In the great room

That plump supposition has secreted this puss
that resembles a blight ridden potato plant
too rich and full in nitrogen, spit with holes through its' leaves,
bent from over-saturation.

But there's always time to replant
during Mercury retrograde, the time of recollecting
the past and separating fantasy from fact or whether you should have
left but decided to stay. You stay persistent like a washboard,
grooves exactly a half inch from perfection.

Do not fear, you can change your rhythm,
your shake and how easy your bones break.

In the dream where I stand in the circle
holding the innocent eyes and the guitar that I play
inches from the strings, you are all looking back at me
asking me to open the door to cross the border.

We are all in our own houses, chipping the slate to the shapes
of the floor boards, painting murals with flaming reds and yellow ochres
derived from the clay in the lake shores, taking on working roles
just to ensure our rooms are more beautiful for our hearts.

And in the great room I will meet you
there in that facing circle where we all are equal and eager
to step through the threshold.

Come one, come all

This circus is a myriad of myths.
Our dimes and our diners are now obsolete
as the water-wheel centrifuge dives down and then up
again to fuel our secret ballot response.

There are no True Defenders of Freedom under the Big Top.
They all play to the reality T.V. driven
psyche of fuzzy reception
and the watchers believe with giant dry eyes
lubricated long after their sweat-stained stadium seat
is stolen by silent soldiers.

They dangerously entrusted their livelihood
only to become slaves of a chemical industrial complex.

And now the insects have cameras that listen to your buzz
and the warped mirror is now two sided to make sure
they're there watching. You have to struggle to make your way out
of the crowded jackets and peanut shells flinging dust in your eyes.

The only place left go, to leave the circus behind
you must first untie the knotted lies of where the post holes are dug.
You have to find the sound that is taught and hidden under the elephant's rug.
Don't be surprised when cut back all of the slack, you find yourself in the woods
or the desert never wishing to go back.  

Inside the broken finch egg she saw a new speckled world.
She was out of her head and could not pick up the shards of shell
she had caused to crack by not speaking up.
Just arriving inside the pickle jar dream
she dreamed of when she was teary eyed and twenty-two
she joked that the vision
now seemed distorted.

Her internal clock was punching her gut, spelling out in Morse code
that this situation was not right.
Uneasy but unwavered she planted her garden and tried to unpack
her old life out of boxes but the spaces made clean were all circular
so in her sleep she sorted through her needs and wants and what felt right.

Uncomfortable and tossing. Coughing and back in pain she woke up early
every morning with the gaining solstice light.
The porch she worked on obtained pieces of a family's past
that she was not allowed to touch with dirty fingers or make clever comments on.
She tried hard not feel like a visitor in the distance.

All of the coffee she wanted was available, every bill she had was paid.
Still she felt like she didn't have what she needed. She was still searching
for the ideal she painted for this moment. She was screaming inside
to have more love. More hugs, kisses, sensual and romantic stones to be thrown.
She needed was receiving a kick from her spirit to pursue a greater path
that devoured her hours with enlightenment and connectivity.

She could only give that gift to herself and then and only then would she begin
again to feel like herself.
Everything in its right place.

Last day of April

Within a dream so vivid you said in words almost slurred
that you fell in between another's legs during the last eclipse.
You were so nonchalant about it as you admitted to also sleeping
with a friends' boyfriend whose name you could not remember.

I woke up saying, "when did you have another female roomate?" pissed at you.

And they quickly approched the audience

Have you ever felt that overwhelming lip quiver that sends your whole body shaking with adrenaline filled heart palpitations that change your breathing habit, sucking in too much at the wrong time, sending your brain into hypoxia?

It's the moment when you either hear news or have to say something that is completely shocking.
It's the time when you heard that your girlfriend had been almost raped because she got too drunk at a party. It's the moments just before you discover the results of your cancer screening and that summer when you stumbled upon an email that your partner was cheating on you.

Feelings of dread with Musgy Spanier's Riverboat Shuffle spinning trumpet trills ascending in the background. This ain't no Eliot Smith kinda day. And she can't say that this is the worst it's ever felt like, things could be much worse and she knows it. It's the fear of the unknown you know, that kills us in the moments of feeling your future wrapped tightly in a rice paper egg-roll.

Now I just have to unwrap this present that's in my face she says from her ego-consciousness to her heart. Everything that you once dreamed in the form of things around you to make you happier had come to fruition, where's your happiness in its genuine?  Her heart replies.
Now her gut told her in knocking punches, so as not to ignore,  there's something wrong with the situation even though it's fine the way that it appears. This saddened her like being out at the rolling sea with no sight of land in store.The picture she was painting while listening to Bach had been smeared.

But what if she's just afraid because of the change and the unknown, because of the lingering ghosts in bedsheets and wallpaper? Her heart said to her brain.
 She told me that she felt like this was an addiction. She was always chasing after the way she felt when they were in love, when their lives felt right because they were together. They were chained together on a prison yard, picking up stones to make mortar.
She would do anything just to make her happy; give up her job to move to her hometown, meet all of her oddball requests, and finally to stop asking about making love. This is where the telephone polls started snapping.

After all of the laundry was done, the lawn was mowed, dishes dry and dinner hot on the stove she realized that there were still boundaries that she could not cross. There was sensitive information in her heart that required rules so secrets could not be revealed.

By this time their symphony felt like it had its' peak in the planning of the future, but once it arrived she sensed a summer of discontentment. Once she gets what she wants she always wants something else. One could say that this is self-reflective of all of western civilization. The Grass is Always Greener, Have it Your Way, Slap into a Slim Jim.. etc. You get the drift, she always wanted more but at the same time they found themselves with less of the things that they didn't need and it made them both a little happier.

The change that they craved on mornings when they were stiff and stuck in a vapid grave yard on a crusty couch, hung over and sorrowful from fighting the night before. At least they were too old for that now. There was only a few more bad habits to iron out.

Dishwashing Thinking

I'm getting ready to board this foggy staircase
that leads to the hallways poured with colored doors.

My bags are mostly in boxes labeled,"kitchen, fragile, uncertainty, progress and evolution."

The emotions are in transit to a cloudless summer night where I will process
this life-changing moment, greater responsibility with unfathomable commitment.

I'm still sitting here though. I'm taking each day for what it is, a series of sun and stars pegged on a board with opportunity and dishwashing thinking sticky notes. Still trying to formulate a peaceful plan, one that sits well with the rhythm of my stomach, being organ driven.

We have tried to rinse down the spoken fear and anticipation with the juices of fermented grains for far too long. Now I've been scolded for remembering the hiss of the poison that came from your lips before you passed into unconsciousness. You're not accountable for the moments that you don't remember.

I will be very aware in times that draw near to maintain my fierce independence through purposeful movement aligned with thoughts from the woods derived from soil.

It would be easy to feel the power dynamic shift as an anvil strapped to my sternum.
But I breathe out anchors like puffs off a blunt and I still see the part of my picture that I've drawn out. I keep sketching in my mind with pencils,markers,paints and crayons.

Paper cut crunch

This is a double sided hutzpa salad dressing shaking a skank session under halogen bulbs.

There's a logical,yet magical way that we both created this paper cut crunch that splits us through the center of Ohio. I get the side that touches your stomach since I've been faced the other way all of these years.

With all of the embarrassing dangling carrots that have pulled away like credit card you think you have completely paid off, I'm hesitating in taking a bite.

But of course I'm taking everything too seriously.
It is only the flow of life to make choices that challenge
what you once thought was true.
My Calloused hands are not numb yet
but I am conditioning my obsessive trained tracks
to turn and brake in new ways.

There's still a window that I look out of on this speeding bullet.
I see the parallel lines of where I could be. It's a disguise and I know it.
I am not surprised that I am manning up
or sacrificing desire from lascivious lovers.
I have tried to block out the beams of that penetrating gaze
of what could be, like sex on the beach, it's a day dream.

Magnetic attractors are swinging

I'm beginning to let go of the worry
as the sun enters my veiled corneas
in the full production set of the aries-mars
archetype who is midway between equinoxes.

There is a ripening effect of this year already,
the solar return to the galactic center
asking us if we want to pull on the door
that changes your mind or be pushed back
into that crowded room that spins
when you stand and try to focus your eyes.

Our fallen milk chocolate allegories
of where we originate are finally synthesizing
into a hardened story line written on kitchen-greased paper
with blood still on it from the butcher.

You can't lie about blood, clots, arteries.
Even rivers thrive on veins.
I'm surprised the water table isn't saturated
but then again you have fresh and salt water
running through your veins,
why wouldn't your water contain their blood?

A scenic substance is not the Ego

She has turned her head and made the choice
to use her turn-key switch located on the clock between winter and spring.


I just shuffle on the canyon cliff-side above the seasons.
I'm looking for an astounding reason to say, yes or no.
The view from above has more light and clarity on the scene.
Although I'm not sure where the separation between viewing and doing
happens on the stone spine
or if I have already slipped down
the shear wall face and this evaluation of myself IS just me looking
up to the boulders coming towards my skull
and hallucinating my own death.

Every new path can be and is like a rapid of orgasms,
un petite mort. You die and expand
your vibrating lungs into a flowing era that is succinct with the map
that you drew out before you entered this languid body.

But what did the map say about this intersection with her?
Can I force myself to remember
the detailed holograms carved in wax by Metatron?
No, this is what we meant about Risk, it's the catalyst
that serves to complete the karmic revolution
where choice meets fate, where divine threads come together
to battle and weave. This reality is an alpaca blanket.

This life that once was a dream.
I now am convinced of the power to manifest
But that Doesn't mean I am a master at harnessing it.

In the darkness of the dawn I could hear them whispering,
"Make sure it's something that you really want otherwise the circumstances
become wrought with good intentions but poor forethought."
They brought in paths from the past to question my motives,
lucid smoke screens to get me to agree that I should to
wonder and not wander.
And to see the present from all sides
means to be still
and not plan.

What if I don't move forward with the vision
that I've encompassed and colored in?
Will I be punished or rewarded?
Do I sail out to the edge of the sea
to see if staying this course
will lead me to the promise land?
or do I
jump ship and hope to find my new life
where I'm no longer a sailor?
No longer this pulsar
that hides part of the light
to keep the darkness happy.

I don't leave it up to the Zephyrs or Aeolians but I do try to listen.

In the forest of my youth there is a sycamore.
The roots are strong at the base
of this watery tree but some underground
limbs are now rotten and softened by the elements of time.

If the loggers come in to cut it down today they will find
legions of patterned heartwood
as delicate as an orb-weavers web.
The stump however will never be destroyed or wafted by gloved thumbs.
Its entangled root-system still will feed
the microbes and invertebrates that rely on its structure.