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

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?

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.

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.

Addiction

noun:

a state in which one feels the need to have the last word...

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.

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.

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.

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

You share a namesake with Aphrodite,
the Sea,
that which sparks a flame inside me,
seeks to turn the waves to steam,
to drift away as if a dream upon waking,
to see that there truly is no breaking of hearts,
and to start the making of stars born to be us
through combustion.

The dust and rust on a cosmic sword
without a sheath is bequeathed again to the sea,
and the back and forth of wave and flame
rocks us to sleep;
where the steam weeps
and we meet.

This blinding space
give way!
Let you be stark
and cautious
simple so as not to
be distracting.

Apparition :

In the dark we speak of death
and we laugh to scare the ghosts,
Those silent ones.
So blatant, they blend
wide-eyed and somehow
they are unaware,
seeing little
but our heartbeats breaking the cold.

As well they should,
we are RADIANT!
casting bleak our features
and making the
longest
shadows
here in space.

pang
like a sore thumb
begs your attention
the most fluffed young rooster
is the most afraid
he knows the
pang
like a sore thumb
unwanted attention
wondering why the wait is so long
before the honey moon
the pleasant lull between
pangs
"maybe we should
**** him" she says, to save him
the pain, maybe grab a basket before
you break
another egg
pang
"oh please let me be normal"
I can hear my grandma say
from an old play
I can't remember the name
pang
like a sore thumb
stuck out in more ways
than one
soon
in the deepening summer
will be the wedding
and after the heat
we'll swim in the river
and the rooster
will scratch grain
in a retirement home

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.

there is beauty in decay
but take care not to make a model
or an idol of death
or ***** an effigy made of the mess
you meant to clean

fire from a distance is a guide
in the hand
only ash

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.

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.

There is no spirit in spirit,
   as there are no drops in the
                                                   ocean,
                                             one body.

     Only in the turbulence do we see
          the ghosts, phantom shapes
             of separation.
              (Kami sparks from the Fae fire)
    In those shadows cast from the
  splash, (wave of the I, the Id swimming)
are them born of a name.

     Here, I find myself in form,
              in a constant change and decay,
              a flame mapped shade
               on the mirror walls of consciousness,
        in the fade, eternal emptiness
               of the endless breath i'll never catch..

                      and again inhaling.

Perfection as your goal,
shed upon it no worry
and take from it no hesitation.

Infinence is most easily reached
counting down.

her face
wreathed in
rainbows

thru this portal
seeing beauty
in the world

thru the prism
in the window
broken sunlight

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

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

Ram Das
wrote the book
years ago
and then some.

What train am I sweating to catch?

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.

Spill blood
like wine
over the bed-sheets.
This ceremony
leaves none
unexplored.

As soothsayers
we see dreams
and visions of
time past
and passing
in the entrails
and tea leaves.

What did we hope to find
in the fleshy hollows
where our sweetness
sits in wait
to rot?

Once found
is our fate made sound?
Solid.
A still life
in the waiting room
where we will break our bonds.

When the movement
stilled
and the dust kicked up
was hushed,
did we find ourselves there
under the blood stains
and honey,
or were we waiting
forever on the outside?

Always am I transparent
under a shifting moon.

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

How long will you
leave that body
on the screen?

the gasp of lungs, the veins are wrung

how many numb
limbs flung
must be seen?

What grace is the body!

I cannot help to laugh.

Growth here,

Now look.

See such forms:

Endless oceans surrounding themselves,

A grand tome atop fleshy pillars,

Light languid through spherical veils,

Like lanterns haunting oaken rails;

I see you in there.

Smooth like stone it sits,

Contented in the tension that is such in being,

Complete in its contraries.



Soft like liquid it moves!

Still listless and led,

Hands waving claw the sand.

Heat then,

And sound,

Dancing till we do.

Candles.

Orange Smoky Darkness

Lush and subtle

Dewdrop of lungs

Don’t stop the drums

Here it comes.

I love you
because you didn't believe me
when I repeated
"life is suffering."

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

You just got to know me better.

and so did I.

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.

a little extra light
from a twice burning candle
because no one ever told me
that one wick was an ending

I'll meet you in the middle

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.

based on movement
we choose

and the struggle
within

sleep

The crystallization of thought
leaves behind tiny granules,
like diamonds, reflective and
geometric to fit together.

     Sand to glass
        for a window or
          fun-house mirror.

Brain grains made of waiting,
                                 of watching.
Recognition of patterns recorded.
                Faces in old photographs,
                     "Look! That's me!"
  The big picture, stitched individual pixels,
                             light thru the film
                                     projected on a wall,
                                 fuzz of dust on the vinyl.

          Motes of knowing
                       floating
                                            but tough under pressure,
                                  and in the liquid of pure,
                                                           ­            transparent
                                                                ­       experience,

                                                    ­                     soluble.

This Carnelian sat beside me,
cast of archaic continents,
rose from its molten womb
to catch and reflect
the candle light of my
other companion,
staunch and white.

Its rough stillness testament to
the tumultuous birth made it so.
Resting and being caressed
by the candle's touch
so like its mother's,
though softer now as both have aged.

Do they hear the call of darkness,
not guttural, but a primordial yawning
that becomes them
dancing to bed?

Or are they deaf
with the mews of each others love,
and the space sharing everything it is between?

All tired children come home,
and those that sleep on the street
know out of necessity a warmth
imparted by no hand.

While here,
I,
the poet,
retired of my earth-cast shoes,
like the Carnelian,
am remembering why the smoke rises.

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