Don't go back to the sewer

It's lazy of me to ask you to put the past behind yourself
For it is not I under the test, it is not my health
The year behind you chose repetitive conflict
breakup and then you said you felt sick

People's limits confound us
To the fantasy we keep
about the love we share
reality doesn't care

It's a long time to be let down
To feel the ups and downs like crushing blows
To know excess of contact
then complete lonliness off and on for years

It's an eternity of the wrong life
Move on lost friend
Find a wife!

The ghost of Winara!

Follow the shadow to the bottom of the garden
Ferns and fuchsias conjuring it all up
Bricks esoteric cracks
darkened path forever

Down through the grassless ground
Where only moss would stick
To the Daytura at the base of the garden
Waiting for the shadows to return

Pray that sunset secures the light
pray that the gull never cries
That the trapdoor doesn't open
The ghost of the garden has no face

It runs through the flowers that crave the light
The ambitious bamboo that keep the side of the house dry

Old Arden glared out across his lawn
Pondering his existence
His thoughts plagued by pride and the past
The ghost escaped his sight

Entering the paint and strokes of that genius
The reality creator
The world ignitor
The affirmer of all colors and shades

No prison of good and evil to shut her in

The flying immortal

He was born a humble human
He became an interstellar dragon
one that could move reality entirely
A man who could fly and breathe fire

As if he had a sun in his gut
And a spark in his throat
Jumping through star systems like a fire brazen stoat
Building his fellowship of supernaturally gifted
while imposing his laws and gloating

Moving through the known galaxy
Changing color like a fierce chameleon
Using stars to fuel so his convoy could carry on
Harnessing abundant life and destructive death

Creating legacies along the way
A god for the meek to pray to
Rituals that they would adhere to
Hitherto traditions and customs withered
New laws of creation and progress overcame them

His name and reputation owned their minds and their purpose
Domination of the galaxy

Fear of bugs

A plain log
Hollow and rotten
decorating the swamp

The dark spongy wood
Full of holes and bore marks
A city of grubs

housing spiders in it's void
centipedes in it's leaf litter floor
A world of life

Where the wet mud touches the wood
The insects and grubs climb in from there
The moisture and fungus climbing in

A big old hollow log
Once a grand tree
Now worm city

A detail in a big swamp
Slowly decomposing over the decades
WAS IT MORE ALIVE WITH LEAVES?

Or are you just afraid of bugs?

A new face of aggression

No one could accuse him of stage fright
And now the caterpillar has almost been drained
I sense a grin
One so wide it could fit a sweet valley

Tempting the masses with images of virtude when their habits are vice
Their transient minds follow like ants to sugar in oversized families
Blind to their own routine sins and deaf to their own blasphemies
Put their lives in the hands of a man without compassion

His presence grew solidly in the most chaotic state
Where politicians negotiate with criminals, offshore accounts inflate
And public servants take theirs and leave the city to it's dreadful fate
their greed and adherence to corruption has given birth to a child

Has carved a man that may unleash wrath upon your "come what may" lifestyle
His laughter swells like a church gospel choir rising and falling with anger and violence
His speech cooks and boils in his mouth slowly, face inflammed
Bursts out upon naiive ears engulfing them like lava from a volcano

The curfew bell rings loud enough to crush your skull
State by state the grip tightens
Until the rotten fruit is disposed of, so that the rest can ripen
Yet the rot has knowledge, spores and roots too deep

And so the conflicts of 2020 ensue
Millions of lives later and no UN to the rescue
For every man is armed and leans to one side
The face of aggression and the freedoms denied

For they have cut the veins of progression, so let me amputate them so their hands may not bribe and so their heads may not plot.

A lick of futility

Eat this before dawn as the body simulates hunger, leave half on the plate

Each meal a step, a detail, a lick! 

Swear futility is not their praying

Is not their incessant appeal to narrow common views

Like their incessant dancing

That takes them across the polished floors or into strangers beds

Sweet futility breathe and breathe

Give your sweet fifteen a million dollar wreath

The world a television 24 hour jokes and games

attempts at the truth and sharpened versions

For every flawed perception

For every ounce of every hearts public right to outrage

A mad lick futility programing flavor in your mouth 

Eternal walk

The restless soul forever roams
Across a trillion blades of grass
A trillion stones

Across the silt and loam
across the future present and past
Joyous and alone

and in it's footsteps latent seeds germinate
in it's tracks worlds grow

Paradise echoes and distracts us from routine
Roads change and the aroma for progress strays

Legs and feet ache the long miles replying
Each tree each face
each voice each place

Yes a tiny taste of the universe
Yes a piece of each abstract dream
served on the plate of rationality

In the early factory( God's very riddle)

Dirt floor and sunroof
aerated floors of my God's workplace
There was I conceived before the womb
in the middle of a hundred expanding and contracting dimensions
Let's exist

Between the realms of darkness
The rule of thumb for creating a soul
A machine that could manufacture a soul
mine

God what is sunlight in a universe without sun?
On your dirt floor from giant to dwarf in a split second
I thought the multiverse would be slightly more elaborate
fine

How can something that never was come to exist
Shovel-fulls of human memory just cloud the past lives
Since I'm partially artificial where oh where is my transcendental chip?
lost in time?

Am I my own experiment? Half of me cut from my own embryonic awareness?
Here on earth a carneval clown for my elaborate counterpart
Or a tiny image for the biblical eternal king beard rolling off the throne like a waterfall?
Somewhere I'm connected

Leave the illusions here most are pleasurable for the duration
Questions such be unanswered as to not impose the next layer of challenges
Don't have me signed up with a clandestine group of enlightened ones
fixed on one of the billions of strategies for propagating naiive attempts at utopia

No leave it the way it is
Some of us with half our senses telling the rest of the world what we need
and others like me with great visions for the short comings of others
but not a clue of my own overfed but ever hungry voids

Tuck me in with good health
with decades of love
if it is all I can hope for before the two halves are joined
Many a full moon did you grant me magical miracles
Was my satisfaction yours?

Or must I thank you through dedicated prayer
through some brand of church
through some over spoken scripture
so called code?

Does the ritual guarantee a speedy reunion with the whole?
Or a comic distraction for those of poor intellect or imagination
Should I dream of you on a cloud?

or in that early factory spinning souls into existence?

Our quest is often spiritual

Shaped in the events and time
A lost star now a body with a skeleton and blood
Under some hidden eye, perhaps the sun itself
many atoms to the pixel, many choices of blindfolds
Our quest is often spiritual.

Pierced Bicuspid of ten millenia(child of the spear)

A primitive trident spear falling into the cradle of civilization
Children we were, death a familiar sibling to us
Throwing the spear with all force
through the heart of a dear kinsman

Wind bent, Lightening struck trees
surrounded our attempts at settlement
No conscience for the life we deemed free
A nose for only aroma of prey or battle scent

Three prongs through the heart
We the primitive ones eager to risk it all away
Searching for power and prey like arachnids astray
Out of the caves like rabid dogs crazed

The rivers and tribes that fed us
Were tunnels crawling with every poisonous insect
Yet fear was still unknown, their bites tattooed our flesh
All of our own kin infected by a hungry collective insanity

Our blood tainted but it never distracted us from pursuing our prey
Grins and frowns and rocks in hands dressed only in mud
The chase the clash and the delicious flavor of blood

Axe in hand stubby knees and elbows as we crawled to the ledge
That hung over our distant cousins calm, quaint and functional little village
Falling like a primitive spear on them at the war call
as the northern ice finally began to crack and thaw

Barack Obama

Sir We won't see you next election

Yet there's more insight to administrate

From your eight years of corrections

Four years boiling between your ears in reflection

You won't be back to give the glory of certainty

You a slayer of fear, a reason to care, new eyes to see

You won't be here in 2020 to bless us from the presidential podium

To create harmony amid the chaos and crack the right wing's false codes

I pray every part of you manifests on every suffering realm within our world

That your determination and fire that pushed 50 states, never gets old

Your bigger picture looms like an ancient prophecy

This small earth should never know scarcity

Consider the higher duty, the noblest path

the one that tight lipped apathy flips the bird to and laughs

There's no new election for you sir,

so make the world your canvas, because clumsy loves the past

Continue the greatness of your reign, for nothing may surpass

Let my words be your gain, to complete those unfinished tasks!

Ambitious memory

Memory a wonderful sun
Shining on us bringing us back to who we are
Taking us from our clay bowls to steel pots
Gruel to soup, paths to streets

Shine on me grand sun
on my dreams and deeds
on my challenges and conflicts
wake me to the purpose

We have learned to love and hate
and here on earth put so much meaning into those emotions
Great sun lighting the days so that we may remember them
follow me each hour as god's spotlight

For I like some mortal men thirst for more...
I have an appetite for the cosmos itself

Down the slope

Wet ground
cruel whistle, mouth- face- brain- person
Dawn still frosty
light blinding

Expectations
claws in the back
Smile anticipates teen years
hardship written and played by youth

Across the sunken ship
Broken window
Unsympathetic elders
Wood and brick nothing else

Punishing rain
down the slope
into the puddles
Far from family

Irish uncle

Irish uncle

The town and its gangs tax each generation.
A lot foster pride and impulse, questioning nothing outside of pride.
Burnt out car carcasses and blood splattered graffiti walls.
To be lost with no aim beyond surviving the cheap hustle.
Pretending to be dead as the local shylocks muscle arrives.
Greedy for pain and greedy for a gruesome example.
Shadows for souls they past us as we lay hiding.
Lightning hit my conscience and I entered the mind of the assassin for hire.
I entered the generations of lost youth, going back to their humble migration.
Each individual son who almost made it to twenty before losing against a rival gun man.
Each son a tear
Each tear a street corner
A deep concrete lament for a hundred years of sabotage.
One simple Irish uncle now living a wealthy life with abundant love.
How did he do it, the question no one is asking comes out!
He moved out of the neighborhood and let his honor die with the next generation of youth that never learned to question.

The undergrowth can steal you

Patterns form within the fruit and nuts of the roadside forest.
Even the leaves hold esoteric secrets within their positions.
Patterns that bind everything together that represent an overpowering pull.
Bringing your mind into the abundance.
Into where the seed germinates.
The tiny
The mega
Interlacing
Moving in and out
Breathing, speaking to and eating you up
Until you circulate within its own mysterious movements.
Until you are nothing but a small nut on the tree growing and being fed by the revolutions of it's own life cycle
Once Inside there is no shape that you will not assume there is no direction in which you will not go
Existence within the undergrowth so rich that your senses evolve as if separate entities
Folding in and folding out you move as a falling leaf, as a tree gum syrup and as a flower opening simultaneously
All patterns commanding you
Your eyes recognizing the very living atoms to the matted fronds and interwoven leaves
Its here that you romance with God trading pieces of yourself for pieces of it
Its here that you recognize the angelic currency of existence, the one forbidden to city dwellers eyes and hearts
Its here that you are kidnapped blessedly and given refreshments for the worn and overheated strings that tie your body to your soul, the way the undergrowth ties itself to the soil.

The ferry that wasn't there

Roadside plastic has faded, cracked and splintered in the gutters.
Headlights switch on and off each hundred meters. Music fades in and out, restless legs bend and straighten.
Kilometers of hopeful steering wheel grippers waiting.
Dogs bark from roadside slums inconsistently and a warm night breeze hits skin exposed. We moist as toads no notion of our predicament stuck on ferry road.
Each meter a prayer, even for the dozed.
Each horn blow a dare.
The painfullest question looming like a blind specter, like a forgotten care that gave birth to a lively present fear!
When will we get there?
A thousand exaggerations,
A thousand mouths eating a way at our scarce patience!
Ferry road vendors pass almost singing their offers, this is their time to bring and soften us.
God gave them the comfort of a well fed vulture, humble yet leveraging every hour of the long daunting wait.
Jokes and riddles don't calm us, every second screams our frustrated fate!
The local vendors optimistically Pushing cold drinks and coffee and sweet snacks into the wee hours in service of the unluckiest of the unlucky, our anticipation and our unkind hours of waiting.
None attempt to push in line even when a motorist falls asleep and leaves a gap.
Just the horns that beep and try to wake the laziness out the waiter from his nap.
The road strewn with the vendors empty containers, trash none had the patience to dispose of plainly.
Just like a thousand carcasses left to Mark the insane wait of the road to the ferry that wasn't even there.

Moqueca laranja

Veio de maos macias a nossa mesa.
Fervendo e colorido como a garganta de um dragão do mar.
Cheiros de Coco, dendê e coentro batendo a nosso olfato com a mesma força que a tigela chegou.
Uma pimenta redonda e violenta olhando para nos entre as ervas e enfeites do prato.
O aroma faz cócegas em nossos estômagos e línguas.
Primeira garfada quente e esplêndido, tudo que foi esperado e mais suavemente ardido e voando para a boca como um dragão furioso do mar.
Entre o doce e salgado havia uma sensação intensa de temperos da cidade despertando mais gula e fome.
Até que a tigela ficou vazia e nossos estômagos cheios e nossas expectativas tão altas depois, que nenhum prato do tipo poderia alcançar.
A famosa moqueca laranja ou como eu digo dragão do mar!