dismantled.
It hurts.
The taste of the broken tooth, the
Badly stitched dream, and no need to say it:
the waiting.
While the hand is pushing, the shouts
Are drawing strange vortexes
Under the hair and
The air continuously recycled
Is ingesting
Massive amounts of
Darkness
As
You advance
Defying the butterflies
Adjusting your heel
From time to time.

Beautiful soul
The carrier of hardships

You are the spawn
Of proud ancestry

The source of awe
The muse for my desire

Your dark skin
Is my heart's awakening

Yet you are not for me

You are not for me

You are not for me

Distance remains a consistent
Impediment to my sacrilege
Travesty of a face of empathy
Sadly I'm less than eyes can see

Yet more beneath is left to greet
My ears hear psalms mourning me
Tears leak upon my pale cheeks
Speeches are given casually

Venom spews through the loose
Vortexes of speaker-box booths
The black hole that once controlled
My inner intuitions and sold soul

The owner being you in truth
Sweetly scented lullabies shoo
Away doubtful tunes in bloom
The replacements are couth sleuths

Meetings seldom meet fruition
Meat meets my mouth in suspicion
Meaning I'm once again a victim
Meandering through prisms

Restaurant owners are slower
To greet me at the doorway
Knowing fulfillment of my order
Won't require a table for more

Not for the kind of man who
Stands and is hardly understood
Also seemingly oblivious to who
Is true and reluctant to face proof

That you are not for me

You are not for me

You are not for me

Beautiful girl
You are the grains

Beautiful girlfriend  
You are the coastline

Beautiful woman
You are the ocean

Beautiful wife
You are the Earth in whole  

Yet you are not for me

You are not for me

You are not for me

The tremors
The whispers
The night terrors
The torch bearers
The dark caresser
The static selector
The burnt dresser
The hell blesser

The black lipstick wearer

You are for me.

awakening autumn air
absorbed with thrown caution
a penchant for yawning leaves
an affinity for desiccated hearts

stirring lakeside willows
whisking emotions away
wafting feminine fragrance
in walking women's wakes

moving to its own designs
gusting in pursuit of change
swirling clouds of romantic disarray
into dizzying vortexes of possibility

expanding the bellows of intimacy
lovesmith for glowing molten souls
passionately ignited, vulnerably cooled
forging bonds, tempering existence

We fall hunting for laurels,
shredding

       our purple bruises
       into rose hips.

Our silversmith rings lose their fingers,
cracked irreparable.

       Our lives of lavish luxury
       lives as lapis lazuli.

The banks of the Ipswich
call out:

       silhouettes behind birch bark.
       Remember

how we used to swim
her waters;

       tread her auric ebb?
       We aim at deer, at ripening

persimmons. They chew
the fruit pretty.

       We aim at killdeer.
       Kiss a wasp.

We were dead fireworks
under Laniakea eyes.

       As midnight, we are
       films noir:

we imagine *******
Lauren Bacall from behind,

       speaking and kissing in tongues,
       her mouth tasting

of unfiltered smoke,
breathing the snow

       melting
       down her rose hips.

We stuff the stuff of nightmares
into a cardboard box.

       We howl at solar winds and polar vortexes.
       We are a vesica; both/and.

We fall hunting for laurels,
adolescent pulsars with persimmon eyes.

Actions speak louder than words
So let me show you i love you
instead of tell you.

Let me kiss those perfect pastel pink lips
Let me slide my hands down over those beautiful hips
And pull you in closer.

Let me softly trace the back of your spine
Let me show you just how badly
I want you to be mine.

Let me take you out of your comfort zone
And colour you in shades you never even new existed
Let me bring you alive
Show you the life, you never new you could have.

Let me caress those gorgeously proportioned thighs
wipe away tears from those enticing vortexes, you call eyes
That lure me in,
Like a bird of prey,
You can have your way with me.

Let me hush away your fears
into a little black box
to which only i have the key
and i promise to keep it locked.

Let me take you to the mirror,
and give you my eyes
so you could appreciate and realise just how beautiful you really are

Let me undress those scars with tender loving hands
Let me fulfil all your wants and demands.
Let me be your ear, whenever you need someone to listen
Don't be ashamed of those battle wounds, I will never be ashamed of you or the marks you bear.
We'll take them out into the moonlight
And watch as they glisten there.
Ill take you to the horizon and you can stand on the beach
Anything you want, let me show you is within your reach.
With your feet just touching shore
You let me know
If you ever want more.
Let us wash away your insecurities in  me, in a sea of love, laughter and late night phone calls.
Let me show you, that you deserve it all
And more.

Let me hold your hand whenever you feel as though your falling
Let me be the voice that guides you home, when you're calling.

Let me show you that i love you
that no pair were made as exclusively for each other
As me and you.

I stalk through the dark hallways
Drifting through remnants of a sun.
Spirals into vortexes, cascading shafts of light on
Brief transits inward, where time falters.
Forces push & pull and all around
The tide of the cosmos envelopes me,
Wading through the static sea
Waves come in crashing-
Laughter, screams
And yet, no sound escapes the vacuum

Her eyes are black holes.
swirling vortexes of emptiness,
capturing everything in their path.

Her smile is a comet.
beautiful and inviting from afar,
yet terrifying up close.

Her words a supernova.
mystifying and awe inspiring,
capable of causing so much pain.

Her emotions, solar flares.
fleeting yet intense,
unpredictable and inexplicable.

She is the universe.
vast and incomprehensible.

I am the heavens.
bringing love and light.

...if only she believed in me.

We are nothing but the interweaving of bleak and hopeful threads that we fasten around a branch to hang the ones we love and cut free the ones we loathe, so they may prosper and thrive from our anguish. Never focusing on others, we are inaudible to their cries in the dark stations that we possess as they morph into cavernous cancer vortexes that absorb their happiness into our misery. There is no reward at the end, there is only the validation of endurance and the uncertainty of purpose. We are loveless quasi-predators that want to be mistaken as selfless and proven important.

I feel the changes.
They’re scary but I’m keeping calm.
Panic is good for no one.
Life is exhilarating.
You have to move with it, not against.
The hard part is figuring out which way you’re going.
But it doesn’t matter; we’re going wherever the hell we’re going,
so you’d better pay attention to the ride.

You mustn’t fight your unique way of life.
It is yours and you chose it for a reason.
Accept that you are exactly where you’re supposed to be.
All is well in the universe.
Suffering is the struggle to accept change.
Accept change with an easy laugh and the suffering goes away.
The synchronicity of life is part of the joy of shared existence.
It proves to us daily that solipsism is but a selfish naiveté.
We have never been alone, even in the depths of our loneliest nights.

True, we feel apart,
but it’s merely an illusion,
the sleight of distraction
spurned by our need
to generate income, which feeds
our fears & desires,
coddled & enflamed
by a fierce media
creating dreams
for others to buy or believe in
but hopefully both
because then
the machine
churns
faster.

No blame.
Forgive, then remember.

We’ve a break, a recession or depression,
or whatever session you want to call it,
it’s reality — you get what you pay for.
You make an honest living or invite problems down the line.
A problem is still a problem even if you postpone it.
They don’t just disappear; you fix them.

Each problem is unique in structure,
the way it weighs upon you,
the ins & outs of unknown routes
& dark “what ifs” that persist like cysts
in the back of your mind, little vortexes
spinning wildly about, ******* us in
when we get lazy & distracted.

But it’s not all hard, not all the time.
Some problems are like puzzles that are fun to solve,
which may be why we have so many lying about.
The problem is that instead of solving puzzles
we should be loving each other.

Unconditional love isn’t easy, but that’s part of the work.
Some say no good deed goes unpunished.
That’s part of the work too.
Invite the life you love,
not the one you hate.
Every choice you make in life
carries the balance of this weight.

Walking around amsterdam airport with a bag smelling like tea tree oil a flight, a bus , a coach and a 25 min walk to go  ---

but for now,
I'm standing in the wrong line.

                                                          ­                       Twice.

He calls me out in 53 seconds bursts/
Stinging laughing tears trickle jump ooze --

It was only a matter of time until he would see this deeply,

only I didn't think it would feel so much like
questioning what it is I actually want from my actions and why I'm destroying so much to get there.

Or finally knowing that my self consciousness manifests as a narcissistic, heavy missile on the other side of existence.

Or that I'd be thanking him, even through this blurred pain in my chest.

That I would push away just to feel that tidal pull of love's metaphysical gravity spool and spin , turning vortexes, drawing me back to him as the worlds we built burn , rendered to fragrant ashes.

Some where else
it feels different,
lighter...

In the world behind my eyes
landscape weather systems....

swierall /
cloaouudss! We are playing
despite the uncertainty
still,
life lives her vibrant hues through me.
watchu playin at fool !!
Dance where the music is , let her 10pm sunset strokes caress you to sleep.

My centre's essence clear water sustenance
ready to flow through these charred veins,

giving myself over to mystery,

you are further away then you've been             still
geographically I'm the closest I've been to you since last.

board the plane

love rushing forth for the angered tiredness from your voice  runs rings round my mind,        
                             prompts me
          I'm praying now, in ernest, to Great Spirit that I may have the humility and strength, humor and vision in this becoming....

time is shushing me now,
                                                     give yourselves the healing space, she croons as I sleep sailing through the atmospheric ocean.

How does one measure the value of a poem?
Is it in the amount of letters, or metaphors, or analogies?
Is it the underlying meaning of the poem?
Is a poem relating to Plato better than a poem of love?
Is it not in how it makes us feel?
How can we 'Grade' a poem, when a poem isn't meant to be graded?
Poems are simply meant to be felt.
Is this poem worthier than any other I've written?
How can I know? And why does worth matter?
Isn't worth relative? What is relative, what isn't relative?
Is poetry even relative?
What of me makes myself relative?
What makes me relevant?
Then, what makes my poems less relevant than one another,
when I'm not even sure any of us are relevant at all?
What makes this all worthwhile? What is our end-goal?
Nothingness, empty vortexes of desolate hopelessness:
Therefore, why must we justify writing, when we can't even justify living?

Bathtub overflowing
Spilling
Spitting
Spinning
Giant vortexes
Consuming the bathroom
Where a single candle burns,
Where a single candle is put out.
Where the rubber ducky floats
But then sinks.
Nothing stays afloat forever.

the ideals of chemistry say that
the spaces between particles are
negligible.

the crinkles, vortexes are nothing,
distance between skin and hands,
insignificant.

the matter doesn't matter, yet
i feel the chasms growing wider,
gaping.

we are both naïve
but only i detect our ground
splitting.