Untitled

I searched for titles in the Sea,
made peace with eroded toes and salt lines,
in an attempt

to be me.

I made a boat with smaller boats
and foil, I searched for cracks
and the wanting

parts I fixed

I broke an oar and sharpened another,
on a piece that I was writing.
The current was strong,

but I wanted to risk it.

I Changed, fleshing out what was
not needed, then searched once more
in the augmented Sea,

just to retire, Untitled.

There's no bullshit in baking.

I put down a book of Twain's just
to read who's new thing
gets me what I want,

now on sale for a limited time.

I asked permission to blink
for free but was denied, then charged
a tellers fee.

With withered pockets and shallow souls
I can only sit and wonder

what a Twain is worth these days-

when no on knows how to
make bread and a buck and a half
can get me fired.

My fingerprints being chosen for me,
I played it casual,

measuring wishes

and deciding to count in months
instead of days, items saved for
when it rains.

There's no bullshit in baking.
You either have it, or your eating

dry cake and lying about it.

I forget to be warm when the Sun
sets early into the bay

of a sheeted window.
Chill bent and blaming

vertigo, or whatever causes
the eyes to avert downward,

causing me to miss you.

I'd call it apathy,
but it hurts to much...

I'd call it boredom,
if I could tell time...

I'd call it envy,
if my contentious boasts of

words spelt vitae.

Curious minds grow intrusive
spines, and I probe what

could have been. But recall
strained voids forgotten on

purpose, when summer
sins proved worthy and

I drowned in your games.

the blankets

We can not blend. Though we're
sitting still, for the

tampering eyes never miss
a thing.

Hand stitched and woven tightly
the blankets sit still,

letting rise a loosened

chatter. I speak for myself,
but in the

givingness of generalities
I sound vague.

An enigmatic mischief of tone,
hooking air and

putting her to cure.

I dare to improve the California
Sun on

bundled words and bonds in string,

selling them to her eyes, and
the trees

that follow. When
I should be the Sea, and

give the tides away.

You taste of barley and
cream. Separate tastes

on your tongue and lips

conclude on mine, a devilish
dance in suit. I feel

your stress, see it in your
eyes, I pinch to

steal it away.

I pirate your
afflictions. Tell them lies,

and suck them from your skin.

stand up comedy

I'm sitting with the self, relaxed
in the stream

of time. Coalesced, repeating,

then beginning again as new.
In fractals, within, between

and in a dreaming state without.
Knowing not the differences,

I guess with words and rhyme
spaces imagined,

using maxims I read.

Drawn into color by
chance, and with a single
smell

I live; breathable moments of

inference. Equal parts shadow
and light can not be factored

into the minds eye without intellect-
guided by perception and

what my fathers father gathered from
his fathers dreams-yet

so many stood silent back then.

The difference now is that we
ignore the moon, looking sideways

and sharing the air not allowed
to breath itself.

A stand up comedy of wills
to be decided for/by us.

Within reason. Growing anemic

and with plenty and chances to
feed. Love and the seeds of

rebirth appear as themselves and
masked...vanity...anti-vanity

combined. And at our will,
as offspring, they are change-

we are changed by it.

come the morning actions and the first of light spent in choice

A valued cast still uncertain,
As the steam flows behind it's curtain,

Shall i peer into the fray,
Cast blight aside before the day,

Let the light grow from our eyes,
Or play into a small demise.

Before the sunrise I will decide,
Let emotions seek a better guide,

Or lay until the nymph returns.
Clean breath, the circuit table turns,

She will be the one to choose,
To drink a love behind the boose,

Put yourself into her hands,
Like she did on castled sands,

Ignore or heed the words we spoke,
Call the bluff, or let them soak,

Come it will the story told,
of us and ours it will unfold.

The difference being I haven't moved,
Within the thoughts indeed has proved,

Something more then unions past,
Channeled, built and meant to last.

an intermittent fool

In the time it takes to ruin a
perfectly good night,
I spoke of

tomatoes. Leaving what was meant
in my throat.

Coughing, chocking on thoughts,
while leaning on the wrong

hole in the yard. Tomatoes.
----
I saw the present to late-
just when the nail

was coming,
going to meet its coffin
closing shut,

in order to talk less-I
gave it the slip.

Out ran quacks not heard

in echo. No-one knows why,
but the damage was done.
----
Onion flavored fingers makes
for onion flavored beer.

Its the smell, I think,
but i

do that to much these days.

Thinking aloud. I should
turn up the volume

of nature so that what escapes
these lips, blends.

when we met it rained

when we met it rained. a hot
mist fell
and covered its tracks; so the

paper wouldn't know.

i believed, in secret, it was just a
fog, moving south

as it does, angled-playing rain.

but i could not find the right
time to tell, the

difference and then
it stopped. rather, we stopped
calling it

luck. calling it how it was,
when blinded by the mist and

the feeling you get when touching.

if that's what it was? niceties
not spoken, but

released was broken with the fog.
rain drenched silhouettes...
a guise in comment

of the mind. but being optimistic
i'll too say it rained that day.

And what of the rivers

And what of the rivers, where one used to drink, cup handed and smiling? It happened in secret, behind the clown nose and jive shows, and they only charged a buck-what a deal. Cutting fish heads they count the dead, laying them back where their found. They don't loose count for it takes only a lunch break, paddling through plastic waters that smell of profit to the right noses. We have traded water for air in rivers of wheels, spatting down the 101. And kids pealing orange shaped juice boxes-instead of oranges. Sometimes I envy the Sun, so far away, and burning bright; but even He lives cursed to consume and can not touch be touched, get close enough to smell the scent of life before it is stretched, ambiguous and dead. In time, only ghosts will be able to count all the money they have made.

I once dreamed of a waiting room.

I once dreamed of a waiting room
where sunless light fell across dead shoulders.
Lists of life peered through

the glass, and I could pick my next life.
a gopher
a whale
a dragon of pixels
a man
an ass

and all where there that was not
here. A quiet room, with no
need for sound,

left actions lingering, falsely
awaiting comment or something

to judge the space between static

and infest. A normal dream, meant
nothing and more

seemed to project the out inward
but reversed for easy viewing. With
so many options I

couldn't decide
and what was the hurry. The need to

live after life was strong, like
the urge fuck and
maybe that

was it. I found myself
in the land of ice cream,

and all I wanted was cake.

I saw a picture of me, when jumping squares were chalked to the sky, left there by jet streams and understood as magic. Untailored shirt sleeves and broken skin I sat, thinking of the future- a possible dawn of thought waiting to be blanched, stored then used when needed. And now the same boy sits, sweatered and hopeful, and running out of world. I rushed to scribble a word then two on a parking ticket, hopeful to pass it through the plain that stood between me and me; until I realized I already knew what it said. And where is the good in words when rain can be made or not depending on the bidder and the cost of cheetos.

A blink that lasts until the dream seem
real. They never come to me, were to

active in thought, I knew, to look
past the sea that flows there,

when the eyes are busy, looking
behind. An incorrect
state of mind.

I ventured here to find them seized?
Because the words you spit,

drain me of rhyme. You live across
the land so dry, and getting here took

three horses-but you sour tagged breath

still finds its victim. How dare you.

A tangled bit of lie,
letting go the bridge's stare

on windows of shops
across the street where we
sat and drank tea.

We ate toast halves and sang

wet love songs when the
day moved west;
giving liberal dues to Fog and

grass fed Winds blowing your
hair across your face and making

it harder to breath, think and see

what else mattered. I thought if tea
was free we could bet on the stars

and let them choose the light

that guides us. But the message
was lost on

graveled rooftops
of a city, indifferent to the rain

and the snarled streets below.

We left, to get out of the bridges eye,
tossing money on the
table and casting shadows of our

own. A nearly finished plan, well
dressed and cured for the night-

shaven neatly and laid upon
the concrete to be eaten

at leisure.

Wool and Memership

She keeps her heart hidden in
wool. Not unlike the sheep it was

shaven off of. Tucked behind a secured
neckline with scarves or strings,
depending on the weather.

And weighted evenly between her shoulder
blades, it hangs and does not move

in fear of playing to much.

She chokes at the thought of
being discovered boring. And the

effort she needs to keep up, bullies
her freckled skin and
builds a coiled labyrinth

of vines and avid eyes breathing

all the air around. Blankets of wool
is needed so she stays up late
for the crowd-

but rises early for herself.
To the sheep she sings a damn good

tune, picking and shaving only the
good parts ignoring the rest-

leaving what she can not use.

But the sheep are sheep, and
they will ignore the cold if a single
one does. Lacking the memory to care,

everyone wins.

Trampoline Karate

The days where made long, by simply reaching towards the clouds. Thoughts of missing a fill-in your-daily-scheduled-meetings, and the dauntly complaisant feelings left when doing them but nothing specific, were years away. All there is to do is the doing, creating and making it clear to friends what is happening next in the world that does not exist until described. There is jumping and keeping your arms outstretched, and fingers straight-like the turtles did it. No breaks you just quit; I never remember being tired. That comes much later in a twice used gunny sack sown into your life while your still dreaming; containing words like pursuit, restraint, projects and duty-but this time you can't smile.

We played to the sound

We played to the sound of
sirens; keeping time

like thieves, and staying in
the shadows as if

we were the ones being chased.

A mindful
wind blew from the Bay and touched
our coats like the

Usher did at the theater we
came from. To avoid real conversation

we crossed the street, dodging the moon

and some news rolling past our
shoe strings; But it was really us

rolling, the printed past fading, driven
by the wind and road construction.
Launching towards

a curb we could not climb

ourselves. We walked the night
touching arms, and talking

cross streets-looking
for a bar she swore I'd love.

One Night on the Fourth of July

One Night on the Fourth of July


We combed through scents of spice and smoke,
comparing stories of guiltless

prose. A settled darkness lay on the streets,
so we happily circled the roof of our

building in sweaters, with jokes

and gnomic sights of youth. We played
and danced to the words that
were spoken, as fog

grew between the trees and houses of
the Twin Peaks. It came across

the Bay and encircled the city, ourselves
and a thousand others plucking

cords of our grandfathered freedoms.

Soon the fog had covered the sky so our eyes
fell to the indifferent stars below us,

We warmed to the change of hue,
and stepped closer together for a better view

of whatever could be seen, breathed in and
used to stay awake and

live through moments that could last forever.

Voices like whispers heard from
open windows slowly made there way across
the sky, only to be

drowned in a sea of sparks and sounds of
energies trapped by fate.

We recognized their pain
and tone, so lighting wicks we let them out,

for it was all that we could do.
One burst was heard then a hundred

more until all had been set free.

And taking hands we left to sleep, feeling
lighter as we walked, to beds of friends

or friends in bed waiting calmly to
warm the sheets. For behind us now

stood a piece of life lived, one night
on the Fourth of July.

jump in and swim

I plot with points the view
of quils, angled so

the the feelings show on purpose. seeing only

rooftops, and not the pains,
life, and love within-I

smile. asuming good things,

is easier with a beer. brass and
dreams are static, so I must walk between them to move life along.

giving what I have in my pocket, and what is left

of my shoes to the pavement-
in order to breath.

I jump in and swim in the city
so shadowed because that

that is what is needed. burning bits of self, ill use the ashes to write,

about the story lived before
we knew how.

moving to San Francisco

Making what we can out of options
lingering from feral stars like
the scented rear view mirror charms, blowing
wildly, with rhythms not understood.
We move, and change, and leave current life
to want. Peeling stickered attachments of life
off our skin and suitcases-fill them with
memories and sun spots. And introduce:
our head to new pillows, our nose to new
salted air and feet to new stones yet picked
from vagrant toes.

I'm finally moving to San Francisco!!

We glided past the desert air

We glided past the desert air,
splitting cotton clouds and
diet cokes, that the Stewardess

pored into cups. Looking out the
window, I asked the twin peeked
eyes so gray with age,

for change. I heard they traded goad
for plans if the snow caped threads

that tied them quiet melted
in the summer.

The Window Shades where optimistic,

but views gained by climbing jets,
bathed my eyes clean of thought;
until the only thing left

was breath. My thoughts and fingers
still, I sat alone, in the middle

of strangers, where birds don't dare to fly.

iced plans and wine

I awoke to blinking lights and sounds that my clouded mind
gulped down; like the blacked out drunk, I saw, on 10th as he passed
the Red Door a few nights ago.

My ice cold plans patiently awaited the days heat, in the ice box of my
dreaming mind. Turning off the alarm, I walked to the kitchen and blended
them with yogurt and wine.

Blending iced plans and wine, makes sounds like the 747's I watched at the
airport. Choking past the clouds, they split the stars, showing their ass to the
city and leaving me behind.

I smoked and waited for a ride; as the wrinkles of life-torn Cats in red
crew T's took turns, loading luggage,
trading stories and teaching me the meanings of night.

When my ride came, I tore off half of the mornings disappointment and
bookmarked Pilkington's poetry with it. Driving back I thought I should
have added more wine. It probably would have made not leaving funnier.

a painting

There is a painting in the house I grew up in, that sends chills down my back. It's square framed, blissfully displaced and pink. Growing old with it's like minded inhabitants. It stands perpetually cocked, and sloped toward the window; like a pot of leafs in the warm light of day. The meaning or purpose escapes me, even still, for like it's color scheme; the painting bleeds sadness.

A newly wedded couple stands just in front of a lot of sad, leafless trees; darkened even still by the pale gray sky above them. In the midst of the, Poe figured trees, stands your typical church building with many windows-dusty and cold. Painted black, the windows are the darkest parts of the piece. Giving any onlookers, with any thoughts beyond the glass that encloses It, the impression that the Church is empty-locked. No way in. No way out.

The newly wedded couple stands underfed and impassive. Holding her breath, the bride seems cold with her arms crossed. Vale falling down her back with a corner tucked between the folds of her narrow, limited arms. The Groom stands behind her aghast, it seems, as if this is the first time they've touched. He, carrying his bible, with both hands most of the time; doesn't know how to hold a woman. The heat from her heart feels queer in his hand. She feels it too, so she holds her breath. Longing strange enough for her books, and the solitude of dreams. And how they made her feel safe.

Planted neatly in the foreground, with hints of spring and lightness, grows pink bushes in action as the cooling wind engages them. The winded pink bushes seem to ignore the sad that is behind them, they laugh and cheer and bread. Painted so, I believe, that they are unable to look back; to see the discomfort, the darkness, the gray. The blessed few, thus being in the appropriate foreground, play out their purpose with ardor. The delighted specks of pink and brown, sing their songs of joy and grace. Sending pleasant tones to the eyes of a passersby.

And, he or she who takes the look is glad they did. Instantly becoming cheerful-their step lighter then before. Conversation bested only by smiles, and warm touches. The night is made with such things. Not remembered, it seems, the plight and shadows, that's drawn neatly in the background.

There is a painting in the house I grew up in; growing old with it's like minded inhabitants.

Leave the change or change and leave?

Leave the change or change and leave?
What do I sacrifice, in order to
change? In keeping

with the norm, it seems, right
to leave

the Good. With it's
sober and civil, cobwebbed corners;
Its

laces tied and clean. But

tied together. And when I walked
I trip to the ground, choking

on the breath of laughing faces.

Or leave the Bad instead,
and laugh no more. Only with simple

shoulder swings, arms crossed and frowning,
can I let a tiny smirk across,
my

face. Like my father did. Leave jokes,

and take the pokes. Leave the dotted
skin of life and breath-and the colored

brown eyes, that closed when we danced.

Leave the unknown plans of dreams,
and schemes. For static comforts and Suburban

gifts of sugar coated comity, and the
prodigal tastes it breads.

Leave the change or change and leave?

behind the twins,

in a ranch of gray, behind the twins,
i think of you.

you are the stars, behind the clouds,
untouched, out of view.

a Play of yore, comes to trend,
beside your bed.

and a seed of mine, covered still,
inside your head.

will fade to bland, untouched,
starved, and unfed.

if i leave you, with my heart,
unlaunched, and bled.

i've heard of fate, in a story,
told to me.

between the sheets, i believed,
its fantasy.

but the doing, isn't done,
when we can pass.

this life off, with a remote,
made of glass.

and view charms, in the shade,
on our ass.

carving dreams, not from gold,
but of brass.

Just in case the words didn't

Just in case the words didn't
fall in the

right order for you, I'll say them

again. And in the darkness-when
you willingly turned out the

lights-my hands where ignored
by your selfish defensive
guard,

to protect your heart from good,
bad, and

the life we lead-that leads us.

I said it twice. But you couldn't listen
to me due to the darkness,

and fear. Because of the others,
I guess, you didn't listen-

to keep it fare for us all.

I want to move there, for
the sake of L@V%.

You couldn't-didn't-find the,
time to abide my words,

hands. So I left.

this is just a test

This is just a test, a
comical round

of betting,
to sweat through another

love. Unable to see the words,
align

from my tongue, stretching out
into the jaded air,
below

the skies, our lies and dew.

Not lies with words but eyes
with swords piercing

itchy souls. This is just a test.

With hope in my pocket,
plans in my

head. Dreams in my eyes and
strong hands. This
is just a test.

Calling hearts, spades and tossing
my chips in,

I do not blink, or move when bluffing.

This is just a test. This should have
happened before
...between kisses...

I am three years
to late she said...between
touches...

Than she called
her ex-boyfriend...this...

is...just...a...test...

the will to

the will to live under the sun,
so hot, burning

life to live.

burning holes into my eyes,
yet I am still
drawn to

its pleasure, its pain.
the will to

sit in front of talking solders
of selfishness
spreading, fighting

for themselves. and

not fighting back. the
will to

drink, instead of love.

the will to blink. and instead
of keeping my eyes

closed forever-opening them
and seeing
the life

worth living. the will to
shed skins were scared,

and laugh the dead skin
all the way

to the broken path behind

moving feet. the
will to cause fear in life with my

eyes; instead of having
fear
in them.

the will to die under the moon-
smiling as i rot.

I imagine things aging,
rotting where they

have been placed.

Sinking low below the life they
once had,

growing dots of un-use.

Taken over by dust and rust-
feelings unsubstantial.

What has been given
in life,

will be taken in the untouched
abortive-ness of worthlessness,

after they are done
with me.

summer snow

in secret sounds the summer snow carried slowly by a breese,

danced calmly to the secret sounds, and found their way with ease.

unburdened by the time we keep, and details of our sin,

the summer snow will catch their fate, and keep the peace within.

sharing only what is ment to share, a plan to be decided.

the seeds of life, called summer snow, think not of what's provided.

instead they cure a precious place, when time indeed sees fit,

and birth a tree, with breath of life, a circle fast, intransit.

I called it in the air

I called it in the air, but
it was just

a guess. There's no way

of really knowing. Who you
would be-and who
I would turn

into, you into me and the
same as usual.

At the cost of living, and
the simple actions

of our, post-literate-pre-
sympathetic-to-antiquated-symbols-of-
thought, mouths.

And the nouns they spit.

Or you just say whatever
you want. Because

your cute, and you've seen
Cold Play when they
and you

were in Paris.

And who am I
to judge
you.

I probable do wear my David Bowie
t-shirt to much. But

that doesn't mean we'll
still be friends.

What is free love?

Lentl soup pt.2

The time moved slow,
the coffee fast and
there were

no shoes to tie. No
time to be stalled

by excuse. My mind left
moments unchecked, against it
all.

Then I found your eyes again,

and tried once more-
with tales of rice
and roe. Of stories denied

by common senses more
in tuned to social consequence.

A story of life's journey,

because what difference
does
it make.

And smiles found smiles; a difference
forgotten-we walked

to the park and played
til dawn.

Lentl soup pt. 1

Do you remember the cast? It was
you and me.

The location was 10th and
a half, At a time when

The Lonelies had
favored a smoke break, and the chair
to my left to be empty.

We sat in a field paved years ago-before
it was harder to love. In a nook

of the city painted with fake age and labeled
itself to be genuine.

I asked you if words
could rhyme, if they said their prayers,
and only ate vowels with soup.

You said it didn't matter because Lent
is over.

And, now we can eat whatever we want.

I smiled and smoked,
to clear the air. A rough bunch of
words came to me,

unshaven, with sticky teeth,
poking my tongue-and I

mentioned the weather.

the time of disco

In the time of disco,
not to long ago

Dancing found its own
way home. Prancing singers
felt their way

through the air, claiming
nothing, but being
itself.

Stretched thin, and worn tired the fray of
their jeans, reading, making more poetry than

wearer's lips ever could.

Dirty feet and clean smiles,
brought wearer's hunger
close, and

friends closer-to a quiet dream
that wouldn't last.
The fray knew

of the dream slayer,
and the Sun so rumered,

so they took what drugs they could
to stay thin-

teaching, screaming at
their wearer's
to wake. To change and give

them rest. But the dancing feet screamed
louder than Joe Cocker ever could.

And the Wearer's turned 30
and went home.

movie magic

Perhaps I should go to blog school.
No I really need to go to blog school.
Until then my virtuous attempt, albeit naively shown,
to change up the monotony of this blog is this.

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMIYa7NVAc0)

Its the ending to one of my favorite movies, F for Fake.
An Orson Wells classic.
I'm sorry I lack the knowledge to do the extra steps
it takes to present the actual clip.

It's the thought that counts-maybe.

p.s.

Note the Align Center change as well.
"Is this the same blog?"

wishes and tree pollen

I open my mouth,which
buys me some time,
stalling until something to say
comes to mind, but

nothing comes out.
Binge drinking cocktails of wishes and tree pollen,
keeps my head swimming

and throat dry. Lacking the balance to walk
through the lines,
and the vision to see through the shit-

i'll stay quiet.

I envy my windshield; freely washing
itself clean, or staying dirty
and content.

But even he is controlled
by unseen fingers. Twisting wrists induces
him-he obeys.

I used to like the trees, thinking
of them as noble creatures

with life giving talents, until their
seamen coated my eyes,
lungs and faith.

I close my mouth and taste
their sin, their guilt
but I say nothing...
Binge drinking cocktails of wishes and tree pollen.

obsession

are we born with obsession?
or must we search for the obsessed,
in jest,
in calm rhythms,
with verve.

the steam engines of capitalism
filter out and blend,

screaming loud tones we crave,
and raw goods to be consumed,

setting fires to warm us all,
but we are hot and can not sweat.
feeding, fueling obsession.

we view coated story boards through thick screens.

believe it all or die,
a social death.

night tricks

the night tricks are taking their toll,
feelings of a mutual thought, our eyes connect and breed.
simple moments,
simple pleasures.
a loose tie of strings easily broken when walking,
the story spoken in jest,
to simple minds,
filling the time,
playing tag tequila
watching the blues beat break the silence-with time to kill.

I gave some feelings to a rain cloud

I gave some feelings to a rain cloud,
On a windy summer day,

She took them like a thirsty child,
In a thirsty summer way,

She too played a game of chance,
And kept her cards askew,

Combed, before my eyes a trance,
And taut me songs she knew,

Weaving skins, we shared the night,
Keeping close our shoes,

We came to, in a surety bath of light,
Releasing fast our rues.

The plastic tip, excepts the tones,
Spinning groves, casts with stones,
I feel the Soul in my bones,
And the music comes through stolen speakers,

In the middle of sound, just before it ends,
The moment will come, when my mind sends,
A chemical of sorts, to deal with the bends,
And I smile, breath and tap dirty sneakers,

Records spin, on tested speeds,
Music speaks of Souls and deeds,
Of spotted lives, a heart that bleeds,
And it tests the ears of condemning seekers,

We knowingly, willingly put it on,
Records, faces, and wigs of con,
To fill the space, before the dawn,
And load to the brim life's hollow beakers.

the strike out

encounters unsettled, like the sharpness of swords,
I'll bleed through the eyes if it comes to the end,
when the dusk of it all, finally shakes to the ground,
I'll break the encountered in an attempt to defend,

the battered tones of a conscious defeat,
and the taming of egos of a unenlightened seat,
the encountered will walk it off, with her head held high,
and I'll take it home and sleep it off, in my bed by and by.

Partum, Ruina, Vita

Creation, Destruction, Life,
It will make you believe, and stupefy you,
Heart has reasons, reason does not understand,
In things, in action
Belief is discarded,
Belief is endured,
A many in small,
Always, everywhere by all,
In Being itself,
Partum, Ruina, Vita.

on a park bench

In a passing breath, the light will fade as pillow clouds pass by,
Sitting on a park bench, still as trees, when dawn says goodbye,

I'll wait for sleep to come my way, if thoughts do not prevail,
But not before a whiskered Sun moves fast the night so stale,

With ease of hand the sun will shine his light upon my face,
But not until I've spent the time in nights unfathomed space,

What tethered thoughts will come to me, when darkness takes the front?
With fastened knots they swing about, withered thorns sometimes so blunt,

But peace will come eventually, from without or from within,
With rhyming words I'll tell the tale of nights without sin.

stay or go

The body of rules, augmented by my ancestors compels me to stay,
To trim my beard and tell no lies,
It calls to me and I pretend to care,

A form fitting coat of arms to appease and maintain-of copious decay,
In time I'll learn of Fates surprise,
If duties will call, and intentions to bare,

But grown in its place, with only embers of talent, a dreamer, a bard,
A contestant of Fate,
With ill-contented eyes and busy fingers,

Will the statue erected so pure and clean cry? Will the embers so chard,
Fan the flames of my state?
Or weaken to dying cinders,

A call for a move has taken its place, the Coral Shrewd imposed,
He has stood his ground,
An incontinent wine decanted,

Poured out and free to merge with the tasteless air-reposed,
He will splash and breath unbound,
Free to change un-recanted,

My derailed train of thought, I'll pick up the pieces tomorrow,
With a bottle of red, in my head, what can go wrong,
After a dream I'll pay the price,

There is light in being single, and light in love,
A light of love will do its best, but tear at the seam,
When breached a distinction is made, light bulbs or candles,

You will make the choice, which one we can be,
Natural yet flickering, unable to last past the dawn,
Or shining bright and constant, yet borrowing from grid,

We'll know after the morning smoke, what your eyes will say,
I'll be the man and make you some coffee, but what will your eyes say,
After our eyes met, and you took my light -shit-what did your eyes say?

in the coffee shop today

I'm trading looks with someone near me, a thousand lifetimes away,
Women sit and talk about their views on books, their rehearsals pay off,
The yellow haired server behind the counter, smiles as she talks to a friend,
--Does coffee taste cooler when its served by black fingernail-ed servers?
---Coffee flavored with sugar packets of non-conformity,
Newcomers lathered in noise, negotiate themselves through thick slices of Silence,
A superdouche talking loud with a blue dot in his ear...doesn't stay long,
--We all know where he's going and why its important,
---I hope, for a moment, he trips on a magazine someone has left on the flour,
I drink my aging coffee, and turn the page of a book not yet purchased,
--My young and naive cup of coffee, freely giving its warmth into the air,
---I look deeper and it is me.

The logs on the shelves

The logs on the shelves of my mind, do what they please,
They flip through themselves, moving backwards in time,
Shuffling, bleeding together, they mingle,
I see the breaking light, between the slotted captions at high speeds.

Replaying nights at play, and filthy plays at night, they wonder,
I remember her eyes, our smiles and what it would take to have her,
But the logs are but fragments of memory, from a scene viewed upside down.
Filtered through notion-ed senses, my minds eye will see what it can.
-what its offered-

A break up

"Relax I'm different." I said to her eyes. To her malnourished soul.
Purging regrets, misfortunes, and awkward moments from our minds we stand tall and attenuate.

"Don't say that," she says, looking-shifting away.
Boys have taught her not to love, the game of sex, and how to will yourself towards numbness-calling it freedom; calling it strength.

"Ourselves, alone, with nothing but the past, will remain halved." I say, as my hand guides her back to me. I believe the words, but that's not what should have been said. corny bullshit.

Silence...Withdraw...

"Why are you going," I say. She gracefully deflects my hand away.
A beautiful scene to view as the leading matriarch of rejection, play her tunes.

"To live...good bye." She will leave in a week. I have a whole week.

Adventurous: –adjective
1. inclined or willing to engage in adventures; enjoying adventures.

2. full of risk; requiring courage; hazardous: an adventurous undertaking.

Dumb-ass: -noun
1. everyone knows what this is.

The difference between the two? About an inch and a half.

I woke up bored yesterday. seeing all there is to see in life through my eyes-through boxes of media. the difference between staying in bed and walking the streets alluded me. until i read this passage in, Dave Eggers's What is the What,

"On the morning of the the fourth day, I woke to find a boy named Jok Deng peeing on me. He was among the first boys to lose his head in the desert. The heat was too strong and we had not eaten for three days."

the power of perspective is alarming at best. having only a few outlets to view the world, our fields of vision buffer. only allowing sections of pixels at a time.

it may or not be weird to read such a horrific experience from a narrative, and feel better. in a modern culturally narcissistic society-i guess-it isn't weird.

the type of sun that rises between our shades every morning, in detailed light, will eventually feed us in the modern world. with our bellies full and cuticles clipped, we live like kings and queens.

and flags of honor we so proudly, and dramatically thrust into piles of silly hardship-claiming triumph-amount to little when someone else is being peed on.

but life is subjective...i guess.

A guessing game of body language is played out today,

A guessing game of body language is played out today,
As sparks of speech ignite our interests, the fire roared and warmed us,
With cautious hands I kept the pace, while she moves as she speaks,
Between the graceful shadows of the light we render our cautious, iterate selves,

I will parody indifference at a safe pace, with semi-caring eyes-
Until-with insecurities gone-I feel her smiling lips on mine,
To release to fast, we'll pay the price, and loose what face we've bought,
If done to slow, intent is shown-the prize will feel unequaled,

So we play the game to see it through, if life will bring us together,
We'll look at Time to see the future us, if Time indeed sees fit,
But if and when our paths do part, I will sit and sip and think,
Well played, you did, the game of love, and amused yourself with it.