mary ain't you tired of this

This unwelcome pang that crashes down

like a flightless bird falling from the Lazarus beacon,

rolling off the ball onto a ledge.

She told me once a series of lies to keep me

from making a new trail, to prevent a wild fire.

Those lies now beat me with a punch and a one-two slap.

Because no matter how much thick Vaseline I dab on my

cut up eye brow, I still wipe my sweat in my eyes and blind

myself every time.

I've been trying to do it her way these last few years,

playing songs that will please her mind and heart

but her body doesn't bounce like it used to.

the little skeleton

She's been placed between double paned, scream proof glass

in front of the new park, constructed out of a need for nature

she needs nature to feel less like a stranger

she sees through the glass:

the sunlight at 9am, it molds around her shoulders

like a grandmotherly blanket on Winter break--

but there are no bologna sandwiches with cheese or games
like Kings in the Corner on lacquered table tops.

And as she looks for distractions to accelerate

the hands on the digital clock,

she hears the hummingbird tune that takes her to

those short December nights when she had a week

of female surprises. The sounds, smells and cold aches

flooded her again as she remembered the luscious lips,

lucid legs that wrapped around her neck, and the half lies

she told in the name of loneliness and love.

She was the coldest she had ever been that December.

Too many regrets that she now can't say out loud, she

has to hide what she really wants. She has to dream now

of the days when she taught wiley-eyed- smelly- fifth graders

about the rewards of respecting Nature, a lesson that was built

into their genetic code long before
they had glasses
and middle fingers.

Sailing Vessels

The thing that I used to crave
most
was my second hand music
created through my closed eyed bones,
and my own slippery hands.
Next came the lengthy desire for enlightenment,
any coloring book illusion could never be my pacifier,
I needed some satiation through the painful yet
empowering contraction of being alone.
Then out of the cave came ambition
which tied to sex neck marks
and detached partnership played the Les Paul.
The latter craving plays the hardest
on the teeter-totter, UP and DOWN
on the rusty balance beam.


My living notes played and written
were detailed analysis's through my bi-focal
like cataclysmic juices spraying from the
atom bomb, you felt them
first on your skin, it pushed at you from the breeze
and then came the heat that was cooked up
for the steaming masses.

My teeth have since shifted
and my diet differs now.
My hunger is still for patience since I fight and then
acquiesce. It's surely a tempting CGI effect
when my dreams play with my
eyes, pushing my lips to
create conflict and then to solve it.
Like I can just act like some robot
lacking a memory or a placated punching bag.

Fire It UP!!!
Figure It Out!!
Don't Fool Yourself!

I feel the shift.
Per usual, it's feet first
and on the boat that was once a raft.

Remember,
I have been in the woods alone.
You have been there too.

Rhetoric over our Doorstep

"My eyes are intense", she says
as I jolt my neck over my shoulder,
attempting to catch myself in
the shadow image that I at times recognize
as me.

"When I look at you, I don't see me."

As we position our eyebrows, we ask with our eyes,
"What is next in this aggrandized plan?"

With all of the many splendid ideas that transpose
their sheen on-top of our fiery house
We'd like to get lost on it's ventilation system,
"Can we establish an agreement?"
I say while I sort my curses from my compromises.

I suck in smoky air
through filtering hair
lean back
and exhale fear of the unknown.

She situates her hand under her chin
precisely in alignment with where
her legs meet over her knees

In her gaze I think to myself,
"My capacity for philia
has proven to be greater than
what I once chose to perceive.
I convinced myself that I knew
all of the rules.
She has given me new responsibility
thanks to the breadth of knowledge
I've gained in her presence."

She speaks with her head tilted toward summer and says,

"White crossroads can never find their exact center, they just flow together."

With a nod in respect,we understand through our visual contact.

All in about 3,715,200 Seconds

In the last six weeks I've clenched my fists
twenty-seven times over the course of
crab eating :{} claws into my palm
as I crossed the scoliosis ridged Rockies
that Taurus twisted April afternoon

In the last 43 days I've released my fingers
and cracked joints from my alignment
with a fake crusader and have made bonds
with decisive strangers with witty dialog
Having constrained space in a locked SUV
just to pour ourselves into the Story Book of the ocean floor

On the dusty shoreline I saw the reflection
of the clouds (()) the oxygen of my past

When we deceive the world
we are called shepherds instead of liars
Why are we in love with serpent tongues
and by serpent I mean split in two
like a fork not a spoon

Over the last 1032 hours I understand
even more so than before
that Titles are pointless
when your blade is -->>>}]]dull
you leave a bloody trail behind you
if you take credit for all you're around

Because of the last 61,920 minutes I have accepted
the halogen glow scenery was printed in Sepia tone
on the finest paper my mind can afford

I'm enticed by the Fall Out

There's a punitive meaning
to the words
corrosive fall out.

I consider the frogs that
hop off of my tangled tongue
to be high-end merchandise
like I'm buying my civil rights
to a twenty-first century
free style, existential photograph
taken by myself.

Every mark ever made on paper, plastic, stone and wood
could never've been possible if
the Earth wasn't scavenged and then glued
on the hopeful lines
of engine faced infants.

Those calamity clad comrades of commerce
that proposed a common purpose
for angry anglos who
took staples from the natives,
altering apples and allowing
insects to make wastelands.
These men
and women
are guilty.

Their judges are the books
of known history,
those with scarred backs
and torn pages,
whose knowledge is nettled
in the lava flows from the Eocene
that developed the illustrious islands
of our fluted ancestors.

Our instinctual sense of good and bad governance,
was not created through past seeds of humanity
on the African grassland
but on the backs of slaves
and the creation of currency.
Our break in communication with Nature,
when the balanced procession
of feminine and masculine
began a tip-toed introduction
of what is said to be a distorted reality
where hundreds of thieves rule billions of disasters.

and the arrogant extortion of children and women
are an accepted taboo in the most civilized nations

We could have freedom from these atrocities
if we were to accept what's audible and apparent,
the desperations of the world allude to be our focus
but are evidently our barricaded distractions.

We are a hemispheric world ruled by the brains'
addiction to dopamine and serotonin.
I fill these needs through
love and cigarettes,
thought and action,
communities and distant connections.
Breathe my brain tells my lungs,
Breathe.

yellow eyes

you once told me that i was the most beautiful woman in the entire world
and i believed you.
you once convinced me that you desired me,
that you would enjoy worshipping my body,
giving me pleasure on an hourly basis.
we had this once.
now it's a memory in my heart, like a golden moon
now turned blue and green and leaves stains
where it once used to lay.

yeah, i think it's time to finally admit that we
can't keep going on in this sexless way.

i've mourned for over a year now,
and in order to try and save things,
you teased me a few weeks ago
but darling, you can't fake passion.
you can tell me one thing but
when you do another, it tells me
the truth.
i hold the ace of swords and can smell
injustice when it sits
like 2 month old garbage in the basement
i see the truth too
because my eyes are like those
of the great horned owls..
i see with yellow vision
a mouse like the issue of fulfilment
that plays over a mile in the distance
i must fly out silently and grab it

Remembering the scent, I loose the fragrance

This February it never stops;
the haze that blankets the street lights,
the fumigated collection of pollution saturated
precipitation sits on my soul
and melts slowly.

I wager a place in this woven
sheet the wields contradiction between
its threads of space and time,
head and heart,
friendship and desire,
expectation and reality.
My bet is on progression.

The reality is
that I take a glass pane
and hold it up to my pores,
strands of rusty hair and calcified bones
and find a system of contradictions.

My time line gets corrupted
through tallies of broken check marks,
real lead tips that leave languid
pains in my shadowy cheek bone.

I am nauseous from the stagnated
clutter that forages itself as
a normal piece of my sanity.
This morose pattern of domestic
habit draws lines instead of pictures,
scribes tables as opposed to novellas.

I am lost in a fragrance of an insightful poet.

She has written my story of forbearance,
load bearing carts driven by me, the ass.
She has spoken eloquently of my determination,
finding greased chain links in my fixed gear
up-hill marathon. So I should be fine, right?

I should accept the translucent dust on my soul
as a sign of great aging, with fuller flavor
and a larger price tag,aligned for a more sophisticated
taste bud.

I feel cheated.

I am as I seem but not as I want to be.

I need a partner who shares my
post and pre-apocalyptic dreams.
I crave a creative muse who diligently goes crazy
pursuing her fire, to share my songs with and then
burn together on a massive pyre.
I want a lover to take charge of my ions and spread
anticipation on my skin, creating a craving where
we both win.

And as my fading memories come back
to me as acrid fantasies,
I find myself remembering the scent
but loosing the fragrance.

Reading for this morn

I've decided that I'm going to start posting some of my tarot readings on this here crazy blog thing. This morning my Rider WAite deck gave me this reading:

King of Pentacles

Page of Cups sig by:q.ofpent
8of wands 3of wands cb:page of pen. 5ofwands ten of cups

2 of wands
Queen of Cups

2of pentcles


For those of you adept to Tarot, you will recognize that this is the Celtic Cross spread.
This gives me insight into my current situations and what kind of energy I might expect to encounter in the near future.

It's just a heart attack

I'm not sure why I thought that this time around you would open your door and give me any inclination as to what the key even looked like. Your post-modern stance on needs and wants and my fruiting enlightenment that mimicked your past choices were just symmetrical standards that are based on fractals. I shared the most detailed importance into how and why and when and who, all of the parts that make up the whole. As soon as my belly hairs were shown, my compromised eyes that stare like my grandmothers scared you. I do understand this time. My failure to filter will not happen again, my trust will not be placed on its back to be burned in indecision. My silence will never save me.

Ode to a heart that's out of water

Beneath the sheets
I found out why you
push the static downfall
away from your thighs
that used to feel like stars
clinging to your heart.

I listened patiently til
my heart scraped ions
lost their charge.
This was a simultaneous
account where your history
caught you in a sling
causing you to feel visions
on loneliness, pain and heartache.

I will always question
the opinions of those who are
just soo sure of the cause and
effect. I'd like to affect you
in a perpetual escapade that
would cause your heart to
flutter every time your eyes
casually glance at me.

My songs do not cause
an emotional response
to your lingering permissive
stance, your judgemental
truths that set your feet in
concrete, leaving your fingers
pointing instead of in an
unclasped position of the hand.

I have given more than
I thought I had in my
checking and savings.
I borrowed from the past,
saying that it would be
worth more than pocket
change in our future.
I believed this.

I'd like to remember the good.
I want to cry when I think
that I may have given
the best songs to you
with the most complicated,
expressive chord structures
and you have had head phones
on this whole time.

I am scared of losing
this present state of safety.
I am afraid that stability
in its most banal sense of
security will fall away
like the floor on a spinning
carnival ride.

There is an intelligent spiral
urging me to be patient
and bold in one motion.
There has been arguable temptation
but I am larger than the eyes
that peer out from the basement steps.

With every direct communicative
pattern of the last month
we have inadvertently taken
strides forward. Your eyes still
tear me and paste me and mold my
infrastructure but I find myself
collaged in pieces that abstain
my needs from seeing the sun.

If everything that happens
happens because their is some divine
plan, then make it easier to say
yes to myself.

In my back pocket there's a wax seal

Humans think that just because a cogniscent ray
of volition scattered on an African savanna
that we are barred from the cycles
that all other creatures follow in nature.

I beg to differ. I find myself twisting
and doing the log roll in my
pool of thoughts, emotions and actions.

My surroundings may change and my hope
may grow. I might find myself on a
sail boat where I have an epiphany
because the rocking rythm of the boat
lulled me into an alpha wave meditation
induced by the oceans menstrual motion,
entitling me to a sense of safety.

I am a part of these cycles no matter
how hard I try to negate and position
myself to see the fruits and look for the
differences in my similarities with you.

I vividly recall the way
your eyes penetrated mine as I strolled
effortlessly through the ceiling to
floor glass door.
You took your time to approach me,
casually finding a reason to smoke
and dip in to my conversation.
By the end of the evening,
the pyre was lit but the candles
were out. Fear and excitement boxed
us in to a lid that quickly
extinguished potentials and
spilled wax on my doubtful ego.

I moved on with the pain as I usually do.
This is a cycle that changes
the color of my bruises from red
to purple, to yellow then blue.
Roy G Biv is a good friend of mine.