What's yours is mine
and mine is yours,
even the contours of the spine
let us align the time we share.
It was never there at all,
and the face with the hands on the wall
knows what never starts
never stops.
tick tock
tick tock
the hearts constant state of shock,
making hour-glass figures of us all.
Watching sand fall,
it's your call.

Rain falls upon my porcelain face
Smooth, earthy, cracked
In my kettle skull to think
Pitter pink, pitter pink

Wind whisking through my sand dune hair
Calm, soft, bright
In my furnace lungs to breathe
Whistle weave, whistle weave

Embers nipping wooden fingers
Soft, gentle, warm
In my mushroom heart to bloom
Babble boom, babble boom

Mountains rise under my stone feet
Strong, elegant, large
In my vapid soul to die
Trickle try, trickle try

Has everyone felt what she felt?
Betrayal,
dragging me behind her
with a noose of
guilt.

Has everyone felt what I feel?
has everyone made a mistake?
the dirt under my nails
laughs at me
"no" it says
"you are imperfect,
evil,
different.
Look and see
your blind eyes,
crying brilliant tears.
Your dumb mouth,
kissing fire,
because it makes you happy."

I know it's right,
the dirt under my fingernails,
and i rarely listen.

my glass accomplice
cups his filthy shinning hands
to hold tonight's crime

as i fill his bowl
with a rusty dancing flame
i stop his screaming

my lips on his mouth
the flame in his head grows bright
smoke spins in my lungs

See before you a silver light.
Liquid motions shape its space,
its time is kept by the beat of hearts,
the pulse that starts beneath your feet:
the Earth, its smell the sound of ocean stones,
holds the throne on which
your ancestors sit, those that let your life.
Their eyes the silver light;
their blood, their hair
this night.
With your breath, with your sight,
the light is drawn into your roots
than shoots to the leaves
and weaves,
shaking
and breaking,
making doorways of sieves,
and though it fades
it never leaves.

It is we.

In summation
I am a tribute.
A sacrifice to the all-beast.
the great vibrational being
with a fractal face,
and fingers,
and feet.
with a frayed tongue
it eats me;
completely.

We are examples
of the persistence
of existence.
All of us flickering like fire,
than rising like smoke,
higher and higher,
breath from the stoke.

No joke, but still funny.
Like bees making honey.
I like my yolks runny,
liquid and lovely,
like motions in space.

It's no race to beat
the all-beast,
feasting its face with its own fingers.
nothing left to waste,
nothing left to linger.

We all have a place,
As the song and the singer.
Haven't you heard?
YOU are the word!

All that you have
give it away
all that you know
thrown into the flay
all that you've been
has been today
all of your silence
has something to say
give it away

We are gifts
to the all-beast
and all of our love,
and all our attention,
is its.
in summation,
it's all we truly have to give.
In summation,
it's all we are.

volcanic ash falling
fast from a cigarette
something in the beat calling
you've felt this I bet
searching for a fleeting fix
but everything is good, set
caught up in a tired mix
you've felt this I bet

There's a string between
our fingers,
there's a string between the walls,
there are strings that reach
beyond the trees
and sing electric calls.

We listen lest we fall.

All waves!
Breaking shape and making
move where once was static.

The way
that we behave in rain
is no less than dramatic.

The thunder through the window,
the lighting through the glass,
that storm the room
and spark the bloom
to witness flame then ash.

There's a string between
our fingers,
there's a string between the walls,
there are strings that reach
beyond the trees
and sing electric calls.

We listen lest we fall.

At first it was white
and that made us happy
the manic unknown

ah, the first few strokes!
fresh life! lush rain!
becoming the wildflower fields
and drawing long, deep breaths
with lungs like the sea

It was YOUR eyes that were the wind
whipping the waves
licking the stone
still white
still manic
and the blue that is your eyes is on fire

like two moons
your gaze lifted the ocean from its repose
and as it bent again
an army of shadows made itself
of the night

and then it was Black
and we were no longer
and there was no movement cast to shore
nor was there still
it was a great yawning
and we slept in the space between
dreamless

now

ahhhh
now

now we wait

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

Here kid, look at this
We took all of those star yonder
And put um right in this little thingymajiger
Quite a sight, ain't it
A'course, we couldn't put the stars back

Oh well

We can whip out some more
Just ask whobewhatie
He's got all the fixin's for stars
A'course
They won't be as bright as before
And there's no guarantee on how long they'll burn
But, well, gee
Just look at that there thingymajiger in your hand and tell me that's not worth allthemoneyinyourpocketsandthensome!

What'd'ya mean y'ain't got no money?
Ah, never mind
Have a good life kid
Sorry about the stars............

THIS
is not
BLISS
is a
SIGN
does not define
so much as a
LINE
does not make a
SHAPE
does not make
MOTION
is not
TIME
so much as
YOU
and
I
make each other.

Let us not persist pointing
lest the moon be hidden by hand shadows.

Do not make a meal out of a map
when your feet long to eat a path.

What base is made broken?
Do doors not start open?

Truth is not a fabric
stitched of FACT,
but an open invitation.

a demon sat
in an idling car
smoking a spliff
and tending a scar
to music like teeth chatter
that hung in the air
like the smoke scattered
in patterns
combing his hair,
and there!
sat delicate on the wreath
was a light that flies
and alights 'pon starry skies
and tries to dismiss
the dust kicked up
by the demons at dawn.

there it sat
in wonder wondering
why the demon
was awake,
still stoking fires
in the early hours,
but with all its powers
it could not divert
the demons heart
from the dirt,

but still it tried,
because the light that flies
is the angel in the demon's eyes.

I once discovered that my brain is abyssal.
A mirror at most, a shadow or crystal.
As I unclenched, I found not a fist full.
Like dismissal, it's blissful.
Like some empty shape
much less than the wastes;
a smooth, silent stillness,
without mean, without make.

An empty fist is still a fist.
I am so
because there is
nothing
inside me.

unraveled again
after clean beast encounters
freshly pressed towels

in the steady stream
          the felled leaves
resting        away

~~~~~

noticing the cold
                       dead fire

~~~~~

opening a shut room
shadows jump!
     candle shivers

~~~~~

firework concussions
sound overhead

~~~~~

the edge of the ocean
looking out at the fog

~~~~~

thru the beer glass
hand gestures   magnified

~~~~~

Grandfather
patting the baby's back
                                   burps

~~~~

singing saw cuts the silence

~~~~~

white Lion's Mane mushroom
tendrils on the knife

~~~~~

flowers in a vase;
reconcile death

we beasts
meeting in streets
weave like streams to the sea

a great happening!
an outward wave of motion
like the expanding chest of a giant
sighs
and stirs the current with gusto,
the turbulence is rapture in ecstasy,
breathing like trees through their leaves,
we beasts,
set free.

creeping uncertainty
as the circle slows
in a yawned moment
or a sneeze.
and the breeze is  
stiff,
fixed with fits of static bits,
until the ellipse is realized,
and the giant sighs,
and the wheel flies!

look to the skies!
the heart is beating!
close now your eyes,
the this is fleeting,
as we beasts,
meeting in streets,
weave like streams to the sea.

I colored my hair
so that I could shout without
opening my mouth

the colors are gone
washed away, except for blue
is that ironic?

the shadow of a pen
held in the hands
of political men
looks like a serpent
more than jury stands
man's power was meant
for more than this
for distant lands
and constant kiss
a love that was sent
that people dismiss
and the men will sign
with serpent pens
the dotted line
to make an end

Sunday in the city,
in the grey and golden morning,
it's still enough to hear the birds
clamor in their rosy waking.

The pillowed bands of cloud,
moved by sunlight,
glow and slide across the sky,
lighted blue.

To wake early in the city,
to be lonely,
everything becomes eerie
and beautiful.

The folks on the bus
staring out
at the passing
abandoned buildings boarded up.

Quiet but for the bus
and the birds chirping
somewhere unseen
in the lattice of leafless trees.

Lava pouring into the sea!
which is you and which is me?
either or we are the steam.
this is how 1 and 1 make 3

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.

grip slipping like a drip from the roof
so aloof to the truth
the feel of skin
the need to puke
that trick licking the ***** held in hands
***** with sand
that night of lighting bright smiles on faces
isn't it grand
the races
and the places you haven't been

that fluke you saw
that wall so tall
i built on stilts
spilled from inside my mind
to the outer confines
you were there
you noticed
i dyed my hair
i wrote this
maybe you'd see
i don't just live for me
i know i can't
candy-coat this
but i wish you could have seen
the way you smiled in that dream
when you saw my imperfections,
all lined up like a collection
of books or toy soldiers,
you looked and your eyes smoldered
then you kissed me
and you said you missed me

it seems
that my dreams
have a sense of humor

but i digress
i confess
i'm a mess
not my best
i need rest

A drunk sits on his throne
His liquor lips let out a moan
“Why, oh why, won’t the past die?
Why won’t I leave me alone?”
He inches towards intoxicating increments,
Icarus's incinerating implement,
pride in his eyes as he flies,
into a sun sinking.
Thinking, “Will the past die?
or must my memory be murdered?”
The bottle at his lips
The finger feeling blade
“I saw a brain cell die.
A beautiful grenade.”
A drunk sits on his throne
His liquor lips let out a moan
“Why, oh why, won’t the past die?
Why won’t I leave me alone?”

On this limited page
I can make no wide sweep of brush stroke
no blush of color
to show my heart.

No swing of my arm can influence your understanding of this poem.

Where, in a painting, you may see may
anger pouring red with movement
or joyous bubbles blue and yellow
floating here and        there
(from a physical reality manifest)
((the great symbolscape))
in these words are only
logic
and what you have learned
puzzle-pieced and put in this box
for your own construction.

Still,
in these words is all I may ever feel,
and though you may not have the faculty of
direct exploration
into my body-mind thru them,
their depth reaches beyond the containment
of any canvas.

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

I sway outside a wrecked poet's window
daily I see his mind raked
by fingers of clawing creation
I know his smiles are faked

My fractal arms forever aloft
my waiting blossoms and leaves
see his progress on falling apart
a soul strained through so many sieves

Changing seasons, personal treason
troubled the poet till May
when the spring brought his desired muse
as I am sorry to say

This story's been sung time and again
through mine own branches told
if you hark unto the sweet spring air
you'll see it yourself unfold

When all you see are shadows
the source of light is right behind you.

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.

****** wine is sand slipping through fingers.
with so much space, deserts are never empty.

silence is ****,
naked sound,
like raw flesh stretched over
thousands of switches.

modus operandi released
and the light bulbs are breaking,

now we will see if stars still shine.

I caress the stone upon which I lie as a faithful lover
and seeping warmth from above sun, balanced atop blue sky cover
I hear the violent river gently light upon the stone
as I sit upon earths sculpture as a natural throne
tiny tributaries trickle slowly forming elegant art
as light fairies dance from water where graceful minnows dart
and as I sit upon my throne, as one who rules supreme
my eyes and ears absorb all that is beautiful and serene
the water flows supporting life and softening the earth
while to happiness, joy and peace, it gives selfless birth
so if you wonder upon this land of the continuous giver
remember this land, remember it well, this magic in the river

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 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.

Venus is beautiful this time of year,
with the autumns approach and the sun's receding,
the cricket sounds sweeping the grass like wind.

In the light of this season,
magnificent evening,
Venus is shining.

the whites of her eyes weren't bright last night
more dyed, like a smoker's tooth brush
chyme coming up, cheap *****, 7-up
after we felt lush, trying not to move much
so as not to wake her
so as not to shake her from a slumber
just to, in a haze, lumber encumbered
towards her days numbered
so i'll just lie there until her sky eyes open
i'll lie there until her sky eyes open
lie there until her sky eyes open
until her sky eyes open

there's not a word original
when the eyes are starting to dull
on the lips of beatniks that pull
their inspiration from the lull
in their mind's eye
when blue skies fly
above the lie
i told you
just to hold you
a while longer
it made me stronger

Haiku:


#9

Crowning the moon in rainbows,
The clouds

#10

Warm Febuary
Finally Rain
Sidewalk Salamanders

#11

Rainwater
Gathering
Underground

#12

A lonely wind
is keeping the door open

#13

soft
the morning light
birdsong

#14

new moon pinetrees
waiting for the
              wind

#15

Last night's fire
Dying
Under the sun


Senryū:


#11

Watching the rain
Waiting for a poem

#12

Reading to stay awake
Falling asleep
with the light on

#13

Rooster at dawn
Rising
to **** him

#14

outside
the city sounds
inside listening

#15

Breath
Following Breath
Following

#16

a quiet drum
the children sleeping

#17

step after step
we will rest
but not yet

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

explain this.

There is a desire within me,
a rich burning spur
which in my side
is planted.

Reaching, steady, patient,
weaving like vines for sunlight,
its heat,
the moon.

Roots,
cold and beckoning,
dip the cosmic water
and break space with a
word.

Sparks stir
in the dark,
kin with stars,
Icarus ash vanishing.

I am that ash,
that shell cast
and waiting for a casket.

A wicker man
with map hands
holding a coal heart
in a flower petal basket.

It's tragic..
but laugh!
We need the wheat,
but there's magic
in the chaff.

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.

long awkward stones
embraced by warmth and red
crowned by two imploding sapphires
often walks into the scenes of my dreams
through the seams splitting
pried from my mind by the fingers
of my idle time

I call it she
and it knows
what evolution has done to me
how those green hands of change
lend her the ability to be seen
in my dreams
and that sapphire-eyed ghost
that i call she when i'm not around her
is becoming
more and more
its own entity

i want to pull all my hair
away from myself
i want to be
alone
i want to stop
lying
and she's still trying
to go to sleep
and i'm still trying
to wake up