smooth
You've become a speaker
a listener
you can flow
float on words
swim in language
talk to the city
survive
boldness
walk forward imperfect
a conversation to hold
comprehension
open eyes
reciprocity
almost rehearsed
choreographed
practicing to kiss
the open air
shape of the mouth
altered
Among the trees standing out of the green marshland
holding the white egrets
the gleaming power of the sun reflecting from it all
The resident blindly walks past
Unknown secrets and energies that rise and fall like tides
from within the holy swamp
You may never really see
most faith is a narrow bridge
that only knows miracle or calamity
condemn this zone as simple blasphemy
Yet it is God's hand on earth
A divine piece of relief
where a million critters in range
develope into their later stages
The sun
the river
The valley
(Ignorance of nature is ignorance of God)
A bit of the cactus
side walk snapped us
the frown is pounced upon
by sudden optimism
Hope like water to distance us from chaos
get that flow to trickle into a heart as a house
drink clean from each heavenly spout
as it might one day run out
something close to thirst
something quite so worse
a bit of that cactus
that needs nothing
on your way for a daily cure
a marvellous adventure
across some sea speed of want
salt water expanse haunts
seeking like oxygen
all around desire fills
helps us breathe
keeps us afloat
yet under the sea kills
our lungs would fill
our life subside
our body inside
a fish stomach
no rather back track us
to the metaphor cactus
to survive dry madness
He glanced back crossing the road
coffee in hand morning has his grin
cars slow and pop windows just to confirm
they are getting a peep at the man himself
as he approaches the other side
tipping his hat to the local mechanic
a group of pre retirement men turn in shock
could it be? is it really?
greeting with forced charisma
quite a push from the heart to mouth
make it seem genuine an exchange for a life time
before a subject is broached the EV pulls around
a few teenagers who arrived too late bowed heads in frustration
batteries for controversial fighting and exasperation
industrial social medium world domination
Tree of life centered in the company's courtyard your soul's stance
Thick trunk mottled and intriguing kidnaps our glance
we cannot pull our eyes away the tree with roots into our hearts
toward the unknown someplace or time the outerlife starts
New life springs out of that bark like childhood
wound inside and outside breathing through the wood
those small leaves and tiny lungs unfurled
fatherless motherless handed to the world
In minutes the bell will ring and the bodies inside cheap uniforms
will be called back into working the conveyor belt norms
Not preoccupied by anything outside dollars and calories
The quaint ultimatum of a bread and butter salary
A rare gift existence a yellow glare from woodsprites
The tree of life bathed in the glee of that good light
we change we shed ourselves our shame and aspirations
adjusting to new climates just familiar trials and tribulations
The tree of life a fat swollen trunk forming frowns and grins
new life squirms restlessly somewhere from within
until it comes to the surface lost and alive
carried off to be shelved and categorized
in a supermarket factory where the best of you work corridors
explaining to us the surface world gleaned from computer monitors
yet short circuit when we beg you semblence of meaning
survive serve earn and be buried in nostalgic keening
New life cries out searching for something beyond the assembly line
beyond order and programs absent of love or spirit shine
In the confusing movement
cinnamon over life is cast
ancient surreal rituals
part of us chained to our past
life a market a pose a dance
chaos and abundance
hope and hunger
exchange is all we are
A dog chases a whim
a human chases a desire
momentary diamonds
shattering or a fading fire
the hearts anticlimax
the years long conditioning
cinnamon over each life lapse
yet constant pumping of blood
The exchange of life
through the organs
mostly the beating heart is
the market's well stoked cart
through veins and tubes and folds
Through ethereal moreishness
with no evidence of a soul
except consciousness
the meadow love
morning stroke
light warmth aware
you may see hallowed creatures there
the meadow love
deep in the grass fold
huddled from cold
frost has passed but the day lies open
the meadow lore
hot dry early night raw
refridgerated dawn
the first light thaw
The meadow love
a stones throw from the creek
where the waterbirds speak
tiny valley no soul sees as paradise
The meadow lore
Life a whim not a chore
spreading weed easily
creeping across afternoon underneath
The meadow love
the meadow's warm peace
meadow feast
meadow heat
the fuss
the mess
the hinge rusted
the pest
Gutters run along city roads
the grime peels off in loads
in the heavy rain bluster
diluting the crust
The bully recieves the punishment back
Not knowing it was for his own acts
what a fuss in fact
a mess by axe
in those circles like bowl fish
where the most selfish
are firstly rewarded
then gently slaughtered
The rusted hinge
the pest
A bully who had not reversed roles in his mind
An ardent humble victim now in the bind
Selfish tribes form
to feed themselves and fart scorn
lashing out fully fed with elation
Then bearing it under starvation
Messy status quo chaos official rise
Base of civilization compromised
fussy willful ignorance slopped as soup
a vacancy for you in a bully group
sooner or later
group splits as fate
falling into the gutter
getting washed out
like the last layer of grime
Initially rewaded now demoted
and found floating in the slime
resting forever in dry moats
Simple Parker
whatta fella
could sell me on a lemonade
front of the cul de sac
He swears by apple pie
Is it a religion or a novel appeal
life flows out like slurpy juice
thick routines and slow thought
Parker popped in
lounge still standing
all greetings need their stage
what a standing ovation
in the form of a semi hard handshake
Parker like a bird landing on the lawn
invited to be a commentator no more than that
still learning the game
life a meal
friendly the sauce
Saint Tony Glo was there playing his guitar
reading the lines of that brow
doubt casts shadows
like eyes that cast questions
on our lives
saint Tony Glo had shown us the slats of wood
Pattern of a christ well forgotten
holy simplicity our eyes just won't adjust
How can I be clean
In my life
Saint Tony Glo sings of air hammer
ancient mist and uninterrupted epochs
that are now disturbed by mental leprosy
seeing him sat there the young scroll through
passed the medicine that he is
Not able to get the answer
the fresh clue he sends through voice
and in the slats
longtime pain that all came to nestle on the same days
that attention seekers found God
The Agnostic chime and rhythm shakes us out of slumber
Saint Tony glo has seen the lines of the earth
the lies and betrayal sewn into baskets
of the ungrateful pedestrians
who overwhelm the streets and shops
unable to assemble an identity
with the nick nacks trinkets and blankets
the aromas and threads
the slang they sling fed
Their attempts at plainess
the chorus warns us perilously
worship what is ferrel not ingrained
yet we reach for strips of entertainment
losing ourselves further from the grand God that laughs from a far
at our attempts to comprehend our existence
Yet Tony Glo my first saint percieves
that these ups and downs colors and shades
times of the day flurry of emotions
compound confusion need to be mined
for those meager grams of meaning
where will we meet ourselves
traveling to and fro
desperate to get an inkling
sometimes forgetting the vehicle we're in
How will we become whole are we just hosts?
God tickled an egg rocked and said make the most
Spread us across earth like butter on toast
Then sat back to observe the trajectory and consequent roast
A world bent on dividing us up like locusts
sculpting our distractons to be such graceful fusses
more than the objects of our true focuses
These long highways running parallel
to the veins pumping blood fast as hell
the sense of movement in our guts
the lack of directions so abrupt
where will we turn around and meet ourselves
if the neon lights of fake cities draws us in
like zombies from the desert careless and rough
falling apart as we walk over the earth
Will I meet myself I am gone so gone
so far from who I've built myself to be
The smell of the earth the wind and sea
illusions of the self declared free
I reach from within to appeal to myself
in the hollowness my voice echoes like thunder
and the lack of a response causes acid to surge
covering the internal brick walled chamber
inside me
You will never meet yourself
out of touch and aged by your own ignorance
I applaud the slander they send down like lightening
as I ride on out of control not quite striking
The curses of the earthlike entity
the curses of the light sky spirit
Breakfast cereal with cream
wholesome and nutritious
to the rabid empty soul
vibrating through another eon of tangled roads
screaming to know thyself
screaming to have any notion of oneself
and hearing god's laughter
the restaurant was full
it's name was starvation
young people crowded seeking salvation
blazé with guitars and flavored tobacco
ignorant to the emptiness
the tacky repetitive slogans
they repeat thick and suffocating for the brain
meaningless to the spirit
the neon sign above falls half way down
This is not my restaurant
I do not live here
as I emerge from the kitchen dirty hands
hungry mouths and lonely eyes
all looking up at me from the cozy foyer
Offer comfort or lies if necessary
keep the fire stoked for warmth
with the corpses of the last settled score
roadkill picked up while looking for yourself to no avail
this restaurant isn't mine I shouted in the empty kitchen
echoing through violently absorbed by no ears
Clean pans and woks never cooked in
fresh clothes never to be worn
preserved grain never to be eaten
beliefs never to be lived
The chef stared vacantly into the recipe book
unable to read his own writing
lost to all the popularity and pomp
wafting in from the foyer
Those bats attack dropping down and curving round in the air
slingshots, throwing rocks you couldn't hit one
Bat drops and catches one in midair
gets married to it and hangs upside down
the kids who hang out near the stables sneering
sometimes use their brooms to hit at the bats
dust and woodchips sprinkle down the bats inches
out of reach
The bats up on those wooden corners well mold resistant
screeching come midnight horse
entertained by the swaying low bulb
releasing in case of a moth
hunger drips upward from the stomach
the creature hears and then dives
those kids emulate them
then forget it
