I should have told her bout the colors that I saw before.
The onces they fell out from my eyes
and spilt across the floor.

I should have told her when she asked me, dared me to explore
the reaching roots of time and sooth;
the seed, the growth, the spore.

There is fear in the allure.

The moon is on the rise;

no near for far, i'm sure

Knowledge is knowing
that you've always been seeking
Whereas wisdom is
realizing that seeking
is never-ending

I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending
I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
is just lending
I & I
for while
for to smile

Shhh
Shhhhh
I'm silent still
go back cat
to windowsill
that is that
the black will fill
my eyes
and i'll have no disguise
to hide behind
so lie will I
until
I cry
it OUT

and light!
oh light
so guiding
so graceful
a gift
is only as sweet
as the way
you embrace it

I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending

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

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 politics
of mirrors
lies out of sight
while the frogs in the pond
fashionably late
sing the swan song
of separation

no-mind-all-one

the ******* tree fruits teeth
and eats itself on impact
leaving behind no trace
of heart beat
or throbbing veins
but instead remembers itself
on the earth as a skeleton
bones made of the
finest silver set of dining wares
for to feast
on the slack remaining
weightless brain of a thing
that spins the circles is sails
like a tailor
in a fire

How many deaths  in the life
of a plant?
This is Lord Shiva;
This is His dance.

How much space
in the life of a form?
This is Kali,
She the unborn.

Together they sway,
forward in back;
Shiva the Fire,
Kali the Black.

As Lovers they ****,
put to Sleep, and Destroy,
With Grace and Love,
Compassion and Joy.

Bring forth your
whole self.
I do not mean
pronounce your name,
show your form,
or announce the game you play,
but the being that is
without death;
the blank page that was before
the writings of mother and father
graced its white
humility.

Show me this.

It may seem a difficult task,
yet it is done without being asked,
no trifle nor trouble,
and once completed,
seems to have been done before
you even set about
to begin.

For the self is selfless
and gives its isness freely,
thus leaves no mark,
holds no home,
sits not stark,
does not roam,
from where/when/why/how it already is.

abound with fruits
are flowers;
are seeds.
black and warm,
with no need
for audio/visual,
hands-on learning techniques.

a fire is simply
burning,
yet is not itself when so.

Show me this.

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.

Distant, mist-wreathed hills
of sugar pine and ponderosa,
a girl is walking there.
Long, cool stride under low skies
hinting rain,
electric taste of grey.
On those silent hills I am filled with sound
as I watch her,
like an ocean or
television snow.
She stoops to lift a
stone or berry or seed
and turns eyes toward me.
My own eyes turn inward
and she disappears.

when I woke from the fade
the sigil was gone
pieces of paper
pinned to trees like leaves
and all the learning of last night
left undone

is the magic in the ink,
or the hands,
or the remembering?

my poems always end with questions

Sternness,
you earn this.
Books,
you burn this,
only because
somewhere silence says
"Learn this!"

It says,
"the only thing important is definition."
and it will remain so until the flames reach us,
washing upwards like waves on a beach,
claiming us
and burning, popping,
bringing blackness from our toes
upwards still
into our eyes,
leaving lineless husks of us,
like sea shells waiting to be found
and filled
with definition.
To be made a cup.

"Fill your cup with love!
There is no drought.
We’ve reached the wellspring"
and you see no difference in
light and liquid.

"The inside of a heart,
is this dark?"


Escape into,
Get out of,
And be release.

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.

shortly after
or before
the domestication of fire
on a verdent, windswept heath
a living ancestor
in pain
in love
moved her breath in such a way
so as to make shapes
and colors in the air

and on that same day
another ancestor
saw and knew
that her eyes could fill
with heart
and rain
could water
the little garden in her ribs and belly

stretching on the carpet
alone
listening to a video
about ancient Mesopotamia
an approximation of a yoga routine
and I go to take a ****
thinking about Hammurabi

"the law was made between two rivers"
i think, and sigh
letting my stream go

all is clear to the smoking man
only matches
and something to be burned
and someone to burn it

between patient inhalations
folded smoke
the only movement
ember red
the only color
in the dark

no knowing
so many snowflakes
reach the ground

before long
all manner of crystal
growing

sometimes flowers
bloom
to be froze
in a latter time

slow spring
seeping

Left the ponder his mortality,
the butterfly flutters by,
and lights upon a weary flower,
wilted, waning, less than dapper,
(she must be depressed)
and starts sipping nectar,
to drown his sorrows (no doubt),
concerning the doom that is surely close at hand.

The flower,
feeling rather used,
sinks lower, looking at the earth,
and checking her stem, says
"Oh my! my stem is so wide!"
She begins to cry,
and the butterfly dies,
with five thousand lights in his eyes.

Passing by,
an Elderly Woman
stoops in silence,
collecting the wind shuddered wings,
snapping the too fat stem,
and smiling
from the sweetness of these breathless
reminders
of whatever it is that makes
Elderly Women smile.

The Sun is a fiend,
and the wind may scream,
but there is no sadness to be seen in dreams.

Mind a Light; Brain aFlame

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,

I smile when I see your snowflake face,
unlike any other, the face of a mother,
making me awkwardly comfortable.
A face like mine beholding only my eyes,
not what's behind.
Often you see my complexion
a reflection
of ennui.
You think because it is dark,
that I
can not see;
But you behold my eyes,
not what's behind;
and the things that I find,
the thing that I've found!
The color and beauty and love that's around!
The sounds to be heard!
Don't think I haven't seen.
The frights to be felt!
The dreams to be dreamed!
Don't think I haven't noticed.
Your grace
and your snowflake face.
I smile when I see that face.
The face of a mother, unlike any other.

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.

Tastes like excitement.
The blood and rivers know.
It's not at all alignment,
as much as letting go,
and if you ever find it
it's because you let it show.
SLOW
It glows like profanity,
F breathing U between C the K lines...
Attention is insanity
it lends it's hand to enemies
it's energy can span the sea
your love, it can span mine.

slow formation of thoughts
the crystallization of metaphor
like smoke
like making rainbows
into everything

breaking white light
into color
in the
black

free-floating subjective
realities
convect around and through
an empty space

the objective objective
purpose pole-star
centering concentric
star flung
peoples
all watching
the light that seems to shine
from the void-hole in the
galactic middle

great bending
spectral lender of
experience

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.

the rainbow on my eyelash
was scared off
as I stood

What is to be done?
The day's continually the next,
and birth.

I remember
Walking up the river
on green, smoothed stone;
leaning forward so as not to fall.

To be still
in this current,
but I don’t want to say
that there is
the impossible.

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

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

strange medicine
not sick, never better
but different
thru induced confusion
out the other side
and ah!
the moon is out tonight
again

Stuck everywhere are secrets you've heard before.

Sometimes the things i have to say
don't escape past the tips of my teeth
because the rigid parts of me
are afraid to tie knots
that can only be
undone
with a knife.

We;
the generation
that forgot the meaning of memorable,
so keen on trade
as a means to claim
or apply value,
that this,
only this,
is seldom enough.

I used to think that pain was the most motivational thing i could feel,
but as I was bound to be taught,
told in blessings by
teachers
i was trying to
train,
it's either a lesson in love
or a lesson in release.

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

Midday,
blessed by the summer rain.
Running out to roll up car windows
as the grey flows over.

The best medicine.
Asphalt hotter than the water drops
darkening the sidewalk spot by spot.
To myself: praying for it not to stop.

Let this heat be made steam,
the bitter physical drift into dream.
From my seat on the green
things seem less under pressure,
rising even as the rain keeps coming down.
Our clothes growing closer to the ground

Summer shower medicine drink me deep.
April flowers dead again
leaving seeds to sink and sleep.

At the death of every blossom waits a fruit,
at the laying down of every life
stands a youth.

The sun
rose
then yellow then white,
sun rose
then out of sight.

The sun is rose,
time a morning glory
in the moonlight
and again reawakening.  

Winter roots,
snow over seed,
stars in the dark.
Bright, burning,
patient days in the making.

The sun rose,
ever blooming,
always fading,
never waiting.

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

children screaming
and a breeze
taming the sun
stirring the heat
in wide sweeping strokes
we met

laughing with the children
as if we weren't
and then a quick pit stop
and smiles all down the street

money
and the cigar man was on his cell phone
looking natural
saying something I missed
and we traded greens

sure
of course
indeed
isn't it just
like the way it's supposed to be
comparing things to shapes
as we zig zag
on and off
the map

ten thousand ways to say goodbye
only one way to kiss you

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

i'm glad i can see the sadness
in your eyes
i take pride in my ability
to sympathize

but our tears
follow different paths
down different faces.

i know the trail your tears take.
I've walked upon your fleshy mantle.
and when the rain fell
I took cover under your eye lids

look at me, i'll look at you
there's nothing i would rather do
than pet your hair and gently coo
away the colors turning blue

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.