The roots' reaching efforts, remind me of children. Attractions of my own bear similar fruit.
When a single note is played, somewhere a song responds.
And so the children continue to sprout and my own mind's seeds are past flowers.
Hanging ripe in the light of a sun of ours.
I know you know me, but please don't close your eyes.
The best pillow I've had, is the warmth of your thighs.
My favorite sin is that little white lie,
that makes me laugh when I look in your eyes.
My emotions hinged like a door in the weather.
It's the things you don't see that keep it together.
Not your lover's lament or your daddy's old leather.
The way that you feel when you follow a feather.
Simply there in the hair of a sun of ours.

Our woodlands have shared a similar hillside.
Together we have seen many seasons turn to the next.
We will surely see many more turn the same.

May our growing together always bear the sweetest fruit of peace
and love.
May the seeds of those fruits be scattered
on every ***** of our mountain,
and whisked by the river to distant meadows.
May we as family watch them sprout and bud,
and may the future forests be scented by their flowers,
falling in the autumn and swept to the sea.

He and She,
a cute looking couplet.

I wonder why they were
divided in the first place.

I wonder if this is a cycle;
If he, with time, is me once more.

I don't want to traverse circles
because the curves are so curious and,

The cat is dead,
and in my dreams he's screaming.

Why can't I write without wondering
why she's a bird, and to where she's flown?

The old man murderer
with his own young face crying behind him.

what is relevance?

blue like enamel cups
unbroken sky
dry cold
flecked in snowflake
from no cloud

feeling the weather
patterns shifting
stretched skin
flexed flesh
over no bones

the marrow is the changing

the days passing
and laughing at calendars
no malice
like a grandmother
teasing
the child of her child
teaching

the trash picked up from the street
the newspaper not
three days old
left behind
in cold
dry

with death and ***
I am obsessed

the lift of chest
the wait for rest,
the motion between
the trough and the crest

I've got the shades down
and the panes up off the sill
so i can hear the rain sounds
without the wind chill,
yet still
i feel like granite,
and i can't stand it
to wait for my decay,
to wait for the day
that the stone to the water
gives way,

so I guess i'll sit.

The map is not the territory.
The menu is not the meal.
Cognitively, we dwell in a symbol-scape
and easily mistake
the signpost for the path.
Spiritual and New Age medias
offer signposts,
but,
if one enshrines the sign,
it can make captive the one wishing to walk the path.
Leaving the seeker abandoned of their journey for a
golden calf.

Really, all teachings are distractions from the Truth.
Science and Spirituality are methods of inquiry
and, surely, have little
or nothing
to do with watching videos on the internet.

two sided things
are lines,
and the ones on your face
have been crossed
again and again
by my fingers;
by your tears.

i'm still so sorry.

Movement;
and the lines are loose
no longer lines,
instead defined by shades
and the ways you move
in the light.
together we saw the day
and closed our eyes at night.

embracing the shadows
is another way to release.
my vehicle doesn't run;
anymore;
any less.

Are we so pulled by destiny?
As a child by a kite,
the movement of grass following.

Is there someone waiting
who knows our face from photographs,
candid, taken from our smiles and given to
someone waiting.
Familiar to them;
to us it's all the same.

Is it that makes the walk worth while?
Are we so drawn to our destinations?

or perhaps is there an eddy
like water made smoke
pulling us by the throat
without the choke
our breath a note
hummed from away
elsewherewestay

Give me today
and I will stay.

There's a woman inside of me
that feels the things I cannot.

I know this because,
one day,
I felt her screaming.
Shaking the ceiling beams
of my body.

Then I listened.
I could hear her weeping
when she thought I was asleep,
and her tears stained my pillow.

I've never seen her.
Her self is forever covered
by the confines of my own soul.

I wish to set her free
but  my voice hurts her ears
too much to ask how.

Sometimes,
when I hear you laugh,
I can almost pick out a familiar bell,
one note familiar, in that chord
from your throat.

I imagine her face to be yours,
but I guess I won't know
until I learn to speak softly.

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

You just got to know me better.

and so did I.

Under patient birds and sun ray,
the cicadas,
drunk from seventeen years sleep,
woke slow today.

They rose from below the loam,
from homes chosen
so,
so
many insect years ago.

Red eyed crawling of beautiful song,
is to love
what you've learned
in waiting so long?

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.

We're making maps out of landscapes

Experiential, Experimental. feeling, being, heart and mental

Not to be seeking,
and so not to be finding,
suffering in pain
~is~
Some sort of
passive *******
~is~
Middle ways walked,
horizons stalked,
endlessly into the distance.

Smoke Smiles,
No Resistance,

Heart beating blood,
Flesh cradle stone,
Aloof to the sounds,
You hear when alone.
Inside of me there is entombed,
A part of me that is assumed,
To be dead until exhumed,
Until the final flower’s bloomed,
Inside of me there is entombed,
A part of me that is assumed,
To be dead until exhumed,
Until the final flower’s bloomed;
How do I hide from myself?
How frequent must my visits be?
to something other than me?
What weeping part put on shelf?

palpable tension
in the bank
tellers rolling eyes
and rank and file
of stinking
value
pilled high

the sighing why?
and a mile of road before us

getting to the point
is a round about way
of feeling something

If I were Brahma
I'd have my lungs
on the outside of my skin,
and while everyone was breathing out
I'd be breathing in.

While everyone was breathing in
the reverse is also so,
but no one knows
which way the flow
(through trunk
through branch
through stem),
whether they are breathing I
or I am breathing them.

Do not curse your demons,
they've more practice there than you,
and the most that it could do
is make you a demon too.

no matter how harsh my shush
my eyes still shout
"look at us!"
to passersby

no matter how loud my love
my lips still open
without sound
when I'm alone

no matter how strong my self
my teeth still clench
when I think
myself crazy

no matter how deep my death
my ears still hear
your last jest
in the dark

don't cry
no matter how evil I am

shoot yourself to see what it feels like
write a book
deny the truth
deny meaning
accept life
write a million poems
make some phone calls
keep the past buried
milk
eggs
orange juice
...

four steps
in black shoes
on concrete
left turn
ten steps
front pocket
cigarettes
flip
lips
flick
inhale
exhale
hands in pockets
no watch
cross the street
looking straight ahead
trusting the light

grass now
clicks turned to  
sounds like old velcro
from bending blades
of grass
inhale
exhale
smoke signals
keep away flies and
passers by

27 steps
left turn
car alarm
music
distant
and the grind
of oiled metal
and the buzz
of wires in rubber
and the burning
orange
in my lungs
chased by
oxygen
from trees
in another piece
of this sphere

6 steps
left turn
and the rich
thick
wet in my nose
from rust
and mold
and **** and ****
and blood
falling down
from the corners
of apartments

cells
dying
slowly
inhale
exhale
fire
smoke
itch my neck

left turn
still walking
into water

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.

Eye brows lids and lashes
shadow swift synapse crashes
fierce fires flicker in eyes
while the coy of their disguise
made all the others daft
and the dark inside them laughed

The bright blue of their sashes
beckons burning bulb flashes
they still wear when alone
the rough edges of stone
but the coy of their disguise
and fires flickering in eyes
made all the others daft
and the dark inside them laughed

I love her because she's beautiful
in the way she defines
herself.
Sunshine and health.

but I could swear she's the moon
in the way she waxes and wains,
in my mind, my sky brain, her face
somehow making the stars brighter.

I love her because she's beautiful,
beautiful like smile lines,
the sound of rhymes,
and the pain in the spine
of an elderly person
stooping to pick up a child
ten-thousand times.

Her beauty is like laughter
when you're alone,
like silence in a crowd,
complete as stone,
complete as clouds.

pardon me
if my heart beats too loud

free the reams
the seams teem

eyes within eyes

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

finally the rain is here
something that i still hold dear
something to clean out the drain

i find it quite ironic
that the rain falling symphonic
provides a silence in my brain

that distant lightning screaming
and the clouds tears still streaming
makes stars wax and the clouds wane

Ram Das
wrote the book
years ago
and then some.

What train am I sweating to catch?

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.

I AM
guided by a rambling man
confided in Queen Mab
and if I seem sad
I AM
confided in a rambling man
guided by Queen Mab
and if I seem glad
I AM

11:11
i made a wish.
did you?
did you remember not tell?
that's what they say
"don't let that wish slip,"
but the truth is,
you can't cook wishes
into reality
by keeping them quite

whisper over your shoulder
whisper through the wires
whisper til your eyes leak
that's what your chest requires

I still make a wish
whenever four ones present themselves
on a wrist watch or a clock
and i still cook them in quite
only lifting the lid
for a moment or four
to sneak a spy of silence

11:27
33 minutes until
October!
my favorite season
when i was younger
because of my birthday
nesting in the familiar warm auburn glow.
now burning.
it's the start of a circle
a circle beginning in death
and taking a breath
before descending again
i will stay awake until October!
until i can feel that glow
until i know
that someone heard my wish
the one i whispered
as you walked away
the one i whispered
as i tried to convince myself that
this flame in front of me
is as fantastic to see
as your eyes

whisper over your shoulder
whisper through the wires
whisper til your eyes leak
that's what your chest requires

look at me
rambling on again.
waiting on an October wish

Nature doesn't end at cement.
It is
a pour
            i
              n
                  g
          ­            over into

                                                  space

  ­           of the Manifest,
in all its twisting,
reaching ways.
It finds a hallow and calls it home.

Nature is               lonely
but never alone.
Mesh of living weave,
water altered
in the shape of its dwelling,
looking out over      horizons
wrapped around
its e x p a n s e .

Alive and s w e l l i n g ,
in dance and song,
beckoning.

Snake makes a feast of his tail.

One Mother is hungry.

What faults have the sword?
What weakness the bowl?
What strengths have their union?
What power the whole?

Act as you will,
the Buddha doesn't mind.

did the owl overhead know it was an omen?

i've seen a man with feathers under his skin
he says that they are symbols
but I can't tell if he's truthful
and i think it's funny that
knowledge
is no different
than ink
or sound
inside boxes

I keep catching myself asking my friends if they
know what I mean
when i can't seem
to find words
i've never
even
seen

break the mirrors!
let their death songs
put to sleep
our vanity,
our ego,
our insanity.

only you
have seen the span of me.
our bodies given the jewels
of our eyes;
and a man at sea
with brine blackened spools
and dark skies,
without a plan or key,
says he's one of the fools
and he denies
thoughts of her thighs

the sea-man
broke the mirrors,
and windows,
and walls.
and left only doors standing

What are we but fire patterns?
Light cast out from higher lanterns?
Let us allow the darkness,
and bless the burning.

memories
floating thru my mind like clouds
i wonder how
to get them down
fit them in a box and wow
the time in now
my sock are brown
so many towns
these feet have seen
these dreams don't mean
a thing to me
it seems obscene
to be lost in every reverie
i hold myself so heavily
when what i need 's
a little levity
to know there's nothing that can never be
still I wonder if i'll every see
the sun rise
sky
markt with clouds
like ice on fire
loud as hell
like the whole bell tower
from the spire fell
and rang deep
thru the peaks
stood stone still
to watch in all go down
and how
is that the question needing asking
or why is it
I see so many faces close to me
that feel the need for masking

Come bother,
give me your hand
so that I may let go
of my own.

I have seen the cycle of the moon
time and time again,
and in that sweeping sequence
I stand in so many colors,
in so many faces,
spinning round and round
like liquid
until I am stole away!

I wish to remove these robes
and be seen in barren.
Stark as the sea!
White like December pines,
still green underneath.
For when i'm release
the colors become untangled
but never die.

Come sister,
give me your hand
so that I may let go
of my own.

I
seem to be sinking.
Miss,
excuse me, but haven't we met before?
The
look you gave that old man, the
way
it was like the light I see, through water as I'm sinking.
You
don't remember? here take my hand,
read
these valleys. Don't you remember the streams
between?
Pardon me, it's not catharsis, it's only
the
pressure pushing it out, making
lines
where there were once spheres.

"Well ain't that a cryin' shame!"
he drawled over a split grass shoot
"**** birds, better luck next time son."
trying to comfort me
at least out of my silence
"Well shoot, hows about you take a seat on the porch?"
squeekscreekcreek
wrenching a sigh
popped back into a rocking chair
"Here son, roll me a cigarette"
trying to comfort himself
his egg-yolk hands held out a glass jar
made with rainbows
full of ****
and a tattered rolling paper
the gum almost invisible
"No no no, do it the way I taught ya!"
a cigarette's a cigarette
"hrrmmmph, that'll do.
Now, tell me what it is you lost again?"
the smoky words sliding out into where there once was green

the bed sheets clung like water

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.

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