turning

And where did it go?


Behind us dear,


Behind us.

riddance

the water circles the drain,


flows down the pipes


into the sewers below

Odd & Ends From My Desk Over The Last Few Months

-There are nights when the rustling of the trees sounds like the baying of the tides. -


-YOU'RE NOT HAPPY UNLESS YOU CAN'T GET WHAT YOU WANT. - 


-Roots run deep in this soil. -


- Shit don't fly, it gets thrown. -


-This abiding boredom. -


-Your voice echo's the answer. -


-We are able to create and understand technology more easily
than we can ourselves or others. -


-This false start stalled out my heart. -


-Our avarice is contagious. -


-Note to self: buy Vanilla Silk, pour over frosted mini-wheats. -


-The hard plastic plink of rain hitting an empty bucket. -


-She crawls like a snail, viscous and slow. -


-The girl made of soap. -


-Idea for a Character Name: Olivia Soap. -


-Have Pants, Will Travel. -


-Time has worn some of your grace, enough remains in the
lines of your face. -


-This Constant Condition. -


-We lack everything but soul. -


-Primate Psychology. -


-It's easier to deal with what you love once you don't have it. -


- A ghost passing the hours of the day until twilight. -


- Everything turns out differently from what you had imagined. -


- Your memory is an embolism. -


- The Inevitable Decay. -


- Don't be a fool your whole life. -


- It is a means of coping that is also destructive. -


- Tears always mar your smile. -


-The King of Hearts Always Misses His Queen. -


- Your Hunger Feeds From An Emptiness. -


- We watched them like sleuths sitting at the end of the bar. -


- I threw down the umbrella as I leaned in to kiss you,
bad romantic comedies are guilty of scenes like this. -


- These broken teeth cut so jaggedly, a failed symmetry.


- Where The Inquiring Mind Runs The Subconscious Will Follow. -


- Hear The Wind My Brother.
  Here, The Wind, My Brother. -




LIKE PICKING WORDS FROM THE WIND

Address to Self

just wait


let it come


let it find


you when


it's ready


patience


be kind


to me


once more.

The Late Night Drive

wandering through


the darkness


alone, there is


only enough time


to question everything.

Unedited Freewrite Excersize #3

the day dies as I sit in stasis beneathe my own
impoverishment my pockets empty I am not a
person by standards defined by the present the
will of money the will to desccribe and assign
value and worth the brain rattles words out of
me like some river pouring out endless for no
one but is it for naught or not it is difficult to
know no no no no no know it is our will this
will to create your hand feels like silk against
mine your kiss sweet like honey your my lips
needful against yours play the part of fiction
beneath thinly glazed reality masquerading in
these words all words that authors write down
for consumption what happens when your
compress the narrative down to the most base
construct lets find out don't be playing those
love games just an in joke for us to know from
those days we laughed for no good reason but
to laugh laugh as freely as we could before
the weight began to press down on our chest
the weight grows like a cancer in our flesh
i have given up giving up as a resolution I
will become the power of will and change I
have always imagined myself to be there is
nothing but reality and the power of thought
to shape and bring semblance to this supposed
order of cognizance are you as scared as I
imagine to jump to change to destroy yourself
to gain what you need so am I so am I it is
always there staring boldly and without fear
waiting for an answer there is only a few choices
we can make but we never see it that way
hello former muse do you remember me cause
I remember you reminders litter the remains
of a forgotten age its been over and the present
is as bright as its always been dark the world
is so beautiful and we are so limited by our own
hang ups and self destructive habits did you
sleep alone again last night in a sexless obligation
this cold grows colder and my skin get used to
it no more than it has to whats the point the box
chatters on endlessly and i am as distant as i've
ever been its just a living burial your mouth
choked full of dirt tears streaming down and
wondering why there is no why and there never
will face it live it know it it is all there ever is.

remains

What is left of me


as I sit here waiting


for life?

L'arbre de la memoire

there is a tree where i tie my memories


to keep them safe from the wasting days.


she is a lemon tree basking in the gaze of


Helios. leaves rustle with joy at the touch


of the breeze. she sounds like an ocean


breathing deep outside my window. we


grow older together, seeing the seasons


turn in familiar colors, a palette endless


as its canvas. you shiver and shake at


the touch of the rain, a jilted lover


returned, tears falling through your


branches, the night howls.

bloom

the flower which

blooms in the dark

blooms only for one.

Haunt

I'm the ghost


you've always


known.

the passage of time

sand falling through a sieve,

your hand beneathe it.

a pause, you

pour it on the ground.

"Forgive"

was the last thing she said

to me in her hospital room.

Her eyes sang the ache of 

a heart shackled by its own

grief and regret. When she 

was gone there was only 

one thing left to do.

Obsidian

cracked black mirror


mounted steady on the wall,


this broken obsidian eye.


what remains?

The wreckage of the past

reaches out to give its

benediction to the present.

Sonny

Your hands sang more beautifully than any singer,

a singular sound that could speak in tongues, shriek

in agony, wail in ecstasy or soothe like a mother's 

voice. The words have fled elsewhere as I write

this, leaving only your sounds in the room.

for Sonny Sharrock

Love Poem (Draft #2)

I want to write a love poem, problem is they have all


been written. Every sentiment of fondness or desire


now seems trite and insincere. The modern writer is


then faced with appearing sentimental and cliched,


incapable of expressing sincere and heartfelt feelings.


How many ways are there to describe a lover? How


many ways can we reveal a burgeoning fondness?


How many ways can that inexplicable feeling be


expressed? Cliche is an honesty everyone knows.



____________________________________

Note: This poem was first posted on Tuesday,
November 9th 2010. This is the 2nd draft of it.

1st Draft of this Poem.

Christmas Morning 2010

the wheels spun quick on the hollow

arteries of the winter morning. 

at the off ramp home, two buckets

full of bright red roses sat in the 

morning light. a middle aged man,

probably of Mexican descent, stood

there waiting for customers. an older 

homeless man crossed pushing his 

cart along. his beard was a long and

dirty grey. he looked like a santa that

had fallen on very hard times. red

turned to green as I made my way 

home.

Imperfection is an endless state of being

whilst perfection is the ideal against which

we live in the shadow of.

Ghost

Your shadow haunts

us through

memories too recent

to forget.

Blue eyed boy

you gaze

back through old

pictures

into a present you

could not

have foreseen.

Somewhere

you are waiting for

us.

el cielo azul

the open sky

wonders, its

thoughts

marked by

clouds.

jabon

the last

glass goes

down easy,

your words

a lullaby

taking me

to the

unconscious

embrace.

After The Storms

I've missed your

warm face beaming

down on us.


Seeing you once

more makes it

easier to forgive


all absence.

Life

is like a cat

running against traffic

on the freeways

of Los Angeles

on a rainy day.

Midnight Image

This flower bloomed

in the wet winter

of the midnight moon.

Kalmia Street On A Late Night

Plucking strings,

vibrations float

invisibly through

air, magnetic tape

picks them up,

plays them back.

And your

voice

And your

voice

And your

voice

singing

Oh

so

beautifully!

Jill

This is how I will

try to remember

your name. I love

the curl of your

blonde locks and

the brightness of

your smile. Seeing

you at Casey's in

the heart of Los

Angeles gives me

hope that conversation

will grow from the

soil of these years.

________________


For Jill, curly haired
bartender at Casey's

La Cara

Que

cara

tenias

antes

de que

nacistes?

Nap

I fell asleep

to the sound

of endless

drops falling

onto the

ground

outside

only to

wake to

their rhythm

once more.

What Is A Thing That Collapses?

Stacking 

cards

on a 

folding 

table,

they 

maintain

a form 

like lace,

fragile

to the 

touch.

The slightest 

motion 

could

collapse it.

What then?

Time wasted,

an exhausted

sigh.

__________

for K.A.N.

finding

Lost in this darkness

I stumble blindly

groping for walls,

finding nothing at all.

Editorial

The words I am searching for are all there, the problem is finding the order


in which to best arrange them. It seems so easy to have a thought and place


it with the right words in order to achiever a maximum degree of clarity but


that is not always the case. The idea sometimes languishes in my head or is 


forgotten altogether. When that happens there is only regret at what might 


have been. Other times I have the idea and the words but suffer from the 


gall to make it so for fear of the parts of myself that would need to be laid


bare in order for it to happen. 

Dearest,

I never told you why I left, and for that I apologize. It was nothing either of us could have foreseen. I find myself thinking about you now more than when we were together. I cannot undo the things I have said or done, I can only trust that you can accept my sincerest apologies. Even if you cannot I am ready to accept that as well. My departure was a foolish errand, that much is clear to me. Though I cherish your love, I am unfit for it. I hope you have found someone more worthy of it than I. There is little that any sort of explanation by me could clear up for you. Know you were loved by me as deeply as could be felt. Though these words are drenched in saccharine you shall always own a piece of me both body and soul.


Your once beloved.

______

Archaic Expression

We have no qualms 

               with falling in love,

even less with falling 

              in lust to the thought

of one who is desired.

3:15 A.M.

Waking late,

or is it early?

It's hard to

say at times.

Mouth and

throat work

together to

express the

tiredness of

the hour.

The house

is still,

my sneeze

echoing in

the night.

The Company of One

the silence of the morning

is the greatest

pleasure

I share with no one

but myself.

wind passing in a grey sky

outside my window

the raven squawks.

in the distance

a dog barks,

its master

gone

for the day.

Voce

I found it sitting there

in the darkness of

the basement.


I descended the stair

case with flashlight

in hand.


Sitting in the chair,

it looked at it's watch

and said,


"I was wondering

when you would

find me."


I wasn't sure what

to say. The first words

out of my mouth were,


"I'm sorry if I kept you

waiting, I didn't know

you were on a schedule."


"Let's go," it said. It stood

up and followed me up the

stairs into the afternoon.

A Searching Intellect

Our love is a function of our intellect.


The gray chapel in which it resides is


a dark and lonely place with only two


windows to the world. As it travels


peering into other windows, searching


for a matching gleam that can remove


the loneliness of its dark home. With


patience & chance the matching gleam


can be seen setting alight the beating


engine, running it into the red, hoping


it can slow down and enjoy the view


inside another's home.

Whales & Goldfish

the tires grip the curved onramp

as cars race by like salmon going 

upstream. suddenly a whale appears 

in the freshwater concrete nearly 

tossing my goldfish off the side. we 

roll forward, trailing in its wake.

Process

type type type type


*pause*


furrowed brow, chin stroke.


type type...


*sigh*


type type,

typetypetypetypetypetype
typetypetypetypetypetype
typetypetypetypetypetype

hmmm,


"good enough for now."

For Mary Ruefle

I type out words with soundless clacks

as you read poetry to an audience I was 

never in. 

Should I say that your voice sounded

smooth like the surface of a marble

table?

Or that your words sound like those 

of an imagination of a life well lived?

I'd rather not think of how to describe 

you, I'd rather just listen, and watch.

Naked and Screaming

We came into

this world

naked and

screaming,



if we're

lucky we'll

leave it the

same way.

The Truth of a Kiss

I long to taste your kiss again,

soft, and wet against my lips.




Like rose petals, moist and

fragrant,we exchanged




breath between our lungs,

inhaling and exhaling,




longing to live eternally

between pages we




will never see.


____________________
note: looking at this the morning after, ehhh.

I don't think that ending really works.

Maybe I should rewrite it.

Truth In Advertising

the liquor

goes down

easy even

when every

thing else

in life

doesn't.

Dulce

Who picked this sweet bloom I wonder?


Sitting there on the wooden table,




leaning against the gaping mouth of the


vase, her head tilting down. A white




petal landing soundlessly, like paint


drying in the sun.

Darwin, darlin'

Don't you believe in evolution? I asked her.


"I'm not saying it's not right, there's still too


many gaps in the theory." I wasn't sure what


to say to that. What can you say to that?


Darwin, darlin'. Saying nothing, she


shook her head and walked away.

Rough Times

As the clerk at the convenience store was

ringing me up, I overheard the stranger next

to me, "She was bleeding out from the mouth

before she expired. I cried three times."

As I walked away I thought to myself,

"These are rough times stranger, rough

times."

writer

We walk around writing

our story every day 

wondering if anyone 

will ever want to

read this novel we've 

spent our whole

life writing.

A Master and His Servants

My hands run at the beck and call

of the master upstairs.


It is strange to think of the master

and servants as being one.


Their differences are many though

they share the same vessel.


Master can be uptight at times,

the servants don't mind being


carefree. They get along as

well as strangers like them can.


I wonder what they would make

of being described this way?

heart & body

I taste just like like your lips

          I still burn from your hips

                     I'm bruised but not broken




The love of the world
        
               lives in your sweet flesh

                                  give me your heart

                    

                          

broken pieces

There is not hing

I can d o

a b

out

t his bro

ken

coven

ant

w/

ith

you

.

spit

spit it out onto

the concrete,

it evaporates

into air, the

mark of your

presence no

longer there.

Unedited Freewrite Excersize #2

shut off the machine in front of you if you know whats

good for you don't hesitate just go ahead and do it i

know you're afraid to but i promise its for the best to

unplug yourself from time to time its not like you're

attached to an iron lung such a weird concept that we

don't have to think about anymore when your lungs

break down and you can only live by virtue of a ma

sheen machine machine machine is what Dez once

sang back when he was in black flag turning off your

brain is almost like turning on a faucet if you do it

right but its hard to and its even harder to say what

is right but we aren't here to judge right or the rites

of men who cast their judgments upon us only their

God can do so but they often ignore his word and

replace it with their own twisted sense of faith and

morality you get used to that backwards mindset its

everywhere it breeds quickly and masks itself in

clothes indistinguishable from our own walking

down the street looking for a stranger to meet it

could be me coming to you it could be you coming

to me come with me is what i would say but i would

never know where to take you it wouldn't be planned

it would be a spur of the moment active impulse to

subvert the paradigm of the known and unknown

quantities we know as ourselves our shelves tend to

hold the thoughts of others as writ upon pages and

pages of length tomes pages evolved up from the

lowly papyrus the ancient egyptians once used to

record their history and mythology though they

would consider it an insult for us to think of their

faith as pure myth but really how did they think

to embalm their dead thats beyond our understand

ing it may not be up to us to know or say no to the

stranger offering you a slice of heaven for the price

of a few dollars you say no but you say it in a halting

hesitating tone because you always wanted to feel

that sense of ecstasy that you've always heard people

sing and write about but never known for yourself

is it like the first time you fucked and came so hard

you felt like the heavens were collapsing in your

loins and nothing could stop you from going to hell

but how little it mattered and who were they to tell

you that it was wrong it was an abomination against

god and that it would be better to spill your seed in

the belly of a whore than on the ground you would

have taken the whore any day but that never seemed

to come and made you wonder just what whore they

were talking about no one knows or cares its just a

matter of saying one thing and doing another a vow

of fidelity and eternal devotion is only as good as the

heart who wields it but we all fall short of our ideals

but there is no sense in beating ourselves over it

just some primates looking for a good time to drink

some wine and pass the time passing the time is all

we do is all we can do with this large grey neural

mass pumping us full of thoughts neuroses and

ambitions using the body as tool to carry it aloft

and support its agenda what a cruel master it is

slaves to our minds slaves to systems that we never

made nor gave our consent to they always wield

the power but we must never forget that they is WE.

closing

there was always

talk of

what we would

do when

the right moment

came

it went on like

this

for years that

moment

forever eluded

us

the gates are closing

fast

behind us the birds

sing

as day turns to night

again

Machine Shop

Blotting out the sun within

numbs the heart to the sound

of its own beat, making it no

better than a machine in a

factory.

Rhyme

My dear,

this year

I disappear.

Non-Terminating Irrational Number

"I'm sorry sir, we no longer have any technicians

that can service that model. I wish there

was more we could do for you.

You have to keep in mind that it's almost thirty

years old. If I'm not mistaken, that one

was discontinued the following year.

You might have some luck taking it down it down

to one of those repair shops in the old

town district of the city.

I hate to say that but I just can't see many places

having the parts or the know how on

how to fix those any longer."

I told her "Thanks" and picked up the small box

and started walking back to the car.

I slid in the key and unlocked the door

and sat down into the worn seat. I opened the box

and pulled out the old pump. I held it

in my right hand as my left hand began

to undo the buttons of my shirt. I touched the

wooden doors on my chest, feeling for

the latch. I flipped it over and swung

open my sternum to reveal the empty space in

my chest cavity. I began feeling for the

arterial hose so I could more easily

find the others. It took a few minutes but I got

it all connected and flipped the switch.

It jerked a bit as it took a few more

moments to begin beating at a semi-normal

pace again. They just don't make

them like they used to.

A Life Lesson

Your love is perfect without me

Your embrace was endless as we stood there

in the shadow of the city

You are a hope I have surrendered

to gain understanding of

a karmic lesson

_______

_______

It's best to let the sea sit between us

"I'm not gonna lie, but..."

I'm not gonna lie

but,

I find myself uttering

those

words more often

than

not these days.

Abstract Unknowns

What are we talking about when we talk

about the known and the unknown? Is it

simply the things which we possess no

personal knowledge but for which there

is an answer with a more enlightened

being? Or are we talking about the

questions that have pestered man

for time immemorial because of an

awareness we can never obliterate

from our existence?

A Note For All Travelers

There is no tragedy

when talking of the shortcomings

of our lives, only

the results of an indifferent world.

Our joys are ours

alone as we travel through, hoping

to find a balance

between the acts of the angels on

the verge of

falling from our shoulders altogether.

Palm Psalm

I drew simple inspiration

from a few words of

another poet as I read

through her book.


The words flowed simply

and carefully through

the forms laid upon

the pages.


I couldn't help but

ponder the words of

a book aptly named,

"Hilarity."

To Know

She doesn't

know

unless I

tell

her but

that's

not true,

she

always knows

what

I'm talking

about

unless I

don't.

In that

case,

neither of

us know.

Fractures in the Faults

"Do you really expect an answer right now?"

I had given her no other indication.

I replied simply, "Yes."

"You have some nerve to ask me that after

everything thats happened."

"I just need to know is all."

"I did and it was all your fault. If you had

just listened I never would have done it."

"That's all I needed to know."

I turned and walked away, her words

hitting my back, the hot sun burning.

My tongue sat silently in its cave.

"Walk away! Keep walking, you never

listen, never!"

Historical Events

The hand of history reaches its arm towards us

with joy or misfortune. We cannot judge its

offering to us until the moment has passed.

Dear God,

Have you ever heard the joke that goes,

Q: How do you make God laugh?

A: Tell him your plans.

I've been thinking about it lately.

At least one of us is getting humor

out of it.

Sincerely,

__________

rope

the night twists into knots,

nimble fingers fumble in

attempts to straighten

the length of rope.

Pillow Fight

"The trouble with a lot of writing is the self indulgent

tendencies of the writers and the exaggerated belief

in their own talents."

She was full of witticisms like this. After enough time

lounging in bed she would prod me into talking about

writing, often times while I was writing.

"But you're different than all those other hacks."

Really? What makes you think that?

"Well, for one you're pretty humble, secondly

you're actually talented."

I started laughing. Appeal to an artists ego is

the quickest way to gain immunity from their

mercurial temperaments.

"Why are you laughing?"

No reason.

"Well, you are good. Is there another way you

want me to prove it to you?"

I suppose there is but that would only distract me

from my writing.

She threw a pillow at me and started laughing.

It's a wonder I ever got any writing done.

A Question For Myself

forget the names,

in time

do they really all

seem the

same?

Le Centre de nos Ames

I think of you

more often

than I care to

admit. Let's

not let these

neurons re

legate these

thoughts to

the dustbins

of failed ro

mantic in

trigues. L

et's meet

at the lips

and let ev

erything e

lse decide

itself as w

e go.

Past Love Sentiment

Our sentiments were the passing fancy of electric tides

fueled by a supposed desire to fill the empty spaces of

our lives only to expose that void once more and leave

it open to the icy winds of a northern winter.

mercury

fleet footed messenger

I waited for you to

return, you never came.

dying in this darkness,

where did you go?

Unedited Freewrite Excersize

don't let this sentimental nature fool you, believe what

you want to believe. see what you wish to see. I am an

empty vase waiting to be filled the stems of your blooms.

I shattered on the floor when his arm knocked me over.

abstract thoughts of joy and missed opportunity pluck

at neurons like grapes from a clutch. Its easier to write

to forget to write and let the words tumble clumsily with

out any sense of order or volition. awkward children run

ning awkwardly, words that are never enough to capture

the full scope of joy, a mind too pent up, too worried

too concerned about what it is, what it could be, an

underlying sense of fear and dread of madness that could

consume an entire life, a life lost, left drooling, raving

in blind hysterics. wish you were real and not memory

could could be nothing its just unreal if you let yourself

slide away its just words nothing more just words falling

slowly waiting for you to make sense of them all edit them

together into a form give order give meaning to it all or

just let them stand alone in their solitude. i can't forget

the touch of steel slicing clean and deep, a hurt as pure

as any you gave me, i can feel that beat drive deep into

that subconscious sphere, i am not here a free word

association is all that there is left of me frantically try

ing to to the loose thread together again, they're too

frayed and gray, just forget the task, its not worth the

bother anymore they'll always be that far ahead you'll

never catch up. stop being scared stop standing at the

edge and jump and breath in the deep waters, let the

spongy lung tissue ache in pain, there is nothing left

to give when there is nothing left to live. turquoise

canopy of forgiveness shade my infidelity mask my

tranquility behind the concerned look of fragility

your mask mirrors mine if we could only see the

faces we hide from each other, you forget who is

there behind it all, all i see is a stranger left in my

place all i see left of you is the memory i hold tight

by the throat, never leaving me, but i wish you

would the way i've left you so many times before

alone on the side of the road, to fend for yourself

to worry of no one else. there is no peace in your

sanity, only one holy and unstable promise made

to keep, but its been broken and no one remembers

what it was any longer.

Bird Song

This gilded glass cage keeps us singing

beautifully,

singing and dreaming, singing and

dreaming

of clear blue skies always out of

reach.

Our feathers draw her eyes in the

gaze

of the afternoon sun, our songs of

sorrow

fill her head with scenes of victorian

romance.

Our voices tire into a forced docility,

beaten

by the passage of the day. Sunset stills

us,

the dawn renews our Sysiphean toil.

Sing,

sing brightly and sweetly once more for

her.

Goddess

She speaks in wordless tongues in

dialects too obscure to recognize.

Her body moves in pagan dances,

gyrating to rhythms drenched in

sin. Her eyes gaze like obsidian

and jade in opposing occipital

cavities. Red nails trail the curve

of your neck, drawing you close,

forever hers.

The Children We Were, Are.

Like children

we sang and

danced to a

rhythm of

our own

making,

forgetful

of the

world,

joyous in

our song.

rage

rage is blind when it strikes wildly

at every direction. merciless and

dumb, it moves without worry

until it collapses in a heap not

sure of what may have happened.

Don't always wear your heart on your sleeve, it's bound to get shot off that way.

Someday Your Prince Will Come

Some day your Prince will come,

but it's not me,

it's not me

and never can be.

Clever Fucker

If you try to be clever with

each piece of writing you do

you'll find yourself wracking

your mind needlessly over

absolutely nothing. It's

best to just let it go

and do what it wants

when it needs it.

ideal

be the dream,

no rose colored

lens to taint

the hue of you.

Fractal Inspiration

you are the rose,

the inspiration,

the hope that flows

into the heart and

subconscious tendrills.

Her Arrival

Winter is here

upon these steps,

won't you let her

in?

Todays Afternoon Fiction Romance

All signs point to yes

though verbal

evidence points to the

contrary.

Mistress, lean in closer.

Kiss.

Red Lion

We grew younger with each amber drink

in our hands. The problems of our present

judged against our youthful history melted

into one haze as the hours lost themselves

in the dark reaches of oaken booths. We

shared a bond only men who have burned

could understand.

Archaeologist

I held on to those pieces of you long after you were gone.

The currency of past lives marks an emotional epoch which

can now be seen in the strata of those years. I wander like

an archaeologist, more curious than involved, contemplative

and detached from the subject at hand. This process covers

the hands with dirt of ages, sullies the clean clothes of the

present. It is a wonder to behold the works, the inhabitants

are long since gone. The empty ruins, a monument to another

time, my feet headed down the path far and away.

Midnight Passage

two ships sailing down the same river

in the darkness of winter, one spots the

other, signals. spotted, the sign is returned.

the glimmering moon shining down on

the water below.

King Wild Heart

My heart is too wild for you

to contain

doesn't mean you shouldn't

try

doesn't mean that I don't

love you

let's surprise each other

for once

The Darkness at the Edge of the Light

You can see it at the edge of the mirror when you wake up

after a hangover. It darts past, leaving you to wonder if it

was really there.

You can see it when you are driving on the road before a

car almost crashes into you.

You see it in the eyes of politicians when they are elected.

You hear it in the voice of the preacher in the church when

he talks about "The Chosen" or "The Saved".

You see it in the gestures of Presidents, Monarchs and

Dictators when they speak about "THEM".

You felt it as a child when you sat in school and became

obedient.

You feel it when you watch television.

You see it in the eyes of the man behind the counter at

the fast food joint you got your last meal at.

It stares at you when you slow down on the freeway so

you can see the aftermath of an accident.

You see it every morning in the bathroom mirror.

If we were young forever we would never learn from our mistakes.

Take this line

these words

and

break them

a

p

art.

The Great Deceiver

She preens before the camera eye with a gaze

steady and vacant. Thoughts drop like rocks

from behind enamel curtains. The gullible &

fearful exalt her words as gospel. Her beauty

lines her pockets with gold as she speaks of

a coming paradise if given the chance to be

the shepherd of the flock. Every word, every

passing day brings her closer to making a

grab for the throne.

Unexpected Guests

Asteroid collisions are nothing new to our home planet.

Like an unwelcome guest, their stays are always brief and

inconvenient. They never write or call ahead to let us know

that they are coming by. With a little bit of notice we could

be more accommodating and leave out a plate of various

snacks and finger food to stave off hunger and have a pot

of hot tea waiting to be poured out. We are merely the most

recent tenants of this home. The landlord has told us to look

out for these visits seeing as that is what caused the terrible

lizards to move out in the first place.

__________________________

Note: this poem was written the morning after seeing poet

Mary Ruefle read at Machine Project in the Echo Park

neighborhood of Los Angeles. It was a breath of fresh air

and inspiring beyond belief to speak with her afterwards.

Thanks to poet Kelli Anne Noftle for introducing me to her

work.

Speak Easy

The dark corners of the room spoke of decades past,

Heels clacked on the floor as shadows danced by

Candlelight. Conversation flowed as we sat in the

Well worn wood. The sacrament of Dionysus was

Poured into the glass as the chattering voices fell

silent to our ears. Jazz floated through the air in a

steady pulse of time swinging back and forth into

a groove with your finger tap tapping on the table.

We played the parts of film noirs past, your dress

Fit for any movie palace queen. When the candle

Wick burned out and the wax hardened once more,

We stepped out from that static age and into the

Rushing tides of the city streets.

_________________

this is a reworking of a poem called "Varnish" that was originally posted Nov. 6th.

remember to throw it away

We wax philosophic in the midnight hours

when we have filled ourselves with god's

proof to our happiness. Each sip burns as

it makes our way down our gullet and into

the primordial pump within.

Boris

he spins his web in defiance of gravity,

each silken thread draws another piece

of architecture under the morning light.

when it is done, he'll lie in wait.

Re: Lunch Poems

We share the same moment but

in different spaces

across a city that hardly knows

how to condense it

self. Thoughts carry electric

through means we

could hardly understand if

we ever tried.

Language is the wonderful

bond we share,

we'll bask in the tongue of

her words.

nothing

What

I want is

a past

I cannot have

a past

that never

existed

and a present

that will

never be.

Anonymous Ghost

I watch you through the screen

cool and silently.

Do you watch me too

through the stillness of

the late hours?

where it happens

voices competing to be heard above

each other as the night comes to a

close and the music gets louder.

empty glasses dot our conversation,

the restless night waits outside.

a normal love

don't wake me if you rise before me,

let me dream in the ether.

I've watched the sun rise over you

through slatted windows,

monuments to the comforts of a

beloved normalcy.

My Opinion On Religion & Politics

All political and religious institutions are inherently flawed by virtue of their creators.

Only One Thing Left to Give

He was sitting passed out on the couch with the television on.

Empty bottles of liquor and beer littered the floor like an ocean

of debasement. The light bathed him unflatteringly as the stubble on

his face was in that awkward period between being a beard and being

a razor away from presentability. I could have robbed him, killed him

while standing over his defenseless body. I had thought about it many

times but had never been so close to. I have never forgotten, I will never

forget. What he did to us cannot be forgiven. I am no more his son than

he is my father. Not tonight old man, but one night. That is a promise

you can be sure I will keep.

______________________

______________________

Freelance Death

There is always a curious creature

beating its rhythm insistently in

side your chest.

I grow inside you like cancer

feeding from your blood.

self-fulfilling prophecies

Maple

I might as well be

a maple tree,

put in a spout and

watch the sap

run out.

On Writing

Writing can be the ultimate form of meditation

when thought and hands become a seamless

mechanism of expression.

the body at rest

What do you wish for in the darkness when you are

silent, listening to the rise and fall of the air in your

lungs? What secret truth do you think about and

guard? With the covers pulled close, your mind

surrenders to the rhythms dictated by natural order,

You begin to dream, living a second life far more

real than anything in the waking world.

Love Poem

I want to write a love poem, problem is that they have

all been written. Every possible manner of expressing

fondness or desire now seems trite and insincere. The

modern writer is then faced with the task of appearing

sentimental and cliched, incapable of expressing their

sincere and burning heartfelt feelings which must be

expressed. Such a sad fate to have your love relegated

to the dustbins of an older tradition. How many ways

are there to describe your lover? How many ways can

we express eternal devotion? How many ways can we

express a burgeoning fondness? How many ways can

I say that you excite me? How many ways can I say

that you fill me with unbridled hope and optimism?

How many ways can that inexplicable feeling be

expressed? Cliche is an honesty that everyone knows

but never wish to express.

Problems Of The Civilized World

is it necessary to speak the truth in convoluted terms

in order to demonstrate a higher grasp on the raw

materials of language? to covey the experience of

humanity in terms that fail the understanding of the

average? if language is art then what is separating

the janitor from Hemingway? we share a medium

but wield it in vastly different terms. thinking about

feet, stresses, line breaks, syllables and a clever

sincerity mar the honesty of the point being made.

the argument could be a false one, those ancient

modes could be the key to everything or they could

be a clever ploy for you to contemplate as the sun

heats the asphalt, melting tires as they make

contact, rendering them all but useless.

MVMT

When the world moves on you always have

the choice to move forward or to remain.

It gets lonely here some times. It gets

lonely here being the only one left behind.

What Did The Universe Do To Deserve This?

you are not dead but not merely living.

toss out the broken shards of glass from

the living room and into the alley where

people fill their lives with the remains

of others. stare at the mirror long enough

and you'll believe it reveals every ugly

truth you've tried to hide. Good liars

work hard at fooling the mirror. Sit in

your silence and question the fairness

of the world that neglects your obvious

genius, the world doesn't know what

it's missing out on. Flush the remains

down the toilet, no one cares, no one

thinks about where the pipes lead to.

They lead everywhere and anywhere.

That piece of yourself excreted into a

void that you don't mind. It's not so

easy getting older and letting that

optimism get beaten in the back of

the head with a shovel and then

tossed into the ditch, warm blood

soaking the soil as the same shovel

is used to bury the crime. there is

no guilt in those actions, just the

understanding that what had to be

done was done and there is nothing

that you or anyone else can do about

it now. Stop crying about your child

hood. It's not as wonderful as you

remember. Glossed over memories

make the walls shine brighter. If you

remove the filter you will understand

the way things have always been. It

is highly probable that things will

always continue in some form or

fashion as they are now, the times

will change but behaviors don't. We

are primates too primitive to ever

learn the lessons of our lives. We are

the bad karma of the universe perpe

tuating itself endlessly. Give up the

dream if you wish to set yourself free.

Step out from behind your desk, step

out from the building you are in and

let that air fill your lungs, exhale and

break into a sprint, rip off your clothes

and let the sun fall upon you as it did

for our ancestors.

Your eyes are gleaming with the same dreaming we all do.

That Which The Prophets Heard

When you live in a cramped space

it becomes important to find a place

where that voice that chatters be

tween your ears can run or shout,

dream or wander endlessly in the

night. It will talk to you if only

you'll listen. When you hear it you

will know, when you hear it, be ready.

estrangement

No words could cross the chasm we made,

so we turned up the volume and drowned

the silence.

Her

She sings

beautifully

to me as

her words

fall one by

one from

heaven

in the

darkness

of the

night.

seeing you

there is no stranger in your eyes,

only souls meeting after a

prolonged absence.

Varnish

The dark corners of the room spoke of decades past,

your heels clacked on the floor, dim candles lit the

dark as we sat in the well worn wood. Conversation

melted the hands of the clock as drinks flowed in

our veins. The voices of the room fell into a low

level hum barely perceptible to our ears. In time

the ice melted in our glasses, that too, we drank.

The time came when the carriage would become

a pumpkin, we stepped out from that static age

and into the rushing tides of the city streets.

proof

a speechless intoxication is all i have

to prove the words we shared by the

light of this morning i wonder if fairy

tales are real these words are failing

me its ok its fine it really is you are

proof enough

Red Rivers

I gazed upon her face as red rivers of tears

stream down, staining the land. The wind

rustles the folds of her clothes as the parched

soil blows away. Goddess of creation, have we

forgotten our mother? When will your tears

end, when will we forgive ourselves for what

we have wrought?

A Vision Of The End

Living within the folds of a dream

that wills itself into being we delve

deep into the progress we have made

that will be be our funereal pyre. She

seeks a return to balance that we

cannot afford to give her. She moves

her hand deftly as we awaken in the

moment of the end of the fifth age.

The Return Of...

When the serpent god returns

what will he find in these spaces?

A landscape of ruin, or fields

ready to be sowed once more?

Pigs, Wolves & Sheep

"Must we care for the sheep? Our jaws slobber

at the thought of our teeth biting into their soft

flesh." said the Alpha Wolf.

The porcine figure reared back onto his hind legs

and approached the lectern at the gathered body

of Pigs and Wolves.

"My canine brothers, you must be patient. You crave

their flesh for feasting, we crave their wool to keep

ourselves warm in the winter.

We can find a way to meet both of our needs. We must

work together to keep them grazing in the pastures

unaware of our plans."

A lesser wolf spoke up from the ranks, "What if they

found out of our plans? What would we do?" With

a heart beaten pause the hall erupted in laughter.

"Brother wolf, they will never know. As long as we

keep them grazing in the fields they will be none

the wiser. You shall all feast heartily and we shall

stay warm in the winter. It will be as we have planned.

It will be as our kind have always done." They nodded

in agreement as the sheep lay unaware.

expulsion from the throat

it cascades down the front of your clothes like a river

snaking its way down to your feet, pooling like a puddle

drying up in the noontime summer sun. you remember

the narrator whose unreliable narration made it hard

to remember where in the story you were or what the

story was at all. you cough in fits as the day heats up

the inside of your car to unbearable degrees, burning

you as you sit down on hot leather. such petty problems

mark your life, nothing serious, all trivial with no sub

stance to make it worth the blood of your ancestry.

What else is new in these times? Everything turns a

round and round again and again, like a movie on

repeat but with the characters all changing clothes with

the times, changing slang to reflect the current youth

movements and times, an appeal to keep age away

but its not ever so easy. its never so easy for the

mother working several shit jobs to pay the bills

that she hardly ever makes while her children grow

distant and detached from her in the prime years

of their propensity for love. There is a root cause

for some problems. We are so obsessed with

diagnosing our ills and maladies, there is no health

anymore just heart break and insanity. Men losing

the bit that keep their gender rolls in check, adjusting

to new conditions which are opaque at best, at best

these are the worst outcomes that could befall them,

the roads are cracking in the road with chunks of

asphalt roaming free, leaving holes once the rain is

gone for the cars to bounce into and shock the

passengers in their seats while the driver shuts

off conversation with the turn of the volume knob

on the car stereo. all connections are new but they

are already frayed. frayed and no one has any

electrical tape to fix this dilemma. We have grown

past our modernity and added POST to it as a prefix

to indicate how far we have come along. We have

gone nowhere but for the place we have always been

dreaming in delusions grandeur, baited and sedated

the glass which fuses to our eyes, our eyelids never

even close now they just stand wide, in time our

evolution will do away with the need for eyelids,

we will dream with eyes wide open, sleep will be

a horribly comic joke and we'll learn to be like the

shark and keep moving keep moving keep moving

or risk dying, dying, dying, dying, dying, our eyes

bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding,

our hearts no longer beatingbeatingbeatingbeating

beatingbeatingbeatingbeatingbeatingbeatingbeating

beatingbeatingbeatingbeatingbeatingbeatingbeating

When

When

you find it, will you know

what it looks like?

When

you feel it, will you know

it's right for you?

When

they come along, will you

reach out your hand?

When

then is now,

will you live in that moment?

for the snails of the world

She crawls like snail,

viscous and slow,

her belly smearing

the ground with a

shiny secretion to

mark her trodden

path. Everywhere

she's been I know,

everywhere I go

I wonder where

she is tonight.

Endless Onion

"it's weird, the layers of someone

that are slowly exposed over time..."

the more I thought about it

the more right you are.

Here's to Endless Onions.

The Prince

(DRAFT 2)

He comes in and sits at the stool at the end of the bar.

I’ve heard people say he’s some kind of prince, I’ve

Never believed it myself. He’ll start out with a beer

Or two before moving to scotch. He nurses each drink

Like it’s the last one on earth. I wouldn’t call him a

Vagrant or bum. Vagabond perhaps. There is an air

About him that keeps him from such categories, could

Be the coats he wears, broken in, not tattered. He’s never

One for conversation on nights I’ve worked. Never Heard

Him speak ill of anyone or decry fate or misfortune. Just

drinks quietly by himself until he can’t drink any more.

In spite of all this, he always tips nicely. You can’t fault

A man who tips well.

___________________________

DRAFT 1

He comes in and always sits at the stool at the end of the bar.

I’ve heard people say that he’s some kind of prince but I’ve

Never believed it myself. He’ll usually start out with a beer

Or two before moving on to scotch. He nurses each drink

Like it’s the last one on earth. I wouldn’t call him a vagrant

Or bum though, vagabond perhaps. There is an air about him

That keeps him from such categories in my mind, could be

The coats he wears, broken in but not tattered. He’s never

Been one for conversation on the nights I’ve worked. Never

Heard him speak ill of anyone or decry fate or misfortune. He

Just drinks quietly by himself until he can’t drink any more.

In spite of all this, he always tips nicely. You can’t fault a man

Who tips well.

what's been lost / what still remains

the dead hand falls from my shoulder,

unburdening myself of its nails digging

into my flesh. i see it fall and dissipate

into air.

each step grows lighter as i see you

approach, the past gone, a memory

best left behind in the dusty attic

at home.

shadoeye

shadows passing

in mirrors

from the corners

of your eyes.

mid day dream (1 of 4 short pieces for _._. )

my heart is restless

with thoughts of you running free

inside of my head

like a child at christmas time

i cannot wait to see you

lo que veo es lo que quiero

you are in my sights

&

i can't look away

Dear Olive,

It has been a long time since we spoke. That's not unusual

for people as busy as we are. I do think about you from

time to time. Sometimes it might be one of your songs

that comes up and catches me at rapt attention. Other

times I remember some of the words you have written.

Last night you came up in a late night conversation at

a bar. We were having drinks, discussing literature and

the like (I'm sure you would approve). I've been thinking

a bit more about feet, (un)stressed syllables as well as

building realities with a sense of plausibility. Basic things

that make me feel like a beginner on some much longer

path winding through the forest in the fall. There is a

certain romance that springs forth from people when

discussing, the 'Art', the 'Craft'. It's a lovely idea but I'm

not sure how much of it I believe. There is always more

to say but finding where to end the line is a skill unto

itself. I hope these words find you in time.

Sincerely,

_____________________