free the reams
the seams teem

eyes within eyes

a whole life in
"wait, ok. Wait.... Ok....
wait
ok"

this is a collaborative
the paint runs freely
I won't tell you what to say

I'll bring you my fruition
of the fermentation
of the pulling apart
the space between
gossamer webs
intertwined

Drops of dew on a spider's web
the slopes of mountains
the curl of waves
ocean, sound, light
petals
flowers unfurling
it's alright
let yours roll into mine

Your voice is an echo
You know you've been here before
Turn around
and draw circles in the ground
surround

I'll hold you as long as you feel
release the speech
no need of thee
I don't want to see
turn out the lights
I don't want to hear
turn out the lights

And then we are the sea
and the back and forth
underneath
is we

let us let us go

They told me I wasn't needed, so I left
breeze past closed doors, collar up
Into what was waiting.

The day fresh with light
like a wine glass beside candle's flame
still the sky kept out of sight,
looking at the ground.

Burning sensations like hunger
and my car still doesn't go in reverse
look both ways
and roll.

Accelerating still
again and again
I'm going home
after this.
no, after this..

Welcomes, blessings.
Tea is enjoyed.
Burning sensations...

Televisions always get the best of me,
i'm glad we went into the mountain.

Wine glass light
and the stones were waiting
when we came around that bend
to discover the flat tire that fixed itself where air used to be.

I was glad
and I think so was the child
the rock that popped the tire sparkled in the sun
and there was love in the cold

The man that came to the rescue wore a beard
and a zip up jump suit
grey.
Life spilling into red rimmed eyes
with a wrench.

Welcomes. Blessings.

His home sat on top of the hill like the lightest of stones.
The rain had pulled the roots through the earth
and showed trees how they were related.
It was a mess of natural.
Correctly out of place.

Tempered by elements
people and places
looking at looking is true seeing
mirrors in juxtapose breathe deep.
The view was there along with it
and then we were inside.

And then we were outside
but it was death dancing in it.

Destruction then!
Almighty chaos!
how serene we might seem from afar,
and we are,
but here, under the skin,
Burning Sensations!
and again going home.
and again finding it somewhere you hadn't left it.
And I was here the whole time.

Your breath will catch you.

watching smoke trails twist with the effect of my breath
as it gropes with the hopes tested by bass clefts
until it's there in the air destined never to rest
pumping like my chest
bumping with the best
it will rest in your hair and become a crest
there will never be more
nor ever will there be less
I saw your eyes through a door
and I have to confess
that fire flies could never compare
the fire cries
it will always be there
the fire cries
it will always be there

again void of sleep,
carried over parallel lines
by blues.
Our names are engraved in our
neighbor's guitar.
The Korean man likes ecstacy,
and we all love music
and food
and ***.
Just like our parents.
We pass a thousand sunflowers at their day jobs.
These hills remind me of home
and food
and ***.

Death saw my progress and smiled.
I try not to shape the darkness behind my eyes, but sometimes those pearly whites
Like tombstones shine under moonlight.

I remember the young dog on the road.
He wasn’t strong enough to support our convenience
And his weakness leaked from his mouth and nose
Adding a savory flare to the grey gravel road.
He was burried under an apple tree
And my tears were taken aback
When I looked up to see
Death
Smiling in an apple blossom.

The sorcerer scrtaches his head when his attempts at necromancy sprout roses from the skulls of skeletal corpses. Sometimes success is not as envisioned.

Pull back the curtains
so that the light might mingle with the
dust
Let it soak this room
Ghosts lay strewn
through its matrix
under white sheets of seconds.
Tangled elsewhere cries a man
who dreams in shapes and color
and wakes to darkness
and the comfortable throb
of his phallis
But it is his heart that beats
His tears are made of
illusions
Covered in white sheets of seconds.

I wasn't lying when I said you took my breath away.

It was beautiful till I turned blue,

but guess what! (i'll tell you)

I found it today.

It wasn't hiding, it had just gotten smaller.

It shied away from my hand when I reached for it

in the haste held by a man who realizes

he's dying every day.

Like the last tree in a mechanical day dream

it coughed at the presence of the past.

You, the very one who shooed it away from my form,

you whos heart beat was too loud to lift up

anything but my ecstasy,

told me to be patient.

You helped me find my breath again.

Magic is the unseen.
Magic is Schrodinger's cat.
(or us from the point of view of the cat.)
Magic is the tree in the forest
felled out of earshot.
Magic is the face that everyone makes
when you're not looking.
Magic is peripheral evolution;
the way water boils faster
under the patience of a turned back.
Magic is where the colors go when the sun goes down.
If science is observation,
and art is application,
than magic is both neither and both,
and neither both nor neither.
Magic is the "I don't know."
when someone asks who you are
and all you can think of is your name.
In this way, magic is in everything,
and in some way
we are pieces of everything.
Don't remember to forget,
and next time someone inquires to your identity,
know that any answer you can give is correct
because you can give it.

Or not.

alright,
so one day you wake up in the middle of the night,
not for a sound or a light,
but the fright of "not right".

You move your awake to the living room
and hold on to it tight.

With eyes withered wide
you see without sight
in the sun-tipped hours
of empty delight.

"It's not right" says you
to the you you're speaking to
and you're convinced through and through
that the voice is not new.

The sun coming up,
the filling of cups,
tells withered eyes,
to look to the skies,
and in the demise,
on the night's last light,
the day is crowned queen,
by the sun and your sight,
and you sigh away why,
and the fright of "not right"
in the day that you woke in the middle of the night.

Somewhere the sun is rising,
and it's beautiful.
Light let loose
bringing a landscape alive,
uncovering the cradled colors that slept through the night.
A gift of gems.  

You are there
trading breaths with the morning.
The tears on you cheek sing radiant
in the rising fire,
and they lift your chin.

With wet eyes open
you find a world awaiting in a blooming flower,
and with each breath,
still stirring the air,
you fulfill it.

Somewhere the sun is rising
and it's beautiful.

Satori is beyond words,
yet any words with which one may use to describe it are correct;

explain this.

Though I cannot recall exact scenes,
I know oft are you subject of my dreams,
and through my sweet sleep I have seen,
it's not the ends that justify, but the means.

The pyres in our eyes
are the sparks that light the other's.
Like paralleled mirrors
we are infinite.

An Old Master once said,
"Those who know do not speak,
those who speak do not know."
but in creating the duality of
speaking and not speaking
He has ignored the Silence the unites them.

In both speaking and not speaking
resides silence,
from which they both spring.
To be silent is to listen,
but speaking does not negate other sounds.
To be at peace with the silence in
and without yourself
is to understand.

This is the Tao we call wisdom.

But, by defining knowing and not knowing,
one may never understand.

The Old Master was right in that
those who speak cloud the moon
with their pointing fingers,
but failed to recognize that
beyond the clouds,
the moon is still shining.

The light that illuminates the moon
is the same that is cast upon the finger.

Within this light sits darkness in meditation.
Under ones words sigh silence.

This is the Tao we call Void.

Through this Void, the ten-thousand are about themselves,
Stark within their inconsistencies.
I found peace in the ten-thousand things
because it wasn't there.
I found peace in the ten-thousand things
because it wasn't there.
I found anger in the ten-thousand things
because it wasn't there.
I found sorrow in the ten-thousand things
because it wasn't there.
I found joy in the ten-thousand things
because it wasn't there.

This is the Tao we call emotion.

"I've been enlightened!"
"When?" I asked the smiling monk.
"The whole time!" he said.

White is a combination of all colors.
Black is the lack of all colors.
Enlightenment is white because it resides in the ten-thousand things.
Enlightenment is black because, in its residence,
it is not present.
White is not Black
Black is not White
Enlightenment is not Enlightenment.
It is.

the spell is already cast,
but i'll continue nonetheless.

the vines that now die
were once seeds
resting serene in repose of their parents' skeletons.

the ocean and the moon share the same movement.
the circles spun by suns are the same,
and their deaths will be beautiful.

truth is not attained
it is realized

the way is not made
it is traversed

love,
I'm still thinking of a question that doesn't fit
when I should be listening

I've been working
very hard
on expanding my vocabulary
beyond "I'm sorry."
"I don't know."
and the usual gib-gab
that us gibs often gab,
but the more I think about it
the more I find resolve
in the conclusion that
what really needs to be said
is beyond words,
and any representation
of me
on any medium
is only a fragment.

And there,
they're right.
I know why I hate the fact that
I love to look at mirrors.
Keeping my shards to myself.
My fragmented sentences,
I often forget,
can still light fires
in places
other
than here.

Because there exists,
and I'm sorry.

maybe someday I'll give a ****
and write something with substance

or maybe I'll keep the ****
so I can have something in abundance

and maybe I'll quit this ****
as a "*******" to redundance

nah

super novas
seeding flowers
a woman's powers
late night hours
falling towers
jehovah jehovah
these flowers are novas

the cigarette smoke hang in the air like
tropical transpiration.
dancing, dipping, she hung on to him tight.
flight topical sensations
starts rapid elation
to sacred vibrations.

Lovers in a lover's dance.
One in each others trance.
They form a flower of shape and motion,
and raise their smiles
like the sun
in an eastern ocean.

When, like a sudden shadow
with such outdone bravado,
a man sprung from underfoot,
from under carpet and soot,
and began to introduce himself,
his hand a continental shelf,
waiting for a shake from the lover's ocean.

Without attention, his hand slunk back to
it's bright blue breast pocket cave.
"Henry Ennui, man o' soot " he said was his name.
The lover's proclaimed "You're insane."

The words tickled Henry, like water the drain
then he let the lovers look
inside his brain
where the rain was
and the flame does
what it wants underwater

UNDERWATER:
the lovers gasped,
the ash man rasped,
pulled a pistol from his patched pants,
and proceeded to shoot them both.

I'm scared of this world because people can find clarity in delusions
I'm in love with this world because people can find happiness in excuses
In just a grain engrained
In their intestinal brains
I'm scared of people because emotions are illogical
I'm in love with people for the same reason
I'm scared of myself because this is human
I'm in love with myself

spherical tension.
A cord, a wire
For which I have many names
That I can never seem to speak.
That orbital nature of my being, that
For reasons chemical,
Sparks fires of color and creation one moment,
And consumes light the next
In a glorious ecstasy of oblivious self envy.
They are the same moment.
The fire and the light are one.
Where one crystal facet lies in the dirt,
Covered in musk
And shadow,
Another face of the same crystal
Shines blindly
With light,
And reason.
Balanced perfectly.
All beings are orbital.

I've put so much meaning into
colors,
and books,
and those looks.
the wide-eyed conversations
without words;
your consolations
go unheard
because my ear holes are near full
of color.

I haven't been able to write
a sentence that
doesn't stop running
since I dyed my hair blue,
as if they're trying to get away
and I won't let them go,
even though I want to.

"I am," is the shortest
(and my favorite)
sentence in the English language.

I am a sponge,
and a nail,
and condensed water
on the inside of your car.
I am a warm tube
of chap-stick
in your left,
back
pocket.

I'm the green on your pennies.
The seams on your denim.
The way the blanket falls
when you finally decide to go take a shower
on an unusually cold morning.

I'm the power you find
in an old man,
or a cold can
of yellow paint.

I'm the sky above your head
on the day you kept your tongue in
because the rain was too
bitter.

I am a symbol,
no longer nimble.
I am a spark,
afraid of the dark.

you are blue
and I am green
I can't see
no in between

you are the moon
and I am a river
I wanted more
and you were the giver
I wanted life
and you were the liver
nothing is left
except for this sliver
of moonlight reflected
in the rips of the river
and the lips of the giver
were gave to the mute
who lost his voice
at the heel of a boot
digging up dirt
at a distance
and if for some reason
he missed its
kisses
than he'd give the lips back
just for a listen

you are blue
and I am green
I can't see
no in between

When lovers write poetry
he writes it so reckless
says it's to let this
star come out
to smile and not cry
to whisper not shout
to ask how and not why
to shoo away doubt

that's what it's about

When lovers write poetry
she writes with her lips
says it's for this
and for him
and for kiss
and to swim
in abyss
to keep away the dim
by being missed

it's some sort of bliss

I'd like to begin
by pointing out the color of the walls;
the pink under the plaster,
and the tubes,
red and blue,
that keep my shower water warm.

This is my home,
that some call a temple,
with two brightly lit halves of an attic,
and no trouble keeping them full.

Its windows are always open,
except when the lights go out
and the shutters are pulled closed
and all that's left breathing is the fireplace
and the attic.

the fire place is a grand face
of grout and proud brick
cradling the humblest coals
under his black, stuffy nose
clogged with no longer solid logs.
His breath keeps the attic warm,
with the help of the coals,
who ask for no thanks.

I'd invite you in
if it wasn't for the moss on the threshhold.
That emerald green.
Those gems that seem,
with dew, to gleem  
a blue and gold sheen
of umpteen citrines.
The sun's careen is seen by these
green finger leaves.

When I turn out the lights
and retreat to the attic,
I hear the moss sigh
like some sort of static.
Her breath reaches the crest
of my gentle home's breast.
The ceiling beam shudder
with a reeling like no other;
A sound that makes me cry,
while my cluttered attic comforts me,
and I speak no word but why.

The moss,
she makes me cry.

I'd like to end
by pointing out the color of the windowpanes,
and the gray of the drywall.
The tubes,
red and blue,
still keep my shower water warm.

This is my home,
that some call a temple,
with two brightly lit halves of an attic,
and no trouble keeping them full.

Its windows are rarely open,
except when the lights go out
and the shutters flutter open
and all that's left breathing is the fireplace
and the attic,
and the colors.

Sometimes I scream
****!!!
at the clouds...

and you never seem to hear me
until they release it
in a thousand
wet
whispers

Open up your mouth.
let it out with a shout.
so we know what it's about.
so that we won't have a doubt.
that you've found your rout.
tell yourself that it's necessary
so that you can
sprout.


open your mouth.
let it all out
so we won't have a doubt
what you're about.

maybe your doubts
wouldn't be so loud,
if your mouth
wasn't so proud.

light go down
head turn around
(but ours)
then starts the sound...

i'll trade you this brain space
for your head case.
i like your purple
more than mine,
and in this place
i'm sure you'll find,
my greens are seen,
and the wine is fine.

*******,
have you ever seen a mirror?
i'd love um if I were you.
*******!
you're eye contact is ;
extraterrestrial .

see? I can be fake too.

ah **** honey, it was...
i mean...
can't you take a joke?

i'm sorry..

****...

now she's gone.

and I hate popcorn.

I need to stop talking with my eyes.

I say too much.

What a ****** movie...

at least it's still 4 o'clock.

Sun's still out.



******* popcorn.

you get mad at me often
because we don't speak the same language
or because as much as i listen to your
boy-hood fantasies
i still only here the voice of someone
scared
to just be a woman.
It's difficult for someone
who just wants to be a man.

you call me a hypocrite.
walking around with a mirror for a face
while I scream at everything else for having
the same face
or closed-mouth laugh
or the tongue in between her teeth.

you get mad at me because
i tell you to be direct
but i can't never seem to tell you what i mean
by "I love you"
or "I don't know".

As I breathe
the music on my shoulder is  kicking it's legs
and sighing
with bells on its shoes
and freezing cold finger tips

As I listen
the breathe in my head is speaking
in the lowest tones
of the brightest colors
and I keep reminding myself for some reason
that they're just words.

aren't they?

I don't know.

I love you.

Writing turns me into words
Painting makes me color
And I have no voice to be heard
When there's one without the other

Music makes matches of my ears
Striking on sandpaper notes
Voices turn me into tears
Pieces of me thrown from throats

Self-expression is some sort of healing
For the things that we think we're feeling
and when the paint begins its peeling
and your words begin their reeling
that's when you'll know how is why

Sometimes
my sorrow is mine.

I swallow my depths to feel shallow.
I expel myself in liquids
to repel this self from its wicked
and repair my health with this wilted
conscience.

I want to laugh
and then fall silent.
Because happiness is insane
and self-explanatory,
and the only wise words can't be said.

Sometimes
my sorrow is mine,
and sometimes it's yours.
Or theirs,
but it's always served on a silvered platter

so nothing's the matter.

I want to sleep until the moon is full.
To wait with closed eyes for something that's already here.

It's like your sadness.
It looks at me with screaming eyes
under uninterested brows
through black holes.
It scoops crystals under your couch
and doesn't hesitate to tell me
that it's happy to be here.

It presses piano keys with disdain,
beckoning sinuous  sounds of
catharsis.

What is this  
furnace
that burns us?
Why does this
sternness
turns us
worthless?

I want to sleep until the moon is full.
I want to sleep until I get back.
I want to sleep until I've found what's real.
To wait with closed eyes for something that's already here.

You could do with some shut-eye yourself it seems.

I would like to formally apologize,
for turning you into a demon.

All I wanted
was to be sane.

So,
I took what I could.
your taste.
your touch.
your time.
Of course, you kept your body,
no matter how much I wanted it.
No matter how much I had it.

I tried to cover my self
with your fingerprints
so that maybe no one could see
the skin underneath.

I tried to cover my selfishness
with my fingerprints.
tracing confessions of love
on your alabaster back.

The fingerprints are still there.
Populating our clay flesh
and our sky minds.
I'll admit to their beauty,
however tender they may be.

After the end,
you kept yourself,
and I kept
your touch.
your taste.
your tears.
pooling like the puddled palette
of a weeping painter.
running down my spine,
making me cry,
the colors.

I wanted you to feel me,
but my eye are knives
and my fingers flames,
so I strayed from my self
and gave you my mirror-heart
so you could watch yourself walk away.

Now that you're gone
your demon screams for freedom,
but she's kept engaged.
For I'm afraid
that her release
is my destruction.

Slowly,
I can feel her becoming my bones.
Soaking in.
The colors.

I would like to formally thank you,
for being my demon.

Why is it sad
that you don't have a purpose?
What is the true
definition of worthless?

Stop looking
start seeing
Stop doing
start being
Stop searching
start finding
what use is rewinding?

All I ask
is for you to make sure
that you know what you know

The ice in your eyes cracked
when the rain your eyes wracked
fractal fingers reaching rip her iris
when the loud cloud-brow rain whispers "why this?"
it's priceless

The demon that screams in your shower
is lie-less.
The fire inside, some evil power.
Your crisis.
His lips aren't meant to be kissed,
but his screams won't be dismissed.

Ice and fire are of the same stuff.
You tried a taste of this life,
and it's not enough.

Well tough.

there's no reason not to cry
there's no reason not to smile
so why fill your eyes
with the diamonds you despise?
and all the while
the flies are nigh dead
and all the while
the flies are nigh dead
so why hang your head?

the time for bed is here,
but sleep is no where near.
so you look for it in the spaces
between the twists and the twines
of the faces in your mind;
and your spine
you cannot climb
to nestle in the lime-light
when nothing about this time's right.
and you still can't fight your rot with thought.
you guess...
i guess not.

SHUT THE **** UP!
or should I say listen?
is it enough
just to watch the stars glisten?

Turn around.
to see if your shadow's feet are
on the ground.
that mirror made
of a masquerade
to see the change
of this masquerade

Running through the crystal rain
Stunning blues in two full brains
I took an unmarked train
to watch the skyline drain away
i have to say
if yesterday
is here to stay
i'll find a way
to be ok

This time
what was in my mind
left behind to find
after my eyes
were blind from cries
lay resting in depressions
of the body I call mine
this rind too kind
to be pressing in the lesson
i keep testing this thought so fine
my shadow was fined for the sigh that tried to hide
the sad know that the lines are signs that shine
too bright to see inside
and my death that's still hiding there
beats my breath and grows my hair
til what's left is budding bare
bursts like nighttime solar flares
and I don't care about my dispare
because it's me and it's only fair
because it sees what none will dare
because the key was always there
and it's the door that's out of place
i implore that it's not a race
so please take some space
to find your face
to see your grace
in the case left unlocked
just stop

The remnants of last night's nova
lay scattered in tatters on the patterns
of ballroom linoleum.
Flattened bottles and kids
full throttle on people petroleum.
They whisper, "we're full of them
deaths 'guised as holy gems,"
but no one could hear
through the decoding of the exploding star,
the eroding of that foreboding bazaar,
not even the one whispering,
loose lips left ajar.

The remnants of last night's nova;
it began with a beat.
Melody sweet was distorted just to show the
flipped switch kids who retorted just to grow numb,
with ditched brain space aborted just to know dub,
or love the microchips imported just to throw the
blasting bass bubbles of sound
into the ground,
spinning around,
until they come down,
to frown at flowers
powered by the eye of the storm.
Where it's the norm
for their forms
to be torn from their static.

The remnants of last night's nova
was an illness of stillness;
of dripping dead glow sticks
that knows this
fist in your chest clenched tight,
and the sight of last night,
and the fading lights
just show this restlessness
is not the best of this bright.
The love fights muttered
through shutters of others
echoed soft cotton swab colors
in sunrise skies,
and despised eyes,
and reprized "why?s"
to inspire white lies.

The remnants of last night's nova
are gone.

by the way...
I didn't change...

You just got to know me better.

and so did I.

I used to say
what I meant to say,
and it would take your breath away.

Now I don't know
what I mean to say,
but you've no breath left to loose anyway.

too many times
i've found nothing to find
in between the lines
and i've lost my mind

too many times
i've lost my mind
in between the lines
and found nothing to find

I don't see what's wrong with my
addictive personality.
the only thing in life that's
restrictive is morality.
we tally these
burning trees
and build the lees
for holding seas,
pretend the knees
inside of me
aren't shaking at the sight.

the alchemy
of how we be
is clear without a light.

I love blasphemy
because it's bug-eyed.
and it lets you see
more than what you're looking at.

I love irony
because it tastes like blood,
bitter and healing.
They won't know what your feeling,
and you won't either.
It's perfectly horrible.
Ironic, really.

I love guilt.
that person inside
who knows more than you.
the one who glares out through
the gaps in your ribs,
sharing the space your
heart inhabits.

I love the sound of breaking glass.
the "*******!"
gently tinkling off your mistakes
like a bell
reminding you that
beauty breaks
and the shards are sharp.

ten million lines
make up your beautiful face;

they are not your face.

without what's inside,
lines are equivalent to lies;

they are not your face.

the exact same lines
that are in you are in me,

but I am not you.

nobody can know
what isn't already there.

what more can there be?

we are made of lines,
the lines are not made of us;

they are not your face.

You listen to love songs
to make yourself cry;
like a drunk with his finger down his throat
luring the origins of his throes to the surface
and out the way they came.
but it's not the same.
because after the deed is done,
the drunk is left with empty eyes
and bottles.
somewhere to start.
While you're left with a
dripping heart
and not a single space left untouched
by your coal-covered fingers,
still warm,
telling the ice in your eyes
to run down your
dripping heart.

the melancholy snow-melt fills the cavities clawed
by your pulse.
the runoff gaining speed and reasons not to stop;
until the reflection of a smile
freezes your form once more.

The white spots in your eyes wane
as you see the cycle;
but you still don't notice the rain
is just a disciple
of the patterns that be.
Because you haven't listened long enough,
Because those love songs still play
and distract the usual numb,
and because in the furthest reaches of your
solitude
you still feel like you're being watched.

Drugs
are the milk
to a rice crispy bowl brain.
sniff
slurp
bite
burn
snap, crackle, pop.

Do you hear that?

curled in the corner
of your queen sized
mattress

sharing a bed with my conscience
is no easy task.
she always talks in her sleep,
her feet are ice cold,
and she always hogs the covers.
I'm never left enough room
to breathe.

And the paisley pattern on your sheets
only keeps her awake
into the hours
when the ice wakes up;
Stretching its lazy, crystal bones
over the front lawn;
chilling the roof tiles
with a yawn.

curled in the corner
of your queen sized
mattress.
and my conscience,
she's stirring.