nothing?

nothing,
as in what
isn’t potential,
yet may
be some kind
of possible.
though it is
nameless, so no
thing. in
describable, in
delible in
my mind, in
credible insistence.
so. nothing
then. and i can
not even imagine
what it
is. much less
talk.
about it?
perhaps emptiness,
or hope. i
wish. it
was this
simple.

hope fools

this wall of frontiers,
perhaps tears reaching back,
flowing in reverse. this
is no river. a backwater.
backlogged, waterlogged,
clogged sense of self.
some denial.
we can live? only
after the killing
off of certain selves,
those parts of me,
them hopefuls.

hope fools. shapes
shift. scrapes and scratches
a living. this hope, full
of poverty. a pot empty,
nor pissed in. this then
is what is called
life? give me then
death, so i may see
what i’ve been.
missing.

living is

of this life, it is
piles of books, clutter
and the haphazard chatter
of birds this morning.
the frogs last night. fitful.
at times unfit, others
perfect, bereft
of dissonance.

living is
collected pages memorized,
forgotten when it matters
most. times
of abundance, inevitable
like decay. in this
way we navigate
the streets and alleys
of our lives, begging alms,
window shopping, tripping
over the refuse of falling
time. we seek our gates
amidst the squalor, find
a home and bury
our wings.

wind

wind. when you
remember your
self, active
in trees. soft
whispered, or
fervent. restless.
you sigh. i
am in you.
breathed.

wind. when you
express your
self, pressed
into wordless
voice. a feeling
afloat, or
tumbling. frantic.
you hush. i
am silently with
in you. your
voice.

life science

life, friction - less fiction narrative diction pertaining to directions in relation to ships sailing under seasides skied by mountained trees freed by birds called to the wild side of seeds sown by blown winds blind to our naked eyes bent by bough branches bowing to these breezes which pleases as it does reasons to season this spiced life frictionless like the first breath bereft of belief systems that stem tides of third eyes aligned to inner truth and its pudding proof. i sooth and see the truth of me reflected, inflections of speech fictionless teach a direction less inclined to impeach the mind but reach up to climb a vine toward lips taking furtive sips of time spans of rivers running serpentine courses of course snaking the sea to shining sights seen under suns set against her-eyes-on the prized apples of eden feeding life’s given blood flooding our veins in ancestral DNA that play their part in beating hearts charting a course upon expanding seas while i’m standing between these stars far apart but part of these galaxies within me which begin and end in me: the science of mind is this seat of my soul, the whole equation sums up the parts of particles accelerated into this accreted matter but minds over grown with religions, superstitions and other fictions contrary to thinking are critically sinking this ship wrecked on the shores of respect for terra forma numero tres suspended in space in a place we call this Milky Way and the way we respond with ability is our responsibility to circumvent this circumspect circumstance that perchance will enhance our understanding of ourselves within this cosmic happenstance.

window shopping

in the window, shopping
for sensation, explanations
of expectations to acceptance.
excepted excerpts of incidents
coincide with perceptions
of perspectives pertaining to
stray thoughts entertaining
fictions, fantasy and fantastic
magnanimity in prismatic
realities pragmatically related
to this understated poetry.

there is more to me as there is
less for me to see in order to be
free of fetters. freedom from
need feeds sunlit seeds sown
in fields grown green via my
unseen pen inventing rhyme
schemes that seem premature
yet for sure i answer the call
when drums need dancers.

and i swear this sun
is one way i ascend while i bend
my back and thank my lucky star
that shines all day in this way i
relate to divinity when infinity
is wrapped up like prayers in this
present gift-wrapped like a wild
christmas tree free from need.

impasse

impasse:
i’m past the present
in passive retreat
to times passed
through the hourglass.
hour by hour
this heart lays
passe, fasting
from feeling.

impasse:
i’m passe
about possible
realities in passing
through this
dark passage.
pressed against
the passenger
window, my passive
eyes perceive
green pastures
laying fallow.

impasse:
this impassible
pass, impossible
to press on,
improbable to trod
beyond. so
i am imparted
with this passion
for impersonating
the sea’s impression
upon a pallid-faced
moonscape. i
escape into this
narrow passage,
passing my self
and its passive
participation in
the persistence
of time, passing.