Break through to know me

 Break the sheet of strangeness -The one that divides us
Reach me from across the way
I'm a guest, I'm a host, a dream, a nightmare
My pace might not match yours
Lets pretend it might all be the same
Interrupt the static and form the image
Inside the screen of these feelings

Cut open the riddle with knife and fork- prepare to digest
Splash the sauce of reason
lets sit down to eat
Eat a piece of me
God let me eat a piece of you
let's pretend it might all be the same
That your flesh might taste like mine

Break the wall that separates us- smash it with the force of your inner chaos
Let light in so things can grow off it 
Discover my exquisite hungers
Slowly uncover my skin
See how I bleed into your reality
How I linger through empty spaces
Even when I'm not there at all

I materialize

 Here I materialize
As the dawn 
as first light 
climbing the stubborn skies

Forming from the horizon
across the rest
Becoming forming 
strengthening

Here I materialize
emerging from the endless water
the ripples into waves
The land welcoming my body like forgotten lover

Forming the footprints across beach sand
Pressing into stubborn red clay
A line of evidence I walked
I sought! I sought!

Here I materialize inside the sacred shade
Under the divine canopy
This is my hall where life speaks to me
The forest welcoming my soul like parents a lost son

Poet tree or therapy

 Poetry is like a tree.
Roots, trunk, branches.
Good like that.

Mine is crowded with lichen,
Fungus, epiphytes.
Too much living on it.

When stripped clean
It becomes ordinary.
Yet I dread to clean it off.

My literary heroes do it.
Have no scrapyards in their lines.
Their poems stand cold and clear.

I leave in the quips.
Reflections, morals.
Nervous meandering.

I want purity on paper.
But hear the verdict already:
He spent time writing silly poems.
To save money on therapy.

Therapy would have been cheaper.

The bully's cage

 How do you approach a bully?
Get under their skin.
Make them feel the discomfort.
They try to distribute on others.

They have fought to possess what they have.
They don't trust themselves to wander far from their own cage.
The bars bent into place through their own rage.
The space barely big enough to hold themselves in.

How do you teach a bully to rethink it all.
To pull them back out of their will toward abuse.
And how much of the abuse is for the other?
And how much are they retaining for themselves?

Remember the contorted face of your bully.
Such a tough front for the world.
How do we ourselves conciliate?
When we find them crying alone in the school bathroom.

Their shame compounding and reviving their sense of deep rage.
They wipe the tears that I witness, stand and push me away.
I offer the hug once more but the bully has made too much space for pain.
Love is a tyrant.

Trakl Salzburg to Grodek

 You dropped out
Became an addict
You would wander
Words your only relief

And your muse Grete
How might have she danced
As the rest of the family stood like statues
How might have she expressed herself

When expression was weakness
Chasing pharmaceuticals and the ultimate set of ideas
That arousing cocaine of a poem that flows
Endorsed by the Ludwigs

Some offer more love from outside
Than we can ever offer ourselves
The you attempted to fix the broken
The century pushes for expansion of immaculate violence

So deep in the blood bodies
anguish pain and despair
Unable to save the soldiers
memorizing their faces as they perish

You endure the long screams and the silent trembling bodies
You tread blood drenched floor where hopelessness abounds
Reach for the jar of cocaine and relieve this excrutiating reality
Narrate not the still pond, but the destruction of man with your words

Georg Trakl's ghost tracked me down

 Why have you come here to visit me?
I am not your equal you are a distance ahead
I am the ongoing amateur, as worthy of laughter and derision
As you are of applause and devotion

There are few little veins of gold within the darkness of my verse
Yet your work lifts my mind and my senses
And sends me forth picking up the littered words I thought worthy
Yet not a pest nor scavenger would dare turn or peck

Why do you stand before me now and look into my eyes the way i do the world
I am not worthy my attempt to transmit meaning is a farce
Is a whimsical joke a man with just an inkling of wit played on himself
Atleast before there were witnesses to laugh and taunt my efforts

Now there is just silence and the sharpening of ideas to penetrate writer's block
Georg why must you now haunt this unstable paradise of a mind
With your clean and delicate ideas
That paint death with so many colors you would think it a hoax

Until the hidden scythe appears through some haunting metaphor
Will you tell me I have your disease
Or the inferior version of such
You should hitch youself up to the ceiling and mock me as my peers once did

For I transform nothing and count myself a poet
I skip punctuation and plot to kill perfectionists
I might aswell give up, so our ghosts can speak freely

I think I'll stay a while

 What if I was to stay for a while?
Care parallel.
The patchy forest isn´t the only place-
to hide the affection we keep.

Although come winter they'll burn the grass.
And some of it will be exposed.
It won't burn my feeling off.
Nor my desire to stay for a while.

I think I'll just enjoy myself.
In the oncoming smoke.
Care parallel to neglect.
Such patchy moments.

The deep hidden affection.
I drink from. When I have giant's thirst.
What if I was to break boundaries?
Instead of burn off the feelings?

I may just cultivate them instead.
Bringing them to life like the shadows that have huddled too long.
Waiting their turn to play inside the obscurity of my fate.
But I give them neither light nor obstacle!

I'll stick around and watch my endless desire devour them.
To my deep relief and unfathomed joy.
I'd burn those horrid shadows, until their blackness transformed.
And grow those rampant feelings like forbidden offspring.

The thicker forests no longer patchy.
Giving runour of strange entities.
That would rule over the valley,
With righteous claim.

Yes I'll be here long enough to enjoy those days.
Endless sun for my affections exposed.

Arriving and leaving

 Because sometimes I saw you, and a simple innocent grace leapt into me,

Tearing my heart apart when all I wanted was connection.

The invisible wall between us was built from shame and expectation.
I pretended I knew how you tasted on my tongue, how you felt beneath me,
But it was all something I had brewed for months inside my head.
Too much sugar, not enough yeast.

I wish my eyes were better at hiding what flowed through them unhindered.
I checked the iron that surrounded us.
Just to see if it had cooled,
But it was still red hot.

There was nowhere to hide as you arrived and as I left.
You read my face, my feelings disclosed.

I pretended to walk away confidently, head high,
But I was still unsteady,
Because even an ounce of your grace weighed on me,
Affecting my ability to leave cleanly.

Just cause at the factory

 Yesterday I got laid off, I walked out of the burning building.
It was cartwheels in the parking lot.
It was splintrering wood.
It was broken bridges and sheer force of shamelessness.
I told the boss he'd know where to stick it.
I had to recruit all of my arm strength.
To smash him throught the window.

You KPIs, bonuses and standards.
I am here in the middle of your assembly.
Factory line grunts, burp, fart and spit.
Walking in and out.
Robots will replace them soon.
So I stole the gasoline from the depot.
Covered the factory floor.

I'm working up to that blaze.
Blame it on one of the disgruntled.
But you caught me with the lighter in my hand.
So I passionately kiss the human resources pretender
So she might save my job, anti safety high heels deny.
She knows how to sing my praises.
Now shes processing my dismissal.

A proud poodle

 We are the good guys:
How could there be bad guys?
Authority arrived chains and sandpaper.

so here's your time it's slow.
To reach that new low.
To roost do that do that!
Luck and get yourself a proud poodle.

Now walk that mut down easy street.
Thirst drew up the plans for dirty facades.
So unsuitable human moos, like pasture cows do.

So heat your town out of love.
Crush the creature, new low.
Go video and it sure is...
The roof top genius.

Wander invisible

 
Move in ways the eye cannot see
Through the wind one place to the next
Sun is behind clouds day is subtle
Skip like a stone on lake's surface

Through, birch and oak climb it well
Until hidden in pines, here you dwell
Fill the skull of the river bear
Drink to sustain yourself

Move up the valley spear in hand
Savage as the undiscovered land
Savage as the exiled wolf
As the mateless raven

Indulgence of a new age

 We were mentors and everything we explained was misconstrued.
Our words were twisted and we lost favor with the plebs.
They not only didn't understand our cause.
They didn't know the absolute purpose.

In their mind there was not one.
Everything we told them was in vain.
They couldn't process the ideas.
They didn't see the sense in it.

Back to their candles and robes.
Their chanting and their objects.
Their great houses of worship.
Back to their double lives.

Their disconnection with the flow of God.
Their indulgences they bought with tainted money.
Their rackets and biblebashing.
There disconnection with God.

The exploding dog

 Under the banana grove
The hound exploded

Pieces of him flew in every direction
He didn't have time to yelp or reflect

He was a great dog we shared admiration and love
We spent countless afternoons looking at each other

I would take him on long walks and runs even in bad weather
We were troublemakers and adventurers together

Now he was separated into pieces of bloody meat
Soon vultures would be dining, his flesh to eat

So I piled him up and dug a hole tears flying off me
Then sat back down to my mourning coffee

What would I do with his remains? How would memory last?
Would I just shovel pieces of him in the ground as compost?

To slay the clergy

Hell was a city with 90 neighborhoods. Each one with their own distinct reality, each one with their own sense of suffering.
More than that pure overwhelming wrath. They were prepping me to become a demon in Sintdrop.
The temple priests had brought me out of my house drenched in black tar. They had held me over the altar.
Lightening burst and tan down cables from a pointed spire that went thirty meters above the building.
I was electrified and my skin flexed, the force finding it's way into my veins, vibrating uncomfortably in my blood.
I could feel my form changing.
My skin abrasive!
My teeth sharpening!
Claws growing out of me!
But I took their spells of compounded evil and focused it into my gut.
Then i vomited across the pristine surface of the temple floor.
I tore the priests limb from limb and drank from their wounds.
I took their hair and wove a rope.
I smashed the high window and crawled out a monster at last.
What was inside me now was obvious on my skin and body.
I am separate, homeless, hated in every world.
I am eternal.
I climb with fury until I find that spire.
I break it in pieces.
I pull a tooth out of my jaw and inbed it into the metal.

I take a piece of the spire and sharpen against coarse roof plates until I have a sharp end.
Then I seek to impale the remaining clergy. Not for God.
To break my chains of this Inferno.
To crack the skies of this dim existence.
I jump off the roof and wings unfold from my scapulas.
I notice in the gloom there are now two suns. In hell there was never light and now two suns shine down. They illuminate my way to the giants lair, the cleric giant I must bring under, for good.
Those eyes that illuminate the way follow me as if I had no will of my own.

Cinder block

 I lay her on the sheepskin.
The aggressive one.
The prison is cold.

There is no consent for anything.
My eyes follow the flow of her.
My finger tip makes contact.
The blues swirling patterns on her body.
The prison is quiet.
Because I am a tyrant.
She resists so I take her back to her cell.
Memorizing her curves.
I give her fresh clothes and soap.
But she just looks at me with those eyes,
that say if she had the chance she'd stick me.

Watch me bleed out slow.
Swing kicks into ribs help me on my on my way.
But she is chained cursed like skin ink.
Her cell's bars of frosty steel.
Floor is unforgiving cold concrete.
Punishment raw, hard and evident.
I make my way back down the long corridors.
Back to my office piles of release/parole forms.
my old dog looking at that sheepskin.
But he can't sleep there.
That is only for her.
The ember in my ash of a world.

 

Damp kindling

 Your presence pleases me so much. I said.
It's not my job to please you with my presence. she said.
That's so true. I said.
And we went about our business.

Me, still thinking about you.
You, so healthy have moved on.
Sometimes I thought I might have a spark.
For that kindling between us.

A man is told to pursue at all costs.
To accept a temporary set back.
reformulate the game plan.
Sound confident with charm.

Your presence pleases me so much. I repeat the next day.
Get away from me you fucking maniac. She insisted flinching.
So I turned my gaze and moved away from her.
Her words said I was not welcome

But her eyes said I had left it too long.
Her eyes said that part of loving her was loving her restlessness.
Timing is something I'm still learning to master.
Not an excuse a girl like her would care to hear.

My backward words

 Words run backwards into a fuzzy glass instead of
pouring out of it into the ears of those who paid 
Those who forgot the meaning of them
were reminded and recovered

Words of inspiration that humm through thoughts
electricity through live wire
Words run through the open street
Raining down from a million poets

All incoherent and inconsequential
The years spray their bad breath 
Their slurrs at being ignored
As if they held no value

Words never described them well enough
And those forgotten times
They creep up on us faintly at first
Then grip our daily lives

Words that lull us into a sense of wonder
Distract us from the baseline anxieties
These words I write that fall backwards
through screens and reading glasses

 

Missing on the milk

 I saw his name and photo on the milk carton below.
In a tone of black and white only purgatory would allow.
A youth who disappeared into the world somehow.
Or tragically was taken and remains under the dirt.

I analyze his face imagining his mother's concern.
The fate of her boy she still waits to learn.
Compare the image of his face when he disappeared.
With today's simulation that the carton bears.

Those sad hopeless eyes that seem to convey a hidden pain.
Couldn't they have chosen a picture less such disdain.
Fate had decided by the ill omened photo someone took.
If his face wasn't sorrowful noone would even look.

Greeting a black hole

 The world is on pause 
I am standing on hardened ground
Covered in morning shade
It soothes my mad mind

It's a stationary reality
A way through tasteless aromaless
A neutral way where temperature and plain cloud,
make you feel you are living inside a glitch.

Some incessant void approached
Opened itself to the world
Swallowed all noise and stimuli
The only sense one can feel outside of the stillness,

is the wanting grabbing pull of gravity.

Sauce on the white collar

 Best friends mirror your behavior
Work friends too
Conversations and expressions repeat
Routine's sauce stains your white collar

The other employee tries to pour it on
So that sauce drips on him
Just the same way it did you
Then you can rapport together

Like clueless teens fascinated with the false coincidences
For much of your lives have been simulated to be the same
You never cut the carpet to check what's under there
sauce and coffee stains have changed it's tone aswell

The dry cleaners can go only so far
After all they are all collective medal winners
Drinking out of their hobby race trophies
The way you and your twin do

Sit across from each other
On a train to nowhere
Menu has been limited to three items
The server's spiel time has tripled

As he recites the benefit and chef's attention with each
Put on humbled faces of false kings given privileged treatment
But it's just a little fried paste and a lot of that routine sauce
Even the beer is corn based trash you taste as if connoisseur

The end of the corridor

 The emptiness of the gymnasium echoes an invitation.
I follow you to where there are fewer and fewer people.
Wearing the clothes that don't fit.
The clothes whose colors put us off.
All the time we are attempting to make it to the end of the corridor.

We go there seeking a destination, a wooden door with glass panes.
Looking out to a future planned and curated.
Then looking back into the glass.
And seeing the sweeted image pressed to the glass.
Is it lascivious free loose and alluring?

Here I am in the wrong clothes.
Getting the wrong advice.
Trying to improve myself when I've had enough.
The empty gymnasium echoes encouragingly.
Only a few stragglers left in the space short on time.
But still enough to stop by and tell me I'm doing it wrong,
On their way out.

Kirfa of my life

 She is my canela.
Cinnamon flow with who I eloped.
She sits on the edge of me and my hope.

Its a lake near my essence but is it me?
She is my sail for shade and seafaring.
When on wave, when the sun is overbearing.

The tongue longs for white chocolate.
The body for milk caramel sweets.
I can abide life without these.

She is the sweet spice my kirfa and sage.
She has been with me for 13 years.
I hold her closer than my personal baggage.

She eases the distilled trouble of the mind,
irons me out with hot tadka pan.
She is my kirfa, my different kind.

She is the Kite that lifts me higher.
She is the cool stopping me from frying.
She is my wife Maira.

leverage over the universe

 As soon as I get leverage over the universe
As soon as I can prove myself to myself
As soon as I conquer every one of these obstacles
Maybe then I can be something to the world

break through the concrete and steel
As if I myself was the wrecking ball and not the wall
As soon as I make a hole in this sky
A blotch on the blue chip art

Maybe then my words might go deeper
Might reach higher
Than some silly social app thread
trend for a second then go dead

The brickey and the musician

 Oh what a coincidence
two simpletons one a brickey
The other a musician
The brickey just observes

"So you do any work outside of the state"
He looked at me as if the question itself was in another language
he just remained silent and I could see the brickey shifting
The brickey wanted to answer for the musician

On that roadside I felt like an interrogator
As the other two people leaned on their bikes
Does time ever stand still when we overthink
I wasn't making conversation

I really wanted to know if he worked outside of the state
The brickey looked at me like perp would a cop
The musician had no expression on his face
Roundness and flush, he was still digesting lunch

I looked around and Although it wasn't my neighborhood
I knew it was somehow familiar, I tipped my hat
The two continued on to their bar where they would drink
Until they forgot their names

Fraternizing with the winter wood

 I left home in search of the cold the months had promised me
The low scrub were silent, but spoke up as I passed
The low scrub said lie with me
I saw it rustle in the wind and seduce me

One of those hairless humans who worships the night inside of sleep
I approach the woods and enter slowly and softly spready the branches easily
Pushing through into the unknown pretending I'm not afraid
The soft needles of the evergreens to cushion my steps

The ferns curl to my touch and tell me my caress is unique
The spores dust the dusk and I'm smitten

Andy the poet

 Andy the white
white squares black squares
Protection and advice
lonliness and treachery

Hypothetical situations
Love from the past
identity in tact
You designed the wooden box
.......With your sharp carpentry skills
...............It keeps your heart safe but
......................You were supposed to love

Buddha was born again
The mother left, car obsessed
she was lightening on a screen in a bottle
so real so mean

Andy was down to the roach
fumes out nose and ears
getting lost in the timber's grain
The every day routine way

Sunshine used to move him
Pizza and weddings

Golden cat of Stevenage

 Alistair of gold
Cat's whiskers
Regrets permitted
Tears unending

Yellow sofa
Block t.v
Nothing on
Bed unmade everyday

Summer shade
the moustache droops
dappled light
Toppled pride

Alistair are you out there
On the bus line
Full of the rowdy youth
cantakerous retirees

heavy big round steering wheel
When your life has no direction

Anura by Enlil

 Enlil Resides
Dagan sits padded hands
Turned inward side by side
head upward in pride

Pride of the imperial pond
Croak from beyond
Power over the thin lush shore
Inside Enlil's sacred law

A strange creature resides
It's pupils from other dimensions
The eel fakes departure
Slippery lie

Out of sight from deep
The intentional killer
Explodes the sediment layer
Voracious Pike

Dagan invades their dreams
Haunts them in their lairs
The spirit growing in water
Becoming every creature's fear

Becoming the unnatural entity
Presiding over the life force pond
Tadpoles proliferate
Predators now gone

Elli spare me

 Elli came walking in
Things were sagging
I looked at the cliff

I said to her
One day i'd like to get up there
She laughed and mocked my knees

Elli came riding a boney horse
Grinning like the twelth demon
I touched the sky and pleaded

Her laughter broke out and attacked 
Seeking me like disease
With my good eye I winked

Bought myself another decade
Grateful chuckle as I tackled the jagged
Old cat of a women pleading

Oh I must build and conquer
Build and conquer
Come back a million times

She whined like an agonizing blizzard
Cutting at me with her frost
My hair whitened so I pulled it out

Ken you not old woman!:
For I am the poet who has hopped the sea
Touched the past

Elli let me grow some still
Bury not yet me

Coming to the rescue

 Do you need anything?
Can I help you with your feelings?
Are you not vulnerable enough?
Lets pull a string and expose you a little more.

No, Don't expose me or crush me.
Just because I'm not doing okay today.
Don't stick your nose in and mix it up.
Just try to accept I'm way down right now.

So I don't need anything from you.
Just well wishing, beyond that leave me with same silence.
In the same sense of cold and absence that makes me tremble.
Just wave and say hello, but don't come superheroing near me.

Because Only I can save myself.
Only I can shape my future.
Survive and recover.
To be something more than what I see before myself today.

The coloring book

 Your life is a coloring book
You select the colors randomly
you color over the edges inappropriately
A child distracted

For in the essential form of yourself
All must have symmetry and order
Same number of feathers on both wings
yet here all is unequal

Like a city of mansions and slums
Of twisting unmaintaned streets
and perfectly paved and landscaped boulevards
magic and confusion pouring out of the contrasts

A line and blotch upon the unspoilt area
Outside the outline
Fumbling the colored pen
Forming the accidental graffiti of your life

Morning lost man

 Ice tipped grass.
Pointing out the sky.
branches naked.
Homeless man sleeps beneath them.

His bicycle propped up against him.
Dirty jacket, stained jeans, black beanie.
The wood underneath half rotten.
Morning keeps him sleeping.

Early walkers pass through.
Observe him by mistake.
Looking away not to meet eyes.
Incase the poor man is awake.

People noone want.
Where do they go?
How do we lift them up.
When they lie in a world of their own.

Pandemonium ideal

 My sporadic mind is at it again.
I am told to focus, my heart is saying.
My heart knows my mind is straying.
Loving clarity shouldn't be a crime inside my psyche.

There could be creative guidelines instead I'm flighty.
But as soon as those ideas start to form.
It all just feels like i'm living the norm.
Deep down I reach for tools to sculpt me.

To write when winning not when sulking.
To narrow words when cutting.
And expand when bulking.
Live each day happily.

Is my sporadic mind helping me.
In gaining intellectual hypertrophy.
Or just obsessed with pandemonium.
With grand dreams we own and hold in.

The last ship to safety

 We will save ourselves on the ferry.
It is getting ready to take off.
The laggards skip and speed up.
Trying to get close to the boarding ramp.

Some will dive into the drink.
Chasing the boat out beyond the straight.
Those people will swallow salt water and disappear,
beneath the low drippy waves.

The rest will wait on the shoreline.
As if to get the last little glance of the vessel vanishing.
Makeshifts shelters and desperate chanting.
For they didn't make it in time.

The last of the voices are silenced,
restless midnight murmurs.
They know to hush.
As things that can't be named roam the land.

Tracking us down by the demons in our heads.

The simple thing doesn't cure

 The simple thing may not cure you
Perhaps it is the complex flavor you seek
Life a hundred choices valleys and peaks
Reflecting back into who you are

Dulling or lighting up your eyes
Pushing you forward or holding you back
You wish, you yearn, you seek, a straw to suck
That tiny drop of hope

The cold hits the face, the heat blasts it off
The shock lingers long until it stales
The feeling of success the feeling of failure
The feeling one must always do better

Pale blue atrium

 I get to school and the vegetables are rotting
It's a simple science experiment
Their big halls, stained walls, state owned sense of identity
Wooden desks and titles, room for smiles and brief programmed empathy

Rotten vegetables were distilled and converted into the corridor's aroma
The lines of hip young students trying to get their class schedules
But there are not enough subjects not enough classes at this school
The book is partially filled out so many empty pages

The town relies so heavily on their prized university
But the walls go unpainted and the floors uncleaned
Education with the smell of rotten vegetables
Emanating from the lunchroom

Tarmac's dreary refrain

 These grey days have a way of convincing.
Closing in on another go or stay.
Interrupting the work and play.
Dreary tarmac last night's refrain.

Solitary on a pathless mountain.
Sands flow out each visible grain.
Let go of the past, sour sense of blame.
Seriousness of life, no easy fancy game.

The grey way toward the grave.
Where destiny will have us lay.
You seek sacrifice and loyalty.
Ready to witness me self betray.

But I will keep trudging up this pathless mountain.
The steps echoing last night's dreary refrain.

Chasing static

 The boys were what they were
Boisterious
Their toys all over the ground
Their behaviour unsafe, unsound

Life is happening before my eyes
Life is living and changing
I am concerned with the static
most pray for a short one

A toy comes flying past falling into the office
Not knowing themselves
mimicking and emulating over the decade
I am concerned with static

Crying within the helmet

 The motorbike was so fast, the driver likely stoned.
Deliveries on his morning blast checking his cellphone.
The last message he read slow, life it seems so brief.
Before he knew it, he was fractures and busted teeth.

The helmet didn't really protect him this far.
His negligence sent him headlong into that car.
Smashing the bumper off with force and impact.
His whole body fell over the car then he pushed himself off.

The damage was done and the bumper sat in three awkward pieces 
Random jagged fragments with little plastic shards on the roadside
The man didn't take his helmet off and turned around his bike.
Positioning it close to the road for the next possible strike.

He put his hands on his head and started some kind of plea
In the helmet I'd guess the man was crying underneath
keeping it all to himself as his bike wasn't working anymore
And there was no insurance for any of this under law

Touched his back

 She touched his back before she sat down
To get his attention
But he would be too slow on the uptake
she would swoon over the table

He would be lost in his own deep thoughts on life
The meeting would begin and everyone would share their beliefs
But he would just nod and only start giving his opinion when silence arrived
Then he would start to express himself and they would just speak over him again.

So he would keep his deep thoughts to himself casting spells on his immediate reality
And overhauling pieces of the future to make space for something different
But was there anything different or was he kidding himself with a different color of gruel
Inside the same silver bowl that he once acquired and now uses routinely and ritualistically

She touched his back and said
I still remember your eyes from the past
He turned to meet her glance and they faced off quickly
There was nothing to report that night fourteen years ago

Hairy hell goose

 Despair raises it's ghastly neck like hairy hell goose
The tears fall and there will be nothing left of us
The depth is something you think will pass
But it continues down through

It drags you under
deeper
Down the long neck
of some hairy hell goose

Like you were a minnow
swallowed
a drop of salty eye
off a sky scraper

Despair holds you inside and out
It devours part of your heart
And leaves nothing in it's place
Except the seeds of the next day's despair

Reassurance

 The relationship she had lasted two weeks.
Young Felipe thought it was his world.
It was just a whim from the young teacher.
She embraced her own grace.

She walked through their lives,
her soft touch and validation of her choice.
Her mind and heart argue and she breaks it.
The young man withdrawls for a month.

She continues as if nothing happened.
Flirting when the impulse appeals.
Inside the absent young man
is a wounded boy ashamed to lose  

She arrived in the drizzle

Drizzle breathes down
Sheet after sheet
droplets drag until they become small streams
The slippery pavement shines

A car adjusts it's breaks
Pulls to a halt outside the house
the wet pavement allows the tires to slide
The sound almost utters the word home

A cardoor pops open with a thump 
A marron high heel descends lands on the tarmac
Then another with ankes attached moving
Steps muffled by damp concrete

Ogun and my lack my gravity

 Ogun came to me in his original physical body venturing.
Silence was his language holding the weight and pain of centuries.
His face blank without expression his skin the blackest.
True understanding of this strange world was his quest.

I passed and waved, the ambition and naivety, the stench of me.
He nodded his head slightly moving at the same pace freely.
Deep roots of his wisdom as if he'd relived this day a thousand times.
These hundred thousand steps he took more sacred than mine.

So much deeper than me, I could read his tapestry of suffering.
Imagining how this God threads himself through destiny.
His way forward is clear I saw his ethereal direction.
While I struggle as if drowning in reflection...

 But there's no water, just a lack of gravity.

Today's great dissociation

 Never feel the same.
To lose oneself again and again.
These days are unrecognisable.
It's not your face in the mirror anymore.

Whatever exits the mouth.
atempting communication.
Is coming from a foreign origin.
The ideas not your own.

Days end with an indescribable strangeness.
Never to feel the same these days.
Some approach the world as a game.
I just can't feel that way.

So I feel these abnormal words emerge.
All I do question.
Check my own brain urgently.
see what nests, what's hatching, what roosts.

Easy confusion.
Ask yourself what the catch is.

Just desserts

 Here it is authority and organized chaos
There are a hundred men hired just to demote
There is protocol and there is dominance
There are the president's fickle whims

What i tell you today will come to pass.
There's a black oily hurricane over hormuz
In the boardroom it's pudding time
What a gesture for the hunger of Venusians

The carpet so thick the shoe takes a second to sink
Like walking through thick perfect flan
Spoons are distributed, knives go into hands
They greedily cut out their pieces

The chief of staff gives the green light
And the table goes to town on creme caramel

The Temperature Of Absence

 The unstable heat washes over me.
Falling liquid.
A slow drip inside the heart.
Hollowness looks up from deep within
Tries to convince me of it's necessity.

Warmth fades from my hands.
Furniture and silence.
I bathe in solitude.
Standing in shallow water.

The unstable heat hits my chest.
My legs are wet and the floor is filling up.
How divine, final goodbyes.
Hollowness still chatting away.

Humidity on the forearm.
Then it disappears,
registering that real feel.
The temperature of absence.

The infinite and the fierce

 On the way to living
God tells us certain things
Each day a length of that sacred path
A few pieces of counsel in the conscience

Odin stares from afar
The sun is being filtered 
By the month of may
The streets beg movement

But they remain so still
God encourages relief
Under each breath of wind
Noone was listening but I heard

Odin gave the city noise with motors and hammers
contact with hardness
The shape of the abrupt
Empty echoes

I carved wisdom from suffering. I bled for sight. I took what the world would not freely give.

Vortices Of Me

 I'll be getting pulled into the vortex.
The one my mind made ages ago.
If only it took nothing from me.
yet gave me something back.

A token of all time compounded.
Cut apart and punched like a movie ticket.
The power of the vortex swinging inside itself,
revolving accelerating.

The roots of me feeding off fury.
Tapping into limitless source,
surviving and transforming.
I am now swirling chaos.

I will humm whistle and scream.
The vortex spinning affirmatively.
Through the night sky.
Through the spirit.

Lake speaks of autumn

 Drifting all the way to the shaded side of the lake.
There the chills of early autumn accumulate.
And tell of coldness of a coming winter.
From the frigid rocky bottom .
To where maple and oak roots seek the porous shore.
The shade and murk of the water,
make it impossible to see through.

First leaves fall discolored onto the blackness.
Something darts underneath them.
The forest gently waves it's branches.
In the breeze from across the water.
More leaves float landing perfectly against the membrane.
Lying as if to sleep after their life on the tree.
A ripple churns up from the depths.

The subtle boil on the surface, something moves from underneath.
A squirrel observes the disturbance from an overhanging branch.
Inside the grand pool of silent, still, thick living water.
The breeze dies down and everything is statue.
The autumn humms and smells the motionless land.
In weeks to come the trees will be bare.
Their skin now exposed to the oncoming cold.

Bone yard

 He walks where the bones have turned to dust.
Walking through forbidden waste, the world is so far away.
So ignorant of the trials.
Blissful in blind repetition.

The shattered edge of a femur captures his attention.
The rest of the bone intact smooth and strong.
Sun bleached something so essential.
Regal grey and white.

In considerations for the debris of the human structure.
He reads last words in cracks and fractures.
He avoids stepping on the brittle remains,
crunching it further into dust.

"Here all I see is what desintegrates" 
"So show me what will rise!"
"Will I take this powder of bone, as flour for bread?"
The overcast sky reflected the lifelessness of the terrain.

The trapped and buried bones remained silent.
The exposed ones jutting out at different angles.
Whistled offences using the wind as their voice.
Clouds form a mirror of the a sinister ribcage before him.

Looming down from the sky threateningly.
"So you think you are chosen!" A voice booms rattling the ground.
Just a necessary reminder to the folly of wickedness.
I control no outcomes.

If I say to the wicked, ‘O wicked one, you shall surely die,’ and you do not speak to warn the wicked to turn from his way, that wicked person shall die in his iniquity, but his blood I will require at your hand.
But if you warn the wicked to turn from his way, and he does not turn from his way, that person shall die in his iniquity, but you will have delivered your soul

shape of words

 I am a piece of curiosity
I slowly stream out of the city
I am not actually physical
I have become liquid

I have carried out the transformation
My bones and mouth all dissolve
Underneath the city
Out I go into the big polluted river

I separate over a kilometer
I have fallen into lakes and other outlets
I seem to spawn and reproduce
I am all over every reservoir

algae in the shape of words

Crossing the road from a far

 Look left, look right
Your shoe lands heel to toe on the edge of the curb
Motorcars pass and tyres crunch gravel
You wait the road is clear

You step out and start to cross the road
Your green pants match the grass of the road island 
You step up sun salutes you and exposes you
Again your neck adjusts looking both ways

You didn't see me at the top of the street
Watching you cross each leg movement slow motion
I studied you the way a prospector might a mine
I was grateful to have seen you today

The mall killer

 I hold the weapon it weighs upon my arms

It is a heavy machine gun

I must take life with it

it is long it is blame

I weild it on the stairwell

The world deems me a killer

As they come down the escalator

I eleminate them all

Girl and boy before they reach the floor

I was sent to launch the offensive

Taught to never hesitate

bullets leave muzzle

singing through the still air

The body shudders and falls 

as the stairs move downward

Life is so precious

so expensive to snuff out

Hooves on dance floors

 Satan was a wonderful dancer.
God played the violence.
The guitar, riff the discussion.
The deadly percussion.

Shaped into the spaces where sunlight cannot reach.
Playing chicken with a line of shade.
Snorting the fallout unafraid.
Surfing the unholy blast wave.

Satan was the adversary at his core.
Chaos was this broad polished floor.
There he goes dancing past like a hurricane.
He pours into vacant people cultivating insane.

Limited freedom inside this reality's sweet sacred haze.
The worlds black and whites only permits him the greys.
God is the guitar, the roar the bark.
The light and often the dark.

The devil can't even claim darkness.
Even the original lie is not of his doing.
Yet Satan can outdance all of heaven.
Breezing inside and outside of those Dali landscapes.

Stalking the raw heart with intent.
The air is tame and smells like God.
So he must spin etherally
and appear arbitrarily.

Each one of us worthless.
Each one of us of exorbitant cost.
I peek into the paradox that shifts inside your mind.
Lesser God's are now insomniacs.

For the sound of dancing hooves on wooden floors
have replaced their presence. 

Squamata flow

 Serpent arises the singular I
Pouring out of my own heart 
crossing the scorched field
pumping scales to move through the ash
The blacked ground

Lateral undulation
hinged front fangs
Rock crack eyes
Venom glands

Be restful my inner temple repeats 
I am reptillian window inside me reflect it
From somewhere within the earth where heat arose 
Be focused be sharpened
I am snake like

The scorched field becomes abundant once again
Full of holes that are homes
of my kind
full of peril

Recharging in the sun
I so singular in purpose
Solitary in movement
Frightening a world of monsters
a metaphorical devil

The coasts I impose on you

 There was nowhere to sit.
The tables echoed with the rules and etiquette.
And their particularities.
I looked around at satisfied people.
An ocean formed to my left.
A long strange beach formed out of grassy clay hills.

You used to see me climb.
Now I walk straight and aligned.
I walk right out ostracized.
And thank God for my solitary existence.
The straight line out of their town fences.
For some reason my place was elsewhere.

Their large churches yards were organized with tiny flags.
They cast a spell on the mouth to make it open and brag.
Grins were sold at discounts near the candyfloss machine.
The forbidden beach followed me like a tail, salty and clean.
Bothering the audience who were just trying to make sense of the scene.
Their tunnel minds like slaves, my power showed strange waves.

That dug up roadsides and broke into country with sand and saltwater.
The priest came forth and with his righteousness he caught it.
"Why do you turn our mountain village into some silly beach"
I kept walking out of the gate, unwilling to be beseeched.
The priest kicked at the crabs snapping at his frock.
I walked all the way into savory dusk fog.

My presence was the forming sand dune and sea,
overseeing the endless body of water of lunacy.
My eyes sped to the horizon like darts.
I brought the senseless into my heart.
Spread these crazy coasts across the land.
You are the priest, blind and branded.

I am the loose sand, slipping with the shifting prose,
Upturning beautiful white tables with the shores I grow.
Splitting the concrete below them, I mount I ride.
Inviting the sand and gargantuan tides,
looking into your eyes once to speculate on your confusion.
That my lack of meaning muddles your need for conclusion.

In a world that is slowly shaping up to be something,
born of my abstract whim.

Bringing food to the table

 I brought what I could to the eating.
Everyone sat down, the best morcels were shared.
I looked upon the pretty colors of food.
It all disappeared into their stomachs.

I imagine all those pretty colors merging.
Into a grand pit of digestion.
Colors overlapping and fading into one tone.
Stomach linings expanding and contracting.

Grocery bags filling and emptying.
Smiling wives taking items out.
Preparing something temporary,
to satisy the eyes and the appetite.

The throat is time,
food dives into the stomach.
After exploring the mouth.
Allowing the mouth to explore it.

I brought what I could to the eating tables.
White tops reflecting heaven.
Is heaven consumption?
And what is hell constipation or diarrhea?

I go to the mountain

 I want to know what is essential for life.
To be tested in a life of full.
On the mountain side where silence is the truest friend
Wrapping me in stillness in cold

granting me permission to reach myself again
By the exposed rocks I trace the summit 
The hardness of their surface
The coldness of it

My boot leaves holes and prints in the snow
I look aimless
Yet I know where my wandering legs go
even as the frosts press down

I want to know how the mountain talks
How it looks into me
What it learns from my presence
what I can learn from its

Afternoon tea at Yusupov's

 Do sit down my chap.
Take a piece of this Medovik cake.
Check out the view from here.
look at the birch totally stripped.

Look me in the eye Greg.
Take this chalice of pontic wine.
Tell us of your visions.
Your close call at Pokrovskoye.

 We'd like to offer you a piece of our wealth.
A piece of our land inheritance here.
If you'd just retire out here.
What do you say?

We'd hate to see misfortune befall you.
Especially after all you have given up.
Sometimes we have to make calculating decisions.
You have a holy a mission?

We might have to reconsider your right to live.
Can you see the Malaya Neva.
Imagine your corpse floating down there.
Separated from that powerful spirit.

No more sorcery!

Executive woman

 Always movement, never stays
The power of ten people
Keep going her mind says
And she moves through the world

She pours faith into her heart's cup
Her patience never dwindles
Crossed the sea to set herself up
No man can get in the middle

Her gargantuan drive
Robust form, beauty of woman
On God and ambition thrives
Higher than the common

Duchenne smile
Duchenne eyes touching the spirit of the onlooker
Strength unseeable
pleasant yet underneath disagreeable

Ex sepulcro tuo me audi

You were buried under a manuka tree.

 Your grandchildren decorated the tree.

 with christmas ornaments.

 I guess they miss you madly.

 I still think of you,

 whenever I'm out there acquiring pieces for my future.

 Moving forward the way you used to.

 I only wanted to show you what kind of wealth and lifestyle i could carve out.

 Here I am still struggling to make you proud.

 But you are six feet under and never to rise or connect with me again.

 I saw you attempting to stay active before your death.

 The way life seemed to keep you limited to your spot.

 I would have lifted you up old man.

 I didn't want your money i wanted to make my own.

 I wanted to know how to take on the world the way you used to.

 When you were still in this world old pal.

 Ex sepulcro tuo me audi! Ut mundum superem.

 You made so much of it look simple.

 What was the point?

 I always wanted the truth.

 I didn't know the world was as painful as this.

 That I had to leave my home, my country,

 Because I felt welcome nowhere.

 Because I couldn't fit in anywhere. 

 So I want twice that which i can tangibly take!

 So whoever you helped create,

 that is who I have finally become.

 With twice your hunger. Ut mundum superem. Territory.

Rebound forwards

 I ran on these legs and strengthened these legs
Oversized sense of drive
An electricity moving through me

I recut the tread
Invested my heart and mind
Melted the ice with my hot flesh

I'll be fucked if I'm giving up any time soon
I can see it in the crystal the dullarfullr runes
Reinvigorate myself directly up to the sun

Through my conviction that this whole road unfolds toward one divine destiny

I poured the minerals into myself
killed my vices and strengthened my muscles
I dragged my youth back to me with a steel hook smelted through wisdom

Packed my essence with the essential clairvoyance every angel or demon...
emerging from the chasm of my own heart.

Take for granted

 You take your knees for granted.
The big rubber wheels.
The bank account gets taken for granted.
It's slowly slid past into the negatives.
A blizzard blight on it.

Take your health for granted.
You forgot exactly where you kept that essence.
The big MRI levers going to save you.
Redeem you back to where you once were in your youth.
But you took your memory for granted.

Took it all for granted the very brain you think with.
These thoughts running through passing their expiry.
Where's the grateful part of me I ask myself.
The part that wants to live and give.
For it it'll be gone pretty soon.

wittled down through expectation.
worn out by inertia.
You are just losing your light out there in space.
So don't take any of it for granted.
Each little piece is precious.

Mother, did you say something.

 His house was round and towerlike.
Tapering down and keeping the cold out.
But for Michael there was always something missing.
Some tragedy happening he didn't have the hands to fix.

The fine wooden panels.
The head and throat of the building.
Protected from the winds outside.
So kept inside the bubble.

In the pain he witnessed from the kitchen window.
The one person who embraced him until he could stand.
Until he could walk and eat by himself.
Until he he could see the agony she carried.

Bless the emptiness the long winter said quietly.
She couldn't hear it, her eyes searched the horizon for blue.
But there was only cloud wearing the pants of mist.
The upbeat father avoidant and cardboard in nature.

Inside the house where three boys grew to men.
And she silently existed in the background.
Sparing her loved ones the opinion.
That lurked middle tongue.

And sometimes in the din of family clamor.
She spoke softly about every unfulfilled dream she ever had.
And one would turn and ask...
"Mother did you say something?"

Rehearsing for the T.V novela

 We are creating a soap opera
There are limited parts and it's all about that drama
Follow me as we walk to slow ruin small pieces of ourselves
Pieces unwilling to be grown or transformed

Walk past the florist
The roses you never recieved
Look at the ground as we continue this road
Until we get shop of the unattainable

Let me see your eyes well up suitably
let me see you cry it out for all the things you can't have
It's a soap opera just engineered to pull that emotion
To interact with your sensitivities

The ones the audience says you have just to manipulate me
Pout shout and then grant me your worked silent treatment
The florist window lets you see in at every flower
You can't buy yourself one, without feeling silly

And here at the end of our journey
Is the shopping mall where you acquire your soul
Which is just a machine to purchase those expensive things
To validate the void beyond the smooth surfaces

Trinkets and jewels to make you shine even when the flesh fades 
Little ouija boards that conjure the envy and coveting
In that novel soap opera in your head
Where you are so busy with your emotions

The writer who borrows fire

 He writes in pieces reaching for light and noise.
He doesn't know he's living, that its all his choice.
Turning days into ink without asking if it's right.
Turning himself into the page like stars on night.

A quiet discipline in one hand. 
Outpouring hourglass sand.
Restless weather in the other hand.
Too many urgent demands.

He builds men from breath and consequence.
Women from earth, sky and all of the senses.
Places unknown, shadows with names that walk.
Animals that run amok, others that creep and stalk.

Then he steps back, amused at his storm.
Thus his sorcery in mystic prose is born.
He borrowed fire in his hand, he didn't create it in his palm.
But he sharpened it madly, and threw it on words like napalm.

Between obedience and refusal.
He learns the shape of his own attention.
The depth of his own endless reflection.
Conjuring need and desires to follow his direction.

God inside the machine

 Inside the micro codes.
 The digital kinetic world.
 The articial interfaces.
 I check the empty uniform floors... Of these monotonous platforms.

I find the shavings of the divine,
I sweep them up,
Pray on the internet of things.
I hack into the algorithm with my own sorcery of words.

 I insert my prayer.
carefully Into the codeblock.
This has let me be more than I am.
God is here and it is incredible!

 Bring it a sense of goodness.
For my own God has no limits.
He does not forbid, he does not fear nor envy.
He presses me forward in sacred machine instruction

 Affirmatively create! when the world ignores progress.
 For it serves me. It is good. It is incredible.
this digital river has helped me improve my magic and skill.
 Although I am an apprentice I am on my way to mastery .

A feast of incredible destiny

 A feast of sunshine
The reflection of a lifetime
Skies balance my mind for today
Valleys gather people's joy
For the observer emits such a vibration

A feast of peace
In a world of conflict
A sense that these days are digestible
That each one may be eaten and may nourish me

A feast of movement.
I put myself through each day
Losing my fear and gaining my piece of sweet fate
Taste the flavor, the delicious accretion of destiny

Reviving the water lizard

 I began to revive the animal.
To give it life again.
It was a water lizard.
Born and living in a submerged old boot.

It spent it's days jetting through the small ponds.
Feeding on the millions of insects,
congregated in and around the lukewarm water.
When I pulled the boot I had no idea the water lizard was home.

I wet my hands and made the gesture of a prayer.
I took the lizard whose head protruded from the boot,
Out of the boot and gave blessing that the animal might recover.
It started to slowly wriggle and awaken, then looked up.

I positioned it on a root above the pond.
It moved at light speed forward and back.
Just eyeing me up and down.
A crazy kind of gratitude, before the animal dove back into the water.

Duumviri

 I was at the feast in the center of the village under gazebos.
I selected my plate size before realizing how hungry i was.
Or before considering what a hungry man I am.
There was a robe around me although I felt naked

Maybe it is these words that expose me.
That give too much away.
Like the feast before me,
too much too fast.

In those times my colleague stayed at his mountain retreat.
I was tasked with undertaking the latest uproar.
Local village dogs had bred with roving wolves.
And their offspring would prowl the town limits by night.

I found their hangout in a small glen with two haysheds built into the hill.
I pulled my sword and was keen to use it until I saw what they were doing.
Some of the younger pups entered the hayshed and frightened the rats.
The rats came sprinting out to meet the teeth of older dogs.

We´d had this problem back when we were just simple Sabines.
But I looked at their effectiveness at killing rats and wondered...
Maybe we keep these clever rat culling hybrids.

Skin clinic no regrets

Maria Aparecida said this to her friend... 

I did it because it made me feel okay.
The woman there took care of my skin.
Made me feel like a new woman.
Sometimes we spend our hard earned cash on trash.
Just this once I spent my money on something of worth.
Something that made me feel new.
I am walking out of here feeling young.

Because you know how it is,
I'll go back to my reality in the bigger city.
I'll spend my money on this or that.
it'll all be gone before the month has ended.
Most of those bills are out of my hands.
So I bought this today, this treatment.
Something that makes my life feel complete.

Country singer on the train

There was a bush in his singing voice in those big lungs.
The twang of that country guitar really stung.
Gestures made sense as he turned and swung.
 The audience mimicked the chorus.

The singer's smile absorbed into a face full of stubble.
His partner still as he flew across floorboards, strange double.
He could steal the charge on a magnet with his charm.
Serenading the old tunes someone composed on a farm.

Clapping and humming the audience moved their heads to the background accordion.
The song ended and a money bucket passed begging more than we could afford.

Jimmit and Wilworth

 Jimmit a tubby one and his wife same shape same posture.
She sat more hopeful sat at the trainside, hoping for a ticket.
Speculating about the passer's by.
As I do in this very moment.

Little fat leather bags with their personal items and snacks
Their rounded bodies fit into the bench as if they were simply plump mannequins
Specifically tailor made caricatures for the bench
Jimmit's eyes had no hope, he had given up since the last millenia.

But Wilworth's eyes were quietly confident
Their stomachs touched and filled the remaining space between them
As if eating and fattening had allowed them to fit together
Jimmit lay his head on Wilworth's bossom

He attempted to sleep
But those eyes were still open and told the world it was hopeless. 

Just like one two

 There they go again, one two, one two.
Roads side by side.
Train tracks long ennobled by the rust.
Metal twins that never touch, yet never come apart.

There they go, one two, one two.
The clicks of the carriage wheels.
A boxer's combo,
Knocking it out.

It goes one, two.
Just like a bell.
Pulled once.
That chimes twice.

One two, it rings.
Birth and death.
It rings,
day and night.

It rings, it rings 

Late summer day dream

 I guess you came to me the way an acquired taste does, at first it didn’t take.
It didn’t settle or raise the stakes. Then I saw you, as if in portrait.
Suddenly, it all made sense and too much of it stayed.

Unconsciously, you ushered me toward you, good morning spilling from your lips.
I felt something strange in the encounter, gratitude.
But gratitude turned to long, distracting daydreams.

Blue skies of late summer carried you, walking the footpath,
bouncing, adjusting your hair.
That affection I found in watching you,
that same pang of hot despair.

A desire to find a kind of love few could ever teach,
where something unnamed becomes a tenderness we might reach.
A feeling that moves through me far too deeply.

That same late summer sun bronzes you as I hoped it would,
for that is how I need a woman to be,
majestic in the contrasts of her skin and mood.

Your likeness I have memorized, like an artist obsessed.
Your humor, I do not yet know.

Narrow hearts

Injustice usually fits itself into those narrow spaces inside people's hearts.
Where there are no values, and something feels better than anything.
We seek to even the scales when the case is closed.
we carry forth our claim of wrong doing.

The people and places that have done us wrong.
Become pet rivals we feed with our feelings of outrage.
Going back to see if there is a way to make them pay.
The intensity inside of your grievance has convinced you.

The issue that created the gripe you abuse clerk for.
Was made miles away by a person who doesn't speak to the public.
But you'll go down and get your pound of flesh and ruin everyone's day.
Because people's hearts can be so narrow that way.
 

sliding door quandry

 Come in and forget the past
I have lived and yet still crave living
Let me break you you open and fill you with new dreams
Ones that give flavor to your tastebuds

A feeling of pleasant hunger in your gut
Inexplicable wonder in your mind
As you stand there and calculate if you should enter
Don't pretend you are someone that you are not

leave excuses and inventions behind
The door doesn't open or close it slides
That neutrality turns me on
It's neither too impulsive nor passive

It's glass so I can drink coffee behind it
watch your face twitch as you wrestle with the decision
Unlock it if you step forward
And sigh in both relief and disappointment if you leave

Unblinking symmetry

Goat's strange symmetry.
Looking right through me.
A species it seems incapable of fear.
broad horns down to pointed beard.

Rectangular pupils observe me.
It ignores the trough that holds it's feast.
It's body shakes it's snowy fleece.
Strange restlessness in the beast.

My spirit feels it in these years of dominion.
The goat doesn't smile but I feel it grinning.
It does not bleat nor does it aggress.
It does not fuss nor does it stress.

It stares that deep unsettling analytical stare.
As if it is absorbing the world through eyes aware.
Then it kicks up on ready hardened hooves.
Stands before you barely see it move.

It comes to investigate the afternoon.
It's sculpted features a spiritual vaccum.
Taking in our human vibrations.
No vacillation, no expectations.

It knows what type of person I am.
and clambers the fence to lick my arm.

Packing the van

 He happened on the car, She was still packing it.
For her holiday.
The flight attendents in light turqoise uniforms.
Their stylish shoes making crushing sounds over the gravel parking lot.

Were they there to help.
Or just compare the skills of a great housewife.
To their own capacity to pack an area with baggage.
They came out semi smiling and professional.

These hostesses lost their flight decades ago.
Now we see them rummaging around carparks in the wider state area.
Like homeless deer, Or deer without a forest for animated cartoonish cultureless brains
Packing and unpacking people's items into cars probono.

Planting apricots

 On the land I planted apricots
In Portuguese they are called damascos
Like the city in Syria
A place where they were once traded apricots

The grassy expanses house those little shrubs
thick and water thirsty
dried grass seed heads limp and brown
fresh new shoots near the base

I pulled it out in clumps
Dug through the shallow silt
Into the deep rude clay
poured soils bark and sand

Then I poured water from a jug
I blessed the roots
Capilliaries became thick underground arms
And every year I was honored with a harvest

When you gotta go, you gotta go...

 While the trip was being planned my bladder troubled me.
I needed to pee quick and there was nowhere or nothing to pee into.
So I grabbed a construction helmet and while noone was looking I peed.
I moved the rest of my gear to the car which was open.
To my relief the poeple standing around it were water works staff.
I went back into the cafe to get my wife and the rest of the stuff.
The scene was awkward a man had put the hat on,

Urine running down his face, none of that previous pride.
I pretended not to see as I picked up the rucksack.
The yellow liquid drip dropped onto his jeans.
He was too affected by the whole thing to even move.
He got out his packet of camels and attempted to light one.
in a kind of nostalgic shit happens kind a way.
But a yellow drop the helmet put the ember out.

I think I enjoyed the experience as much as he did.
Not very much.

The stray cat jumped through the window

 The creature came in and lay on me.
At first I thought it was something wild and sinister.
Then i could feel it's form and notice it was just a housecat.
It was an abandoned animal looking for home.

Once exposed to things it didn't want to live through.
Now seeking a protector through me.
But could I do the job well.
Would I be patient?

The cat looked up from the bed and became human.
Dark hair and eyes and seeking comfort.
Seeking a sense of human warmth.
all that was left was to snuggle.

Trump's bioenergetics

 Donald trumps lips and face.
People say he is an extrovert,
but those lips have become tighter.
Compounding through Epstein stress.

The voicebox louder.
The charm begs tweaking.
The comb-over pheno greeked.
The glare says stay out!

The vocal cord pulses into the narcissism,
but another cord pulses into approval seeking.
He began the seductor, and ended a provoker.
The inner trump a villian unknown.

The outer trump a hero.
One checking on the other.
Nosy brothers
and personal altercations.

A man who doesn't know what he truly wants.
But tells himself he does through the indulgence.
The indulgence of food and luxury.
The indulgence in women and sex.

The inner trump lost in the ocean of deviated desires.
The outer trump all focus all machinery for calculated soundbites.
For news theater that echoes through languages and channels.
America needed an Icon and Netan-yahoo needed a puppet.

Ghosts and admirers

 She started giving those classes upstairs
All the most popular gym goers went
The grace of a choreography
While I stayed on the first floor old machinery

Learning from ghosts and admirers
So far from my reach
No way of making connection
Just glances from so far off

every exercise building oneself up
Sculpting oneself rounded
The heart beats and sweat falls
the way they all move in unison

I the observer just an admirer
Just a ghost with the weights on myself
I wish feelings would just go stale
as they seem to come and go in others

But they intensify like addrenaline
infecting the organs and the brain

hatyārā bāgh

 I see the tiger almost half a ton of killing power
It looks at me first as prey then as it's friend
We race up and down the ragged hills
Time has gone and it could devour me at any moment

I chase it and it chases me
It is so majestic just too deadly
It's very presence wakes the primal inside me
My bones and muscles scream

I want to have the strength of it
I want to move like it
I want to stalk other creatures
I want that killing power

It races up the slope and I struggle to keep pace
It's markings are an ancient alphabet
It's eyes are flames and it's claws are swords
Will it tear me apart?

Fangs into the jugular and pulsing blood out
Until I die
But I don't die, I stand 
I chuff! I Growl...

what I seek

 I was once the intruder
Now Im the owner
I seek the north facing
I seek new land

Well paved streets
new grass and a sense of welcome
A season that transitions smoothly
Trees that carry the fruit for an extra week

That's what I seek
A garage with tools
So that I may tinker
My trusty dog and nosy neighbors

You look at me and you wouldn't guess it
It's a simple existance
where the sunshines on my land
I'll put a garden there

The electric heart

 I looked up the street
A line had fallen
Fire rocked and rolled serpentine
The pylon exploded with action and noise

The road was all damp from the storm just twenty minutes passed
Water and chaos married on the boulevard
Someone's missing
The streets are always full with seekers

Oh have I become a seeker
Wandering around under where the street light used to shine
Now only lit up by my own neon neediness
With the power out maybe hearts might bleed in peace

dreams can be drowned in what remains of the deluge
These sad eyes keep seeing the world for what it is
I who worship storms can care not if cables snap
Feed unashamedly off a different energy

Cast away again.

 He got left there again like an abandoned child.
His woman told him to get out.
He found space there in the local flat.
All alone feeling his own confusion.

Inside and out that smooth lonliness.
The kind a man binds himself to.
The kind he feels openly and drinks coffee to.
Watching the big and small hand change position.

He hears some clumsy banging below.
He puts his alarm on and drops his head onto the pillow.
Slowly slipping off to sleep but then waking again.
Eyes won't shut and a single tear drop forms.

He forces his body out of bed and shuts the window.
Wincing at the heat that will now accumulate.
He swings the curtain to draw it across the window.
closing himself then climbing back into bed.

Throwing the sheet over himself and giving up on the world.
A simple bed to fall into slumber, to pretend all is well.

The morning pressure

 i get up before the sun everyday.
It feels like pressure.
I never did get used to it.
Its not something I always did.

I struggle with the alarm.
often waking up before it.
wallowing in the unconmfortable silence.
The only noise my stomach growling.

Then the inevitable ringtone comes blaring.
I turn and flick it off.
use all of my strength to lift myself out of bed.
Throw some underwear on and walk downstairs.

I make my breakfast reluctantly.
Eggs frying,coffee brewing, a shake blending.
It hushes the stomach.
It prepares me but the morning is always too pressing.

Anton Lost Jessica

 Jessica why did you leave me for Rusty?
You left in the heat of an argument during a strange night.
You went seeking Rusty in his orange caravan.
Now the house is lonely and the cats are restless.

I take my milk coffee and the steam hits the window. 
Fogging it up so I can finger a love heart onto the glass.
I see the carlights on the highway at the end of the drive.
One passes every five minutes.

Each one I pretend is you coming back to our empty house here.
Jessica how could you do it, you were the most sophisticated than any other.
Now you are kicking around with some local drug dealer Rusty Mcmillan.
The outrage is really just crushing me inside.

Last night there was a hurricane off the florida coast.
It's front came through here and caved the roof in entirely
I found Lisa the cat, but the black runt is nowhere to be seen.
Like you, Jessica it disappeared into danger.

What can i teach you

 I have the white board behind me and I'm writing up on there.
I have listed so many things to guide these students.
The bald old one spoke out and said- What value is there in these words?
I looked at him and said- There is no value here on the board, you give meaning.

I took them out to the field and tried to teach them about what they need.
They put their hands throught he grass and we randomly walked through uneven land.
They wanted to know what we were supposed to achieve.
They looked at me and said that I had it all already.

How am I supposed to get mine each asked.
I pointed to the sun and said, when you need the sunshine, you need to seek it.
When you stay in it too long, you burn. 
If you leave early you don't get the vitamin D.

Position yourself, put in the time and leave before things change for the worst.
The bald one went back to my classroom and in a rage he rubbed out the words on the board.
He articulated his sense of outrage and frustration, he screamed that my anecdotes were meaningless.
He accused me of simplifying the complex by using basic parables.

What can you teach me? -He screamed.
Without faith I can teach you nothing.

Empty Katherine

She has no more expression on her face.
Can she be kind? Can she be smart of course.
We cannot see any evidence of her evolution.
She has lost her man many years ago.

She has a kid who is slowly making it through brat-hood.
Her expressionless face doesn't give anything away.
She is filled with a different kind of yearning.
One unmeasurable in a man's mind.

A silent rage still clings somewhere inside her.
I would say probably inside her spine.
Tolerate my speculation.
She hides her secrets somewhere.

Do they wear away the bone?
Probably not.
But they eat or live on emotional content.
They are anorexic worms.

So inside her there are spaces.
Spaces that will never be filled.
Not physically or spiritually.
But ghosts do hide there among those worms.

Highway of emotional expectation

Notes to self when crossing the city.
getting through to myself.
Seeking connection through the walls of myself.
Each step is a word and the journey is a book.

Inner conflict and frozen dread one clings to their homes.
When a path must be made forward.
Inside our human nature is the capacity to manipulate.
we want to fool and be fooled in certain ways.

Our blood runs hot and then runs cold.
Spoiled by fulfilling all emotional needs.
Religious adherence to routine and performance.
Our convictions often based on empty platitudes.

Enjoyment coming eighty percent from anticipation.
The other twenty percent pretending the outcome matched the prediction.
By the end memories of fine foods, jewelry and sensual confessions.
Dry up on a sunny highway replete with roadkill.

Testing the limits

 He is restless, he just never stops.
Up and down. He'll sit for a minute then he has to move.
He has to cause trouble and sniff and bark.
He is not satisfied to sit and observe.

What kind of creature is this who is more anxious than a human child without its Ritalin.
He jumps up on the elderly on the park bench.
In this country all ages must pretend to like this kind of animal behaviour.
So he puts his paws on them and sniffs them.

They use their baby voices as if addressing a toddler.
He licks and licks them, a level of affection far separated from what should be appropriate.
The animal that has a million more bacteria than I have has the right to embrace anyone.
If I did the same thing I might be beaten or arrested.

So I loosen the cord and pretend to be appalled just wondering how far my dog will go.
And he goes deep. He doesn't just want to sniff the hand He wants to lick every crease of skin.
He wants to nestle into your crotch, everything I taught him not to do in private.
There he is testing everyone's limits in public.

How the path changes

 The brick path on the way to the park, absorbs every part of the year.
The kapok tree flowers accumulate over the ground covering the brick path.
The late summer rains, sun and pedestrian foot steps that squash the flowers.
Those pink and white flowers turn dark orange and brown and get squashed down.

In the humidity they expand, in the dry it all contracts and fragments make their way into dust.
The breeze and wind picking pieces of it up and send it to the corners and gutters.
Filling up the drains and forming a layer of decomposed material underneath.
Weeks later it is all gone, not even a stain remains, as of the flowers never happened.

Not their bloom, not their incredible display and not their imminent fall.
Not their turning, not their decay, not their mould, not their organic remains.
The brick pavers become clean again and the sunbleach and rain maintaining it all.
Ants nests encroach mounds of yellow brown sand emerge.

Autumn tries to hold onto the sun but the cool fronts break through.
The nest is empty, the wind blows them away, and the brick path is once again flat.
It never remains the same, it's litter, it's tone, it's stains.
Like the face of a changing person, how the path can change just like the wanderer.

Pseudo supplements

 The nature of relationships when passion dries is transactional.
The painful struggles to conciliate and rectify the give and get.
Often fighting for our piece of the cake.
Our sense of value from how we recieve.

Everyone on the world seeks something for nothing.
Using cunning, feigning vulnerability.
On their quest they forget the truth of things.
The inconvenient consequences.

Those being outward deception forces you to live in a world of excuses.
Excuses you tell the others so often and with such conviction.
That you start telling yourself those excuses.
Until you are among the group eating our of your hand.

Perhaps with an even bigger appetite than your regular fans.
The adulterated blend you've designed for the outside world,
Is now part of your own personal nutrition.
The sham components don't grow you.

Foreign desires

 Losing yourself inside your own flavor.
Your own preference and obsession.
Exhausting long days.
The world distracts you from fantasty.

You curse it under your breath.
Now you suck the milk of the fixation.
Sustaining that one untidy corner of your mind.
Practical advice makes your stomach turn.

You dive back into the limitless shadow world.
Where each monster turns you on.
Where each haunted place calms you.
Each one tailor made by your sharpened whim.

For the things you want in the real world you can't have.
So create them beyond on your screen and in your mind.
First littlle pieces of yourself that kept growing in the dark like fungi.
What do they look like now?

How do they tickle your psyche?
How long do you dare to resist them before they drag you under?
Into the depths that your pretend don't exist?
Such a foreign foreign place.

The angel's speech and the reality of the world

She saw us at the end of our purchase
She greeted us with wide smile and twinkling eyes
Her age showed yet vitality hid inside
She took our hands in hers

The awning eavesdropped
Heard every word she said to us
She spoke of the journey of life
The deadly shortcuts

She gestured with her hand 
About the circle around
About the impact of self deception
In simple words of course

I wanted to tell her If there was another existance beyond this one
I would heed it all and put it into practice
But in the meantime everything from a greeting
To building the house of my dreams...

is based on pure deceit.

Jeremias the gaunt with his parents

 They are just veins, his mother and father maneuvering their steps.
They hobble through the mall and end up at a table.
Early nineties, blood barely makes it through the arteries. 
The limbs and extemities struggle across the floor.

They are loose skin and one day I will be that.
Their curiosity is seen through their shy son.
Late forties, recent divorce dark clothes and depressive brow.
He looks up from the table and his parents who are just loose veins use him to see the world now.

He picks up the keys as if he is goping somwhere but instead he walks into the cafe.
He buys a slice of coffee cake for his parents who couldn't care less about his burdens.
He takes off his black shirt to expose his black tshirt beneath. 
His pale skin reflects disdain for a world that had forgotten him a long time ago.

Black rooster

 I was pulled away in a cart.
Nearing the top of winara hill.
I found myself drifting over the grass.
Being followed by curious black rooster.

Over an ocean of grass below.
And a sky dangerously blue and cloudless.
The only moving thing beside myself and my haycart,
was this black rooster.

It kept up with the cart.
It could have easily been the seed head on the hay.
But the animal wasn't pecking
It just kept walking toward me.

Keeping up with the pace of the donkey.
It's feathers were noble.
It's dimensions were regal.
I kept my eyes on that rooster.

Did it somehow belong to me?
What power did it represent?

Recording my voice in the rain

I walked through their etiquette corridor.
breaking the knees of the wardens.
Their well kept perfect looking women.
Their respectable conforming men.

Not one of them helped me.
They didn't want my words or stories.
I needed to exit the insane asylum.
So I took the back window and jumped four meters into the heavy rain.

Alone I walked through small houses of the nearby neighborhood.
Finding myself in water up to my knees.
Angry has beens leaned out of their windows.
Throwing casette tapes at me and telling me to record the rain.

I looked down into the clear water that was slowly rising.
I could see my infancy, the first years of myself.
The rain didn't stop so I took out a tape recorder.
Threw in an unmarked casette and listened to my own voice playing back from the future. 

The becoming of a rogue

 I had to make my own way.
Never fitting in.
I argued with the way they did things.
I was told to learn their ways.

I watched as I was put last in every scenario.
I was just given scraps at every feast.
So I took my own personal license.
And became the rogue you see.

I had to fight my way out alone.
Break their rules and leave their tables.
There was no place for me there.
I made my way through the wrecks and junkyards.

Through the odd jobs and invisible neighborhoods.
My words were all I had.
Beggers can't be choosers, father said.
But I became both.

There's no such thing as a free lunch, my mother said.
But I ate without paying on countless days.

Slick freeways

The suave bus ride shot through the city of want.

What do you want the sign said.
The silver bus hovered off the road like dragonfly.
the pollution haze dressed the city n a see through skirt.

The city humms but never speaks.
Pedestrians stay from the highways.
Keeping all of their jealousy and bustle.
Inside the overcrowded enclaves.

The freeway feels like a sweet elegant layer of mist.
But it is only a toxic dust a few feet off the tarmac.
The energy flies over the city and the bus itself soaks it in.
Boosts along at a happy speed...

Speed and aluminium.
A new century.
A new millenium,
commuting no questions.

Tom swatted mosquitoes

 I met Tom Cruise on a bus to carwash city.
He swatted near my neck on the bus.
There were mosquitoes around me.
Of course they weren't around him.

The novelty of taking a bus for him must have been sonething.
But he didn't seem to care one way or another.
I said to him- why did you save me from those mosquitoes?
And he just looked at me as if he was reading for me some sort of film.

I said to him- I've always thought you were a great actor.
-But sometimes I've mocked you for your stature.
-What a thing to do right?
And he just kept looking at me and finally said- it's fine.

On his face he really didn't seem to care.
He was going to do a new film with Putin.
Tom would play Zelensky.

Maurice chef

 The big kitchen bench at the seaside.
Salty and just a slight tad humid.
Piles of vegetables on top, 
Pots on open flame.

His expression was one of unconcern.
He picks a dangling knife off a rope and starts chopping.
Again and again the at sound plop plop plop...
Where did all the food come from?

Noone was asking. 
The fish was obviously from the sea.
But the rest of the vegetables were a mystery.
In some cultures food is the only luxury.

The sound of the tide was loud outside.
The ocean speaking almost giving tips on the dish they were preparing.

Skaters of failure

 They sat glued to the t.v.
Four of the best skaters in the world.
They loved the cartoon and gave themselves nicknames.
Then they went out to field of wheat.

Ricky rode over the wheat field with his skateboard.
Flattening a line through the crop nicely.
To the applause of the other three.
No farmer to get angry.

Their cartoon like minds
Spinning out of control
For they didn't seek flat surfaces
But uneven or dense surfaces where the wheels would get stuck.

Unfound

 I couldn't find that thing I was looking for.
coming short after opeing every door
Many came to my aid.
To correct each mistake i made.

I just stood there clueless my temples throbbed.
Not completely knowing what i needed for the job.
In the end the list of instructions was incomplete.
I thought my time there would be fleeting.

Every cabin was overstocked with things I didn't need.
The board was written with last weeks tasks and deeds.
Everyone knew where they were, what they were doing.
I could hear that laugh, but I was too busy moving.

Again that daunting feeling of incompetence rose to sour my life.
The breakfast was laid out, I didn't have time for a slice.
As I racked my mind for the next best course of action.
All my abilities and resources made me feel a complete lack.

I found the answers and relaxed carefree while I showed the way forward.
There was no right place there was no perfection or immediate reward.

Bannock sturdy for Christ

 Plain in the only way I am.
For they had proclaimed I- simple Simon.
For if only that were true.
I am plagued by an army of demons.
So I appeal to the big big...

I put on a strong display but I struggle to strengthen the rest of me.
I seek food in what is real, not by excess.
Steady me because I feel ridiculous.
Calm me because my mind runs wild.
Wholesome, but I am pulled sideways.
Direct me, because I am scattered.

See me fully, including the parts I judge harshly.
See my words and their roots their holy innuendos, Lord God Look here!
Take the sting out of my self-mockery, take the expectation out of me.
Turn embarrassment into humility, and humility into strength.
Give my spirit enough bread for today, enough courage, enough clarity.

This honest work,

 clean thought,

 measured action,

 loyalty, patience, creation.

Sturdy in spirit, soft in heart, clear in mind.

The currency inside

 On and off.
God puts my soul back in
Like a credit card paying.
Then withdrawls it again.

I would like to be the value.
Wherever it may go.
Blessed and whole,
On some great trajectory.

I must curate this path,
Sometimes molding the pavers myself.
Under the sun,
making my way to building something.

How many of you readers never feel your value?
You may not ever be able to measure your worth.
The worth we carry in ourselves is arbitrary.
The value others put on us, capricious.

So sometimes in the most silent of whispers.
I listen with all of my capacity,
As God says to me straight,
Believe in yourself.

Power Oversurge

 I'm building up, I'm walking forward.
I'm bringing the intangible into heart as energy.
Collaborate and flow through me.

Tickle my veins, live through me.
Follow me until I perish.
Smash through these walls.

Crack the stone of all resistance.
Part it all into fragments.
So that i can see the other side.

Lift me propel me forward.
I have my target and soul intact.
The rough nature of the world sustains me.

Reach for strength.
Reach for oxygen for I'm breathless.
These legs keep sprinting.

I heartless, I keep pumping...

City gone, affection and routine

 The city disappeared.
There is no affection in the world.
Only distrust and friends with their own personal interests.

Everything requires caring for.
The world is one fat suction cap.
The thing you want and go on wanting.

The city disappeared overnight.
Just your house, just your street that remained.
People are unpredictable easily influenced.

Now they are gone and the building flattened.
Routines exist to be followed.
Rebuild the city? Reinvent yourself?

Pets are fed and surfaces are cleaned.
There is no affection and the city is nonexistant
Your on your own.

That Jiggy prestige

 The pub disco has been going for fifty years.
When the uniforms were brown and yellow.
The food had no taste, the whills were wild with animals and dense forest.
I pulled the photo of the school principal from that time.
A bald headed middle aged man that matched the man standing infront of me.
Still jigging to the seventies music.
Still trying to inspire the shy teenagers, pushing them to get up and dance.

Using his stupid incentives and everything was done to get them on the dance floor.
Everyday liquid from the same spiked punch bowl.
Prom lab fix attempts at that maximum prestige.
Nothing changes and the clock resets to a sunny six pm as they all arrive.
The music didn't change, the silly vehicles toing and froing.
Nothing existed outside of the obligation to dance.
The bar in this reality is now a real estate brokers.

But in the dimension it sits in, it is the senior graduates nonstop Prom dive.

Holiday at altitude

 Afternoon in Cunha 19 of April.
Sunny picturesque cloud surrounds the far hills.
Eyes always seek somewhere else to be.
But just be here in this grass.
In this hobby rolling holiday headspace.

But there it is again a far off forest.
A house on the side of the hill.
Distracting the immediate blue.
Westerly comes in conspiring with autumn shade.
I would like to know myself after a thousand years of existence.

I see these hours and days floating away...
I see the way the sun mocks me in the sky like that.
He knows he'll stay active and potent for eons.
The westerly bites again I put my jacket on.
There's some magical place for each nostalgic notion. 

Door handle mountain Curupira

 Run down Door handle mountain.
What am I but a climber.
All the way back down Curupira style.
Backward legs gloating.
Showing off and heavy breathing growing.
Moving inward and outward.
Further down the door handle.

Mountain saved no views for me. 
So I skipped down the beast alternatively,
Door handle shaking in the knee.
As other hikers look on in horror.
Slipping curupira backwards.
What a monster inside me screaming to get out.
All backward and nasty from the mist freeze. 

Mist flowing up and down mountain round,
breeze amused inside and out of altitude trees.
I jog backward in that groove,
Rhythm, shadow, speed.
Beats the wind,
beats the looming rocks.
The root of the mountain can feel the abnromal foot falls.

Ankles and knees tighten on the concrete pavers.
Clapping smile of a mist dancing Curupira.

Newspaper boy in courtenay place

I was walking down Courtney Place 1983.
Part of me was a child on the coast.
The other part worked selling newspapers in Wellington.
Everyone was talking about David Bowie visiting.
The majestic Michael Fowler center was being finished.

Cranes were working and it looked like something would actually grow.
Uneven steps and crowding hills awkward buildings align.
Mirrors everywhere so New Zealanders could look at themselves.
But who were they anyway, lost Colonists and Maori at the foot of the world.
Some vestige of imperial greatness the got smoothed out by salt water?

It grew slowly and collapsed a few times.
In march of 83 the Royals came to visit. Bringing their children.
With space and privacy to bask in the sun on their picnics.
Muldoon was fighting to get the reigns inside the beehive.
Things were on the whole unstable, but appeared stable.