self discipline:
this should be the ultimate goal
for harmony. mankind.
but it is an anarchaic tragedy,
from the beginning.
the mind holds an infinitely instantaneous
synapse snap of energy
pushing & processing information,
receiving and calculating each
moment to the next. however,
i notice sometimes my body,
unable to work out the brain's indecision,
continuously moving into a creation
of nonsense. no divine mind to
bring about the rise and fall of
human destruction: an eternally
tragic string of movement
conducting a consciousness to link
the chaos.
it is it's definition that divides
us all. god is:
the absence of nothing

the heavy cloud
black in the night
against the dark blue sky
lightning strikes an illumination of white
still silent
my love has departed
following the stars in circles.

obsessions

Every so often the dim of night
shrouds my window pains,
and the din of passing traffic slows to a halt,
and the seeping of velvet fog violin strings
pass through my walls,
playing far, far away, with you,
on the bright side, my friend

Don't give up

little child

of mine. You

are down 

there

somewhere,

lurking with

an impossible

smile. For

Sunday school

is almost over

It is life,

not you,

that is shrinking. 

You will stop

those thoughts

soon enough.

I have been given the assignment of dressing the first boy in white. It must all be white from the desperate tiles, confounding even the simplest glance of admirer and disapprover alike, to stretched stone fit like a one year old tooth. The music begins and the dancers are seen. Perfect on the toenails they skate in between the stone columns; bright and pink are their gowns, flowing is the blood red cape.
For months at a time they move in this fashion to prepare for the boy who I am to dress in white. They eat little as to be sure of the lightest glide.
In each corner a single rusted pipes extends from the wall. Beneath it a red-hot stone and the drips make small hissing sounds, the moist air sets easy on the dancers’ arms, just above the wrist. Half a day’s travel away, a lake of pure mineral water is taken for the drops. A young man bids for the right to retrieve the water. This time a square headed child walks quickly, the one who leaves when I bring the boy in white after dressing him, the only time the bidding of the water is undesired, the boy sent for water returns home a relic, his gait is spoken of for decades, his shoulders remembered for years.
Outside in the courtyard tents are erected months in advance and merchants claim plots quickly, some of them never leave. Those who gaze longest on the temple are chosen to soak the polished stone, many men have starved to death holding to a gaze, orchids are laid in an intricate design on their chests, their bodies left on wooden tables on the street. Those that live and are accepted will work tirelessly to keep the stone clean, as one spec of dirt settles a man retrieves it.
On the day of the ceremony, after the skaters glide, a torrent of water rushes through the temple, to the courtyard and over the stone. The boy dressed in white emerges just as the skaters approach, in bare feet he walks up the stone as the skaters lift on to a single toenail and stretch a leg adjacent to the sky. His steps are perfect on the wet surface, he ascends to the temple, the water is still hissing from the flood.
In the center of the room he lies down, in only days his body begins decomposing. The dancers have not moved, those in the courtyard who are alive remain staring. In only moments we all stop breathing.

lost and found

I have found you, at last
in the grey of yesterday's morning,
you call from me three thousand miles
away, and in the depression off ranges
known too well.

so don't gloat, nor shall you bask
in foggy orange and red.
Because you remember,
yes you remember the simple,
desires of which most cherish.

And we, we knew the softest
tones that light does offer.
But others contend, the quality
of spectrum so familiar does not
possess the black, the black we knew.

English Sonnet Number 1

At various times and throughout my history,
blurring across a whizzing haze,
the question of questions, the ultimate mystery,
like a white rat in a maze.

The beginning of time? The beginning of misery?
Here I stand, surrounded by The Answer,
everyone shouts and continues working busily.
The enigma devourers me like cancer.

While pondering the vastness, its immensity and grandness,
the secret they talk of, they created, eludes me.
The view of the masses, their fence-sitting and false handedness,
a tumultuous storm brewing deep in the sea.

A singular Truth I suddenly see-
The secret of life; you, me, Luke and Zuley

-Cara

watch me go backward
the sun sets in its rising horizon
my hair grows inward
my face softens
and you...
you never knew me.

i slur the words
my perturbed ignostic conjecture
from my slouched intellectual posture
to arrive at some sort of truth
some vision of infinite complexity
broken.
i seem to find it
only just before it is lost
in my sleep where
i return to that place
where color and fear are real
and just like you
i dream of the leaves
collecting at my feet
sufficate and wake
to wade through the gravity
all knowledge lost
under the weight of
the physical reality.

atlanta, 20hr layover

take me back to the churchill grounds.
the dizzy walks and murderous talks
from desperate men with needs to feed.
pull me from the coke factory.
take my picture.
take me the long way to the 2am cafe
but first stray through the parks.
take two bucks and thanks.
raise fists.
just don't show me whats in that heavy sweatshirt pocket,
my man.
but the grounds,
they struck a tone.
chaotic conversation from trumpet to saxaphone.
saw what we want now finish the gin.
no, lets follow this through.
get drunk, give a fuck,
what else are we here to do?

in law

thought stops &
hideous drops
just don't stop to watch
the turn timed ignorance
in tune to her humble nature.
i don't.
or i try not to.
for when i do,
i lash in silent disdain
anguish & anger oblivious
to those around me for
i keep a smile.
but it pains me
& stays awhile.

someone should shut her up.

To The Devil in A Wall

out of nowhere.... from my point of view

something that wasn't angelic, pure, or beautiful

I thought the military takeover was going to happen over Christmas time

All I gotta do is act naturally,
quell my impulses with lessons sublime

I room in "The Sunshine Hotel"

I don't like fiction married to fact,
but it's all anyone can expect

the palm of my hand calms my forehead,
scolding tears fall bastardly to the floor

take my delicate situation into consideration,
we all come from some form of masturbation

in the "nightmare house" dreams sweat to the floor,
intonations crass as fairy tales scold my good intentions,
leaving diamonds for the poor

Right now

I’ve heard that hate’s a girl with pretty eyes
& I’m starting to think I’m just her type.
So now I’m chasing with my 26 shells
But have forgotten what to say,
how its supposed to sound.

Now, we both know what we want but
we’re both knee deep.
So now it’s not the same to me
and we’re lowering it seems.

And now, I’ve got something under my skin.
I thought this body
was my only old friend.

But now I’m dyin’…
In need of the aged spring days to lengthen,
The old earth to warm and soften, creek, expand,
my dog to wait impatiently in the doorway for me,
to wipe the mud from her paws
just to ball and scatter on our tweed rug or hard wood,
or hold—caked to the tufts of hair
between her black toes.

Isla Magdalena

Isla Magdalena, your thin

finger cradles my heart.

The cayote roams

aloof, guards your bare

curves, carved

by wind, tracing

your bosom, shaping

the dunes into the moon's

pre- pubescent, crescent lips

kissed by the late night

and early morning dew.

The leviathans navigate

your deep, twisted veins

surfing the wind stream

from the crest, of breaking

blown waves, your sea

gulls pierce the forehead

of the flat horizon. Dancing -

the tango, the salsa, the ball

 room - the sun

                                   and moon

unroll the white silk

ruffles of the ocean

along your ankles.

collect call trashfaced junkie
for crankcan cosmetic currency
-do not compromise; to save your soul.
jump toxically through
the pantheistic conjecture
for this is the only way out.
-so let me finish
& we will both go outside
& we will read it in the darkness
& dream of the blasphemies of physics
& create the untold possibilites.

you have yours, i'll have mine

I will hide nothing from you
I will tell you the honest truth like only
I know how

Here on this white I am
Three hundred and sixty degrees made quadrilateral,
Made rectangle white

If you listen close you will despise
From afar I make an altogether
Different sound

If you hear the sound you know
The words, the song, the cry
The hollow and the dry

Call me as you know the sun
Remember me when you see
The moon. The last of night

I remember you close then
Then, all of us are skinned
Knees and concrete conviction

Maybe all of us don’t remember
Well enough to call our own
Maybe we are shared as shapes

Soft, white focus of thick line
I’ll focus as I remember
As I remember the lines

You know the sound of tread
And wheels, asphalt, yellow line
Thick leg in midst of limit

No allowance of time
Can permit shared understanding
You have yours, I’ll have mine

A man remembers himself in moments

A man remembers himself in moments,
those moments I remember with you.
Dear baby bird, your wrestling skin,
gaped mouth and fleshy neck.
I know you now as silent, stone
s whimper before a breath.
No gust of wind will fill the hollow
bones of mother's flight.
But sleep, sweet, lifeless winged song
in the sunlight of the night.

A man remembers himself in moments,
those moments I remember with you.
Young mountain man, hands like glass,
stretching despite the light.
The music moves us cordially;
rhythm, hectic, and just right.
The moisture dawn and dewy grass,
the pilgrim and the plight.
Airport scene, no leaves of green,
A hug––but not so tight.

A man remembers himself in moments,
those moments I remember with you.
The stretch of skin, the simple green,
A rack of solid stripes.
Crack and break, triangle schemes,
angles loose and tight.
Right in the heart, ball return,
quarter slots, cheap push, cheap night.
We show ourselves the beginning,
the wings before the flight.

Reflection

In the moment
I am too overwhelmed
to notice, appreciate,

the polarity of emotions.
I am submerged

in the ocean`s pounding
splendor and am incapable
of hearing the deafening
crumble of earth.

Or I am carried swiftly
along the aromatic
path of love and
ignore the ever
persistent, lurking,
but just as beautiful
presence of heartbreak.

Just as I am
buried, insulated,
in the grinding
gnash of depression,

I long to feel
the corresponding beauty

but again, the
enormity of the
dense ocean slams:
unforgiving, relentless.

I feel nothing.

Only,
the weght

against jagged
breakers, sucking
the world back
into the ripping void.

Oh, I dream

of your wisdom.

Oh noble

saint of my heart!

Woman of mirrored
emotions, I long

to hold your
words in

the palm of my
hand, consciousness,
evoking them
into the pupil
of emotions, thoughts,
as the glamour of the sun
sets and as the
earth shakes, seizes,
and sputters in sorrow.

she holds the weapon

i can see the blue
amongst the various shades of gray.
but the flesh,
soft contours and
cold concrete.
the sun.
but don't look too long.
arcs of fire burn
the eyes and
a certain shade
the gray, oh
to see her in
the snow.
head down, eyes fixed
again i see the flesh
her lips...
it is the sheer velocity
that burns the hole.
its that hair on the back of her neck
and its the lowest part of her back, bare.
those hips.

i sense the illumination,
feel the color,
the opposing grain,
omitted heat and
layered steel.
there is simple combustion
rehearsed reaction
then the silence...
all you hear above
all other distraction,
no claim at ignorance,
no exit.
inseparable to the lack of it.
it.
that which is unexplainable.

old Grey

I remember the way it once was
old, grey, brown and kissed glad
things they are remember who
the longest drawn line from here
there will be and she with us
like the broken limbs
the wind to heavy to crack
but the leaves
the leaves
are always just right
to touch the grass
the blades of thin and old
of green to brown too grey.
Do you remember the wind?
Do you remember the grass?

The Simple Truth Phillip Levine

I bought a dollar and a half's worth of small red potatoes,
took them home, boiled them in their jackets
and ate them for dinner with a little butter and salt.
Then I walked through the dried fields
on the edge of town. In middle June the light
hung on in the dark furrows at my feet,
and in the mountain oaks overhead the birds
were gathering for the night, the jays and mockers
squawking back and forth, the finches still darting
into the dusty light. The woman who sold me
the potatoes was from Poland; she was someone
out of my childhood in a pink spangled sweater and sunglasses
praising the perfection of all her fruits and vegetables
at the road-side stand and urging me to taste
even the pale, raw sweet corn trucked all the way,
she swore, from New Jersey. "Eat, eat" she said,
"Even if you don't I'll say you did."
Some things
you know all your life. They are so simple and true
they must be said without elegance, meter and rhyme,
they must be laid on the table beside the salt shaker,
the glass of water, the absence of light gathering
in the shadows of picture frames, they must be
naked and alone, they must stand for themselves.
My friend Henri and I arrived at this together in 1965
before I went away, before he began to kill himself,
and the two of us to betray our love. Can you taste
what I'm saying? It is onions or potatoes, a pinch
of simple salt, the wealth of melting butter, it is obvious,
it stays in the back of your throat like a truth
you never uttered because the time was always wrong,
it stays there for the rest of your life, unspoken,
made of that dirt we call earth, the metal we call salt,
in a form we have no words for, and you live on it.

on the lighter side of nothing better:

i cannot seem to formulate.
my thoughts...
asymmetrical... no, symmetrical, cyclical,
but awkward by nature.
(think it through)
what shall i speak of doing
but never get to?
wait, stop.
between the words,
the connection of thought,
the micromomentary combustion,
nonphysical, unequivocally without
an equation, nor composition.
nothing to prove.
nothing at all.

Half Past Reality

I sympathize with
memories being
abused by dreams.

one page at a time

retracted for the lack of anything better...

A Different Tune

It has been a
long time since
I stepped off the
Greyhound door
and slipped easily
into the fragile magnetic
fields of life.

Many are drawn
towards the
scaffolded mountains,
desert phalluses
and support of bliss.

I arrived with no motive,
void of inspiration

seperated like a still
born cut from the mother

- I did not know the difference.

It was not until
I left (now) I am able
to project a meaning
onto the canvasses
of streets where
before they all
appeared the same.

It is the way in which
all amnners of life operate.
- The girl you love, the friend you never called.
- The feelings you hurt, the ones that raised you.

All the same!

Cities are only different
when you are the visitor.
After time the autonomous

deafness of fog
covers the senses.

Now to recall
those orange coned
streets I give
myself unto imagination

more and more
it steals from me
and replaces memory.

Fine.

I once fell inlove with it all,
then stumbled out, but soon
was back

into the
pattern of
quotidian.

I loved fucked,
wept and trembled
into the clean gutters.

But I was afraid for
so long of that

Lurking
Madness-

-The oblivion.

Not until I succumbed
to the terror did
I see the city
as a body laid hidden
but vulnerably bare.

I was finally aware
of those dirty alley ways
leading deep into the dark gut
underneath the temples and cafes
where maddened ones
were forced to strike each other
over and over in the attempt at

sobering their idealism.

The stair wells framed
by the longing fingers,
the roof tops of our
egos caving in, crumbling
across the whloe dark night.

The deeper I dug
into the secret tunnels
of the city I began
to smell the beautiful
pockets of fresh air.

Crawling forward
into patches of light
I could see by
the blinding brightness

this city was capable
of possesing true
and absolving darkness.

I loved it all.

When the bars knew
me by name I felt
accomplished and
tipped too much, but
this is how it goes
whether we know it
or not, we all seek
for that feeling.

We all meet people
without knowing
them, some give you
pavlovian reflexes to spew
on their fake smiles.

It takes peering
through the dim
interior landscape
and meeting eye to eye
on the other side
to find the one to
vomit freudian hiccups
onto your back.

To lose your mind
intentionally, lose
your fear, loose your
legs and voice

to lose yourself as
a device of saying
farewell to the ones

you love.

Intentionally.

I try to paint the
city alone but
find that it is only
made up of faces
contained within the
sprawling suburbia
laid into the plastic
horrors of life.

A fine city it is.

I imagine comfortable
neighborhoods and the
supernatural fall striping
life into raw aesthetic beauty.

I can see that there
remains the magnetic
force of not only a
wasteland, but a
lovers heaven looked
upon through a window
from a bed.

Soooo Drubnk

How sweet the last sorrow of flashed hands and small things burned in a furnace that doesn't warm. 

How pretty the wings that never fly.

Your own happiness comes at the laps of one...two...three...big clock and snap dragon run.

Fire walker and mirror dragged rumple bum. Driggle drag and far gone subtle rum.

It is only the Lull I like

The sound of your valved voice.

 

gone to green, a small scene. 

delicate like pretty things

silicone and plastic rings

PBR gone wrong

someone learn a different tune

Isaac Call Soon. 

Isaac Call Now. 

I'll never call you tomorrow

You'll never hear me soon.