Going Direct not like before

This isolation within the heart has brought me closer to the true meaning of my hearts' journey.
The compartments that I've tipped over
splashing my hopes and fears, a child who goes crazy
in the bath tub never thinks of slipping.

My conception of time revives my face
in the eyes of mercury retrograde-right now I'm direct
because my picture is more defined.
Half-way was before with only grey fillings
and erasure marks over our outlines.

There is an Autumn wind that blows and brings
mystery with dark almond eyes from centuries ago.
Even though it's Winter it comes anyway
and soils my perfect drawing, scatters ashes and smears brush strokes.

This karmic thunder that mimics the Spring,
it's a guise to win you over, to make you think
the concrete under your feet isn't something that you mixed
with your own two hands.You have the grey unknown still stuck
under your nails-the illusion is not even feasible.

Fostering the Kinetic

Everyday can be life altering.

In this Autumn rain I can feel the earth eating the dying.

The squash vine whispers to the nightshade hymnals

that concord with the pace at which the maple leaves hit the soil.

This is the season when the people molt.

This season every system dying jolts its transmutation

into a message that emotes, emotes, emotes.

There is finally a wake-up that screams, You are the same as the trees!

Except we are all trying to cut each other down

and this dilemma is nothing short of a cosmic discord

that takes the earth shaking and volcanoes quaking-- your mouth wide open

kind of emphasis on how your life will be changed.

Now that we know that earth with resume long after we're gone.

Now that we know that this season of death rattles

where the dying bodies of plants, people, machines and ideologies

are called unto the valley of the shadow of death,

there is nothing to fear except fear itself.

The phoenix is the anthropomorphic version of your ability to transform.

If the only constant is change

then death is the only paradigm

to total metamorphosis.

Under this energy in motion, our emotions pull the current.

Our waves that change the landscape are capable of great visions

and actions that can sweep away the boulders into the sea.

to see me for all the stupid shit i've done

And as this new life passes in blood stains
I do not feel as though I have wasted the potential to create.

With every full moon I cut through my urges to be alone,
I medicate the feelings of losing control, of fading my old self.

I feel my new wings beginning to prick through
with goose pimples becoming more apparent.

This fire blooms with memories
like gun shots we've sped towards the sky.

I'll leave this fog and take your hand,
you will whisper with your ocean green eyes
and lead us through.

We will both be piggy backs
stuck with glue.

Too many waves

I had to call you out on your bullshit, it had to come out.
I saw the way that you looked at her and I knew something was up.
You assured me that she was no threat to our solid family
but your browser history and 2am text messaging spoke louder.
Even when I confronted you, you couldn't even tell me the truth.
You tried to delete before I could see but your drunken fingers
told a different story.

You'll never make up your mind or really get what you want
because the tarot has told your story with 7 cups of wine,
you will always be indecisive and destroy
what's good to fit the time on your cell phone clock
which I will not miss waking me up.

I'm not sure how I manage to pick people who flip and flop .
I have allowed my emotions to unfold under this mercury retrograde.
Once again much like 4 months prior, I have elongated my posture
and built my own fire to which I blindly sat down on
without understanding it was my pyre.

This is all suppose to be a test,
yes but
although change is constant, I got attached
and continued to dive face first into that pool
that you offered up after the lighting stopped.
We have swam so many times after the storm and
now you don't want to swim anymore.
I made too many waves during the mercury retrograde.

Broken screen, broken record

I can't believe I acted that way.
I don't know why I stole my own peace away.
I let her words dive deep into my sorrow and got mad at my helplessness.
That old familiar sensation of alone.

I let my mind run a game on me where I felt crazier than when I was 17.
Back then I'd go walk on the road, by myself.
Last night I wanted to run, instead I kicked the wall and a hole through it.
I threw my phone when she told me I'd have to do it on my own.
She never listens so I don't know why I thought I could get it out
and have her understand. She makes it about her when I was trying
to tell her what was bouncing in my head, in my head, in MY HEAD.

Instead I came off as a judgmental psycho who wouldn't let her sleep.
I started out saying no, let's talk when you're sober.
I should have kept my mouth shut and waited til tomorrow
which is now today. I made a poor choice now she thinks I'm unworthy.

What am I doing? seriously. This broken record on repeat is nauseating.

Greenish Blue

I have this translation of time that takes collections of lifetimes like they were mushrooms. I find a path under the pines, secluded like all of the others and there I spot the time where I rubbed cheek to cheek with those whose genetic codes I shared. Our cells always vibrate close to the ones we love.
Now I'm here in another time, still bending perception with lacy white glove, a wand of sorts that I can use to distort or frame, like a lightning bug when it hits the screen. I use it to unveil the obscene and impose lightened ions on situations that seem too knotted to untangle, I revoke that notion and pull on the string.
In this dream there's a dog sunning herself against cool aged concrete. Watching the birds she observes the shadows they make on the four inch patchy grass, she thinks of smelling their wing tips but just scratches her ass.

In this dream I catch a decade back by the neck and feel like a teen, awkward and new but postured through and through. I crack bitter jokes and hop around in my thoughts as I showed them my kaleidescope. I was always finding reasons to be alone--to hear my thoughts, to try my hands at the arts of divination and creation and let's not forget about mutual masturbation.

In the last one I batted out of the park I left with a pattering rhythm of guilt and humbleness, maybe the same loner type of insubordinate beats. I left feeling like the lifetimes I have spent trying to reclaim this imagination of a better place where we don't have to fight for equal rights or to grow food in the sunlight can exist. I left feeling like accessed memories are a subconscious effort to remind me to soak in the styles of my grandparents' eyes and to continual be thankful for the purpose of surprise.

When I sat up groggy and concerned I went right to the photo album to remember their colors and sideways leanings. Most of the dead still show up from time to time.

When theory and measurement fall into congruency

I comprehend that this plot is for the foolish and I am maneuvering
like I've got a broken paddle, waiting on your words to mend it.

I have tied myself to a pace that lingers incessantly with the humidity
unable to push the air molecules, our souls back together.

I'm remembering to care more about my relationship with me.
It's important to pull my keys off of the ring and lay them in order on my table top.

I can't be hard on the locks, yours and mine, no hammers aloud.
I have to deliberately create a vortex of creation with only three shiny keys.

Once they slide through, vibrations will be lifted.
The journey continues.

Itching to fly

While on our different paths we collided like two horsing racing in the same rut,
When our eyes first met we cataloged our fears and watched them go up in smoke.

In this dream, we diverged across a river and found ourselves again in the same raft, holding on each to a paddle and pushing against the current faster because we moved in unison.

Inside of the forest I became your guide and you my salvation. Our quest as it went began as a treasure hunt of sorts. At the edge of the tree line and the antique bend in the stream I jumped in for you and your flip flop.

And now in your eyes I see the last five years of a life in which I would never have lived nor loved so emphatically. And I feel you letting go after a litany of contradictions because as you look at me with urgency to escape and build a new life without me, I see you seeing me hurt.

My pain is feeling like I am someone I am not. Lost in you, lost from taking too many photographs of the future. Lost in thinking about separating our books, clothes, dishes, dog and hearts. And now it's real.

And what hurts the most is that I know deep down you want the same as me, then and then but not now. We could change. I could stop cleaning up after you and could stop getting upset when I come home after your bed time. You could join every club in the city and I could find time for myself again in nature and neither of us would have to feel guilty. We don't have to break up our family.

And what hurts more is the alternative that seems most likely. A slow decent into alcoholism and bad memories. I can't stop you from a fate that you ache for and I won't stop you from flying wherever your nose is taking you, I just want this aching feeling of being in love with you to subside.

Forgotten bogs

The scents of the winter are carried in on your shoes, hat and gloves.

Mine holds the smile of the man asking for a cigarette in front of the towering glass shell I call my workplace. On my shoes I swaddle in the painful frost bite of the third grader who walks miles alone to get to school. There is a holocaust happening to the terrified, the lonely, the forgotten. It has been on airs waiting for someone to notice the swords that dangle,

the choice superstars that run the crashing hours of the poor down and down and down into a flooded stairwell--like the passengers on the bottom of the Titanic, they will drown first.

Pleased to meet you

When you changed so rapidly
to the point that your spine pushed
a woman onto your shoulders,shins,shudders and shimmies
-you got away with not acting your age.

When you morphed into a frame of mind
that jutted you into the woods to find and fund
your vernal pool, you absorbed your atmosphere
like the skin of the amphibians around your land.

And again your skin molted, like the adolescent falsetto
that drops the vase, it cracked and required new construction.
You stood taller than ever as your vertebrae cushioned
the new spills you took while painting a proud past.

And the pull of transformation takes you over-
board every time and I forget that you know how to swim.
But this is the fire that burns you over and forges anew-
through fight and vigor, rest and depression:
You had to feel the underside of the tire
in order to avoid shifting down a gear
without using the clutch-
-you are done grinding your engine without any oil.

Your shadowy aftermath

The hissing tea kettle that spits out Morse code calls
sounds exactly as the telephone and alarm on that old watch going off-
it beeps at the same high e! tone as the steam,
at 10:43 but we're an hour behind to save on daylight.

It's the sundown passing growth and vitamin D on down to our legs, our soil.
the living room lamp flickers to the beat of Ella and reaffirms our
dinner time dialogue is in-step with our emotions.