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.