on bach

a point in time and
the sound between spaces,
talking blissful bach.
is my heart a strumming
string, running
stream of conscious
nests summed up
by a sonata? so
so familiar, as if
i was born to be
this emotion, a
motion within
a moment, swimming
an ocean of
sensation.

to be me, and only.
me? i mean, time
will tell whether
or not
i can tell you
whither i will
find my
self when
forever is ever
gonna become
something other
than never. mind
you, this is only
metaphor. a figure
of speech, and
i sculpt them,
literally.

a claret reality,
the viticulture of a
cello, sweet
surrender. i am sure
of this. wine and wonder,
under a spell, out
on a limb, oh
how the notes
are hints at a taste
of divinity! so
much to live for,
such savor and succor.
my heart thrums, rhythms
to rhyme for, such bliss
to die for. oh
bach, you beautify my
melancholy.

soulstice souliloquy for lost soulmate, with coltrane

sits with sips, wine
scriptures long into this
longest night, supreme. a love
affair with solitude,
a saxophonic soliloquy
as each swallow follows
afloat on thoughts. of her,
a passion laughter, her bluesies,
that blues ease, sky eyes
when she was inside, yet
never left even after we said
goodbye. as memories drain
from an uncorked bottle, evidential
remains, as stains on my lips
purple my heart.

love never dies, does it?

now then, rain, what do you
want? growing, as green waves,
greening this world. rapping
on wet windows, breath
as fog and night is long
getting longer. the sun
is only a rumor these days.

and love is supreme, immortal.

not that reminders are needed.
i have my thots trained
in the element of surprise.
surprised? i am a book of shadows
writ large under the light
of a lover's day, her moonlight.
i am eclipsed by nostalgia, if
only because my heart reflects
a cluster of light, starry nights
twinkling of her eyes
and i crossed the galaxy
just to taste that sunlit sugar.

anchors aweigh! i am
forever a novice at sea,
for all my talk of sea depth
of knowledge, i only know
my heart sailed away with her,
her anchor away
somewhere deep inside.

love never dies? what
do i know of love, or
death?

another sip, swallowing memories,
swathed in blues. but on jazz
my brain waves at a receding
shore. all those heartbreaks, yet room
for more to love. so much more.

some things never die.
so i feed sunlight to the sunlight.
demons are beautifully kissed,
the night is long
getting longer,
and still i linger
at the edge of wine sentience,
a life sentence.
the scripture reads:
let's drink to life and love,
let us die with that knowledge.

magic chef boy

magic dreamer, he
cooks celestial, feeding
his people. his desire
to simmer us all
in his soup of the soul:
to cure the world.

wild horse with no master,
not realizing his own mastery.
hidden in a shrinking forest,
laborious wooden hands,
leather eyes, if only
we could see
what plains lie before
his wilderness of imagination.

the peasantry written
into his face, weathered, his
mossy cedar mane. voice
that echoes from his ancient
his ancient ancient heart. and then,
the little boy who stares out
from behind those clouded eyes,
that grinning tooth.

folklore boy

have you heard the wind in the grass,
the crackle of hot madrona bark,
what long sad trains have to say,
the appalachian autumn fog,
the stringy lament of the salt of the earth?
listen now to his elemental coal, his mine
of simple sorrow and profound joy,
to this singing history book, from sea
to shining sea.

he sings in harmony with this modern day
and days gone by. whiskey and
dilapidated porches, shotguns and
railroads, unions and rusty tools; these
all live through his hands plowing
the land.

he is here to remind us, life is a story,
it has no beginning and no end. to
understand the entire story, you must know
where you are in the song. otherwise,
there is no song, no notes, no scales
to weigh your importance, no keys
with which to unlock the future.

therefore, he sings and tells us a story,
and we listen, because we need this
knowledge of who we were, who we are,
and where we need to go.

festival boy

prince, peasant,
boatman, land rover,
wandering bird
with deepening nests.
some dragons are fire,
some water, or air or
earth, but he is
the meeting of all.
mover and shaker,
stones will move
and shake when he
invents for us
the desire for festivity.
the dance won't stop,
because the music
never stops.

a dozen busy arms
perform twenty four
busy tasks. the saw
does not stop singing,
the tractor will not
sit and rust, projects
beget two-fold projects.
no matter the occasion,
he is the forefront
of it all, strong of back,
facing down the rain
and wind, hoisting
sail, making electricity,
smoothing the dance
floor, beating a path
to celebration.

and there he is,
in the eye of the storm,
tall and commandeering,
like some apparition
of churchill or macarthur,
persevering and conquering,
providing, laughing,
laughing.

bizarre boy

he comes, dressed in scrap metal,
dragging etiquette by a noose.
strange bumblebee, the odd
clanging bell of varied states
of disrepair revolving his head.

wise hermit clothed as a jester,
yet i thought i saw the lone cowboy.
where there should be a monk
in meditation, i find a laughing duck.

his golden genius is society's refuse.
give him a broken umbrella, a stopped
clock, three frying pans, a bucket
of bolts, some wire and a coat hanger,
and you will find him sailing
to the moon with a winged monkey.

do not underestimate his song,
for all songs are sacred, though his
is the rant of madness, he reminds us
to be wary of our pretensions, our
conventions. never forget this.

softly girl

a gaze, soft pierce
of the soul, warmth
aglow off
sets her
aloof.

a quiet deception,
that stillness, what
stirs inside
is intelligence
masked.

a seriousness, her
stone demeanor
crumbles under
penchants for
silly.

still waters run
deep, her depth
is perception, a
knowing eye
encompasses.

looks are surfaces,
real beauty takes
appreciable time,
such class as hers:
timeless.

sparkle girl

somewhere
there is light,
some wing
in flight. find
her there,
in song
speech
and smiles,
hands
that touch
tones,
touchstones
of healing
arts.

art is
inescapable,
like wise
eyes
that find
you within
yourself.
and you
cannot escape;
why should you?
she makes
music
out of
a spark of
sunshine.

flower girl

life is a basket of flowers
even in winter,
and she is winter
doing a headstand.
enigmatic clam
and ponderous seahorse,
she is an ocean
mystery, and
a breath of fresh
air.

her dance is enormous,
like the way
her smile
is the entire earth, and
the entire earth
conspired
to bring her here.

there is a deepness
in her eye,
a wonder in balance
with a sadness.
what else
could be
so beautiful?

what would julius caesar do?

the herald of some prehistoric,
rolling the big time ice
as if life's hidden gamble. such
subtleties, denial and betrayal,
the misgiving mouthy
declares declares
oh say, can't you see.
thought i heard you not singing,
lip synch of the pretty lie?
if and if, then i am
full of mirrors. an explosion
of head space, the inside cinema
rolling, the rotating cast, we
are stars lost
track of light.

that moment
you realize all life is
as deception, and
you fell for it. why not
believe it was meant to be? except
these prehistories, times
like these, the joker in hiding,
a crept shadow you puppeteer.
and it's easy to fall, for it, face down
in a puddle. the love
that is peddled. such
a saving grace, when no
one is honest anymore. at least, not
the way you cross
your heart, hope to die.
a needle in the eye, the silent
dagger we entrusted to each other.
just in case, brutus, just in case.

a mental masterpiece, a mind's
fucking illusory fucking.
certainly a condition, trained from birth,
societal lobotomy
with nervous knifey hands.
when you can lie under pressure,
a pressing of the tongue, forked
road. two paths to one
ultimate destination.
and it's a truth, can you
escape it?

the baited breath of the audience,
waiting for the final curtain.
call it morbid curiosity. if
it kills me, it's because
i believed in you.
the cast party is really gonna be
something. masquerade
ball and all
the king's men. and me,
solo act played
by the fool.

?am i ha-ha-happy?

if. --
the last word
in the puzzle mind
of possibilities, because.
it's a seed, proto
maybe. the future
for sale, up
for grabs. the highest believer.
do i have faith?
it's not
like i'm happy
or not or
anything, because
i'm perfect
-ly
content. this
is shit, this shit.
and it's gold
-en. real and real
about it. and happiness,
it's a word, and that word
is if.

i can be that
way the way
i am
the focal loci
of the gratitude conspiracy,
just like every
one else.
the way it's all
been made
for me me. or,
but, then again,
well, or. i can
make myself perpetuate. so
are you here?

there were times. fleeting
and maybe
we left souvenirs
precious pieces of scars, scraps
of hearts. remains of joy sorrow
and the echo
shadow imprints. a belief.
it's all for real for real.

you can call it
happiness, a presiding.
lasting? no
moment lasts.
happiness is
accepting this
sufferbeauty, scraping
my soul
offfff the pavement. all
that glitters isn't gold
baby.
it just fucking
glitters.

the wayt of the world, between the shoulders

the frantic superimposing of realizations,
the way laughter hurts,
like a hollow guilt, that
wandering eye toward tomorrow.
the idiocy of future reckoning,
where shadows precede
light. as if
the heart breaks before
the end of the first kiss. inescapable
thinking, the way to embrace
irony, methodic madness, but
the final scruple remains, clinging,
though it too threatens to expire.

certainly this is no existence, even if
parody, i still maintain.
a semblance, a gesture, rote automation.
is choices, is. and
pleasure sensate the fickle fuck feeding
gimme gimme living. for the dream,
the big one, and always
morning comes fading the memory,
replace deferments with new deferments.
shelf it, out of shelf space, bound
to repetitive repetitive,
mastering this mundane; am i
the paragon of nothing? can that be
freedom? long in the history,
uninterrupted encumber. at least,
that's what i tell myself,
chewing on reality
while reflecting in a shaded mirror.

i think to myself
how very congenial i am
to believe in the hopeless.
it could be true.

palllllitics

perhaps the truly simple
mindedness rests
in seeking those keepers of meaning,
assuming they even exist, or even
have pretense
toward the everlasting
is.

the actually, hammer
blow to the head. a strangeness
    like hand
    job democracy, quiet
rape
and ruffled sheets bleached.
a stain on the
    brain.

they they lives, they lives, as
dried out seasons, aspirations
     we are
made to fight for.
     a sullen soft
    ness, blown
    down
to the sea,
    down
into the no end tunnel.
lightless tones,
and it's delight. every
        year
the cold music,
the wicked grin
eating, entering thoughts, that
     dangerous
smile stepping through your screen.
    how will you atone?
if you
sin
against the gallows man.
    we're al
        ready home,
     independent
        ly
and counting
    down
to six6 feeeeeet.

paroxysm in winter

where it is now, in certain
ways how it could be, could
always be, if winter is life
cold blowing like sad
slow season. it happens,
you know, every year. it so happens
there are days
like every day, like yesterday,
how i hate tomorrow.
some bloody prison of the mind
that i don't mind, but tolerate, as if
this is something holy, like
freedom. like
old ageing becomes
an obsolesce. it's an absolute
certainty i will learn
to die if only
life didn't get in the way.
obstacles like obstacles,
overcoming or not. suppose
this can be decision, far flung
autocracy at the dawn of self awareness.
new discoveries in suicide, an art,
and then the light is expansion,
a will toward expression,
blending in musical deniability.
so this is a discourse. and it's
magic you try to conjure,
explaining why your explanations
explain nothing. a precision. nothing
says "i love you" like monkey grammarianism.
perhaps i over-involve.
brains pushing on brains. there
have to be words for every word.
no wonder no
one communicates. we don't
have enough
time with the time
we are given, and run out
looking for god inside every
crack in our being. turns out
it's been a defect at the back of the head,
so we had to invent
this most hideous beauty in history.
we could do no wrong, but
we could do no better either.

skept

sometimes most times are times
that are all the time, when
the words make no
sense, as if
mr. potatohead
was an actual language.
woe is me, decrepit polyglot
autodidact, who
fancies a supposed intellect,
but still,
discernment is veritable
as far as
differentiation of information
is concerned. so i'm concerned.

reality imposes, no matter
how much our thoughts matter.
empire of the empirical.
but this flouting of objectivity!
to think you are a huge magnet
for the most beautiful force
in the universe, which you take
to be truth, just as LeRoi said.
and everything
makes sense where you want
sense to be made. or is it
selective observance?
ask mr. potatohead.

you truthers, you deniers,
you false skeptics, naturalist
holders of the utmost value
for all that is nauseous
about free thought. it's
only fair then. i am
no absolutist, however.
i absolutely detest
the epidemic of idiocy
these days.
sometimes
most times are these times
when i am all the time
reminded of fallen towers
and nefarious clouds
shrouded in alien conspiracy.

thus, i seek sedation.

fakebook

the immense fiction of life, a grandeur
of myopic selfie-sh art.  the see through
of digital art eyes, a wish. i see through you.
i don't understand your tired politics.
i don't understand your misunderstanding.
let's spell out new terms
for grammar.

life is a meme.

we are not clever enough
to be inventive. for our self-sake.
i see through your eye, so i am tired, alone,
poor, fed up, sick, suspicious.
so i see you, also, full
of life's pretty people things
and food like magnets
for the gullible universe attraction.

life is a meme.

a museum of infographics. thinking
is tiresome. understanding
is difficult to understand.
click here to learn why.
let me explain how you should think,
don't you agree?

life is a meme.

the infernal marketplace of ideas.
information international. the internet
killed socrates. dialogues for days.
where does hegel come into play?
we speak a different dialect, a process
of devolving. we have front row seats
for the end of civilization show.
who will win this time?

life is a meme.

a stalker's dream. the egoist's dreme.
an idiot's dreem. some poet's driem.

but then,
cats.

the definition of nowhere

at the edge of silence. wordless
perimeter paces sonorous spaces, in
between the disinhabited. devoid. are we
    points
on a delineated dimensionless?
defined by a widening gulf, we
tend toward distances.

never arriving, we are already departing.
silhouettes are hindsights seeking shadows:
i search a different geometry. a quest
for order, where there is none.
evident remains
of a circular departure.
where does this lead?

a radius of anonymity, circumference
of preference for the attainable not-ness.
adherence to wonder, no wonder
we are nowhere. if there is no
place to be, there can not be an at.
yet this edge.

a silence of pacing borders, we find
no answers.
any questions?