where are the whisper that we gave to the moon
we were the tellers but we lost too soon
the night that we knew for an unknown noon
seeing clear in the day but our vision marooned

are we making niches
where there weren't any?
digging space in the clay
and shale
to burn a little warmth into our lives
and live there

the cigarette was wet by our fingers
and the whiskey spilled in the tub
as the we talked about the aesthetic
of cold stars
and the skunk we saw the night before
came again to eat the cat food

laughing over insights
skirting the edge of doom
and falling into deep silence
so as not to
headlong
obliteration

like an October frog
unexpected

pleasure and pain
pleasure and pain
here we go again
playing the same game
my eyes peeled
for beasts to tame
real worlds wandering
wondering am I still sane
tonight a different face still the same name
it's a shame
still no one to blame for this missed opportunity
do the movies know they're moving me?
is this truth really true to me

in looking
is the seen
is the looking

is truth the facts
or the map?

frustrated
like a map-maker
lost

the anticipation
and everybody waitin
a silence like white noise
all over every nation
still patient
head up but
wondering where the day's went

your screams were your letters
unaddressed
your dreams are your betters
unimpressed

what does ocean spray
speak of the deep?
some salt-dark message is carried there
to be heard
on our lips

I am only an ambassador
emissary of something
I know not
I have not opened the letter
I have left that to you

speak!
speak they say
but they tell not of what

so like a bowl
the fruit
the grain
the ashes
are held no different

as a messenger
my only wish...
is
not to be shot
and (make that two)
to disappear
on delivery
of the message

I must away
the ocean calls me
deep

black sand
black sand

magnetic in the pan
force wave shapes
"any trace of value
will sink to the bottom"

we''ll find some mystery there
with any hope

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

Should a poem be measured by letter
or rather, shall we read it aloud?

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.

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.

can you see your own face
in the television?
can you make out an expression
in the reflection?
is there some power there
holding you up
too high
to walk?

there is a string in my eyes,
and every
cruhed up bit or byte
or fraction of a life
is pulling.

there is a sting in my eyes.

with blurred vision
a screen become solid.
can I fold it into a kite to ride?
can I stand on it
and dance?

no substitutes for sure Earth
thru these curtained visions,
is there a future left to chance?

This
is
a visualization
exercise-- Take a
breath and close your eyes.

There's an innate feeling
of                                               
                                                      drift
                    that comes with
letting go.

The space we create for ourselves is,
by nature, weightless
until we fixate to the
points
in it which we made
to relate to;

because love is exactly like gravity,
and the points in space
are planets and stars,
celestial bodies
just perfectly warm enough for life
to explore,
orientations to look up from
and see
the rest of it,
but when we realize who it was
wrought the cosm
and we wake
stupefied and lucid
those pieces,
seeming both so distant and close,
unweave themselves from the fabric
and like magic
they disappear.

Our fists
forced gently into grasplessness
panic at the lack of that
substance our tongues and eyes
and right-side-up sensibilities
wish so desperately was there
from the beginning.
We start floating
of some unknown accordance,
though undoubtedly, deeply our own,
towards the next and closest
brightest shining
source of love.

There is a certain beauty in a broken cup. A delicate elegance in an abandoned building or a disheveled old man. Some ghostly grace to a tattered dress.

Wabi-Sabi is a Japanese expression relating to the wonder of imperfection. To be sensitive to the natural way of things, to deny idealism for what is and to revel in it is the path of a true seeker, of a true poet.

Let be the fringes of past,
for with all your hands
you cannot reweave
the rug soon to be
under our feet.

Step lightly,
there are beings here
and they have been here all along,
through our noises and *******,
and they do not celebrate
nor recoil,
but we must give them the space
they do not ask for besides.

I am in love with wear,
and white made of color,
and the black made of light.
The where to which we are going.

No amount of sowing can plant the seed
that is to be
these that will flower,
and still there is power there
in the empty air,
and it is shared.

Care not for my death,
for it already has your love.
Care not for sadness,
it is already sated.

I've waited for a sign from God
and here i find that his gift
is not to be had
but still is to be given.

4 truths to be learned
8 folds to be made
3 eyes in your head
1 way to be paved
and the only ones that won't be saved
are the one that while living
stay close to the grave
so they say
anyway

you cling to me like water does
when i emerge from a lush pool
two thousand droplets dripping doves
fall from a lucky fool

I'm lying 'low a lovely sun
the doves ascend as vapor
to lift my hand to the wall
of a love poem's paper

you left when i went too far
in your eyes the ice
melting alone in your car
the doves flew from your eyes

You are a living breathing best day of my life
Had I a ring, I would make you my wife
With a chance, with a dance
With a cup and a knife
it just takes one glance
it just takes one night


Nostalgia is the heart's horizon
sun setting
and the light letting itself loose
I can't keep my eyes on
anything else
but your colors

this is good health
this is true wealth

You are a living breathing best day of my life
Had I a ring, I would make you my wife
With a glance, with a dance
With a cup and a knife
it just takes one chance
everything is alright

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.

Green bees
and the dust is there with them
in the air.

Is there a such thing as stillness?
If so, it's hard to find.
It's anomalous,
like moss on rolling stones,
not likely.

The feeling like
insect symphonies,
one thousand beats a measure,
smells like rubber
when it's resting
but fire says otherwise.

It won't stop.
It's a heart beat,
it's a lung,
it's the static flashing
forever
waiting behind closed eyes
and it WON'T STOP!

Smoke sighs itself into
tight spaces
from fingertips,
from the dark sides of skyscrapers,
and the city lights
hold up the sky
to give us just enough
space
to breathe underneath.

I'll think they should let go.
So that the blanket falls
surely, sweetly,
like death,
onto those shoulders
that don't remember warmth anymore;

because the city lights are cold,
and the dust in the air is never still.

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 wanted this line
or this
or the next
to be the one that caught your eye like fire
far away and swept through space
shooting beam bouncing on a glass surface
windshield car you almost were hit
by
and completely forgot about
by tomorrows dinner

now where were we?

what dreams may come
in the waking hours
to shine like stars
against a backdrop
of endless
sleep

?

what is the shape of a hand
that holds a dream?

what is a dream
with no waking to remember it by?

the search for the after-dream
so abruptly ended by the
waking up

making up for lost time now
finding it
in puddles on the floor
having slipped from
the seams of my
pocket watch
pocket

it evaporated
before I had even
a moment
scooped up

the thing about
lost time
is that it remains that way

besides in eyes of passers-by
i'd swear i know
never saw that time again

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.

To speak with movement,
as if our words were water.
All the hours you've spent
as the plotter;
the spotter of splits,
hiccups and missed bits
of info that slipped
out of sight
while we were
dancing.

Every spark flying from fires,
every dark moment conspired,  
by those discerning,
rising higher
in the burning
of books,
last looks,
and the things you took,
so as to
give them back again.

Drop your guns
but don't run.
Keep your feet
met with the deep
feelings that keep
you tethered
together.

Love like drums
is humming
inside empty buildings
with broken windows,
waiting.

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.

While trying to sleep
I have become aware
that the more familiar
my environment
the more hostile
my action.
So don't come too close.

The poster above my bed
asks my Why?
as I try to sleep.
It gives me something to do
while i fall asleep

Why do I neglect
my loves
why do I neglect?
why do familiar
objects of fancy
lose my respect?
Why do I neglect?

still trying to sleep,
her face flashing
behind my eyes,
Why did I do those drugs?
Did you do them too?
then maybe you know
why i feel so good.
why i feel so bad.
why i feel at all.

Listening
through to
the other side of the window
pane.
The wind is a beast
scared as I but outside
making the least
of his mist and leaves hide.

Oh, if i were the wind
Oh, to be about
to be limbless
to be thoughtless
to be free.

Why do I share these
insomniac's musings?
I guess
The eye inside my head
likes to be looked at

Only now do I sleep,
with wish-clouded vision.
this is my demon
called Indecision.

I wish I were the wind,
to be a beast free,
I wish I were the wind,
I wish I wasn't me.

Why?
the poster above my bed
still asks.

Why do I feel so good?
Why do I feel so bad?
Why do I feel at all?

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.

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.