The Second To Last California Grizzly Bear

I am lonely without really knowing the meaning of loneliness.
Like the second-to-last Dodo Bird was,
or the second-to-last Giant Panda will be.
I have friends who I love dearly.
I could pick up my phone this very moment
and call them
and between the lot of them
one of them would surely come to me
and keep me company.
But that company would only stem the tides of loneliness
that would come back to me again
with the friend's looming
and always imminent
departure.
Like the second-to-last California Grizzly Bear,
I don't see what I have.
Maybe,
like the second-to-last California Grizzly Bear,
I won't ever see it either?
I have a woman for whom the sun rises each day
and who for me hangs the very moon.
I could go to her now, to her warm embrace.
Enclosed from the world in a bliss
that is
the child of the activity of making children.
But that moment would pass,
and I would have to face
the looming
and always imminent
departure
yet again,
in would wash the tides,
flooding my mind with the fact that
I am alone.
I am lonely without having reason for it really.
I have a dog and a cat that adore me,
and they are special creatures,
in tune with the good vibes.
Sadly, like me,
they will have to die alone,
alone.
It's not being alone that scares me.
It's not being alone that makes me sad.
It's being lonely for some reason
when I am only the second-to-last
California Grizzly Bear.
I need to find my den mate.
I need to find my soul mate.

Tobacco Ash

Six burnt little
pieces of tobacco
lie in a bowl
that never dreamed it
would become
an ashtray.
Each burnt
little piece looks
to the one next,
whichever is least
burnt has the
envy of the
rest, and they
are all so jealous
of the cigarette
thats lies, unburned,
next to the bowl.
The cigarette
dreams of fire.

The Structure

It was a beautiful morning. The morning we exchanged the words 'I love you'.
There was beauty in saying the words together, there was magic in having admitted we were ready to be elated, bemused, vulnerable, crushed.
If what we had were the building of a structure it would be astounding. It would be spires and towers, libraries and murals. Bright colors dashed against wooden frames, stacked one atop of the other, reaching nauseating heights. People would flock from near and far to read the words and inscriptions of the lovers that had paid homage to the walls of our structure. Stained glass illuminating Persian rugs, stairways leading to rope swings, slides that take you upwards, baths that make you dirty. This place we have created is awesome, baffling, gorgeous, cosmic.
But as I look around I notice something missing. This place has everything, what could be missing? There is a zoo and a kiosk. A photo stand and a drive in movie. The whole place is powered by bloom boxes and the cafeteria serves cravings. What could be missing? Then all at once it hits me! It's so obvious. There is no where to sleep!
In a world where the the home is best built on love, where the home is love, we have not built a home! The structure we have built is grand, but it is not a home.
This was sad realization at first, for if we were not building love in this world, what were we building? Then I realized that was not the real matter at hand, not at all. It serves no purpose to fret about the lack of us constructing a home or love! Not at this point! Not yet!
In a mere five months we have built towers, bridges, cut glass, quarried stone. Tamed beasts large and small, learned to fly, lassoed the moon. The structure we have built is fucking monumental! Who cares if it's not a home? If we haven't proven thus far that we are capable if not gifted architects and builders than nobody was watching. We are building as we speak, and if a home is necessary: some closets, some bedrooms, a hearth, a sofa, an island kitchen, a doghouse, stools. Then we will add on. It will be an easy task.
As for right now that idea seems far less fun than going back into our structure and building a few more things we haven't thought of yet. We have time and resources in abundance, we need not rush.
It was a beautiful morning the morning we exchanged the words 'I love you'. There was beauty in saying the words together. There was magic in having admitted we were ready to be elated, bemused, vulnerable, crushed.
But saying the words doesn't build us a home, it merely marks the mutual desire to begin drawing out the plans.

The Map

I am the offspring of a rhyming couplet and a death threat.
The perfume that surrounds me as an aura smells only slightly of flowers,
the high notes are of a bears musk: sweat, earth, blood and intensity.
Crouched in a corner in some nameless, faceless room I await temptation.
I don't answer the phone when it rings. I don't answer the door when it knocks.
And I most certainly don't turn on the Aramanic entertainer that sits across from me in the nameless room, beckoning.
I am a juggler of knives, apples, and bean bags.
Depending on the order of which I fumble, I will either: bleed, feed, or carry on.
The thirst I suffer from most often isn't that of liquid, but love. Not the acquisition, the definition.
A visionary prompts me to be hopeful from the darkest place of my brain. She lives there because if her light weren't there to illuminate that otherwise darkened portion of my brain, all would be lost.
They made a list on the very top story of the skyscraper that is humanity. The authors of this list aired toward brevity. The list read: obey, consume, die.
I made a list the other night in my room before I went to sleep. My room is located underneath the boiler room of the human skyscraper. I too aired toward the side of brevity. My list read: reinvent, give, evolve.
I said before that I was the offspring of a rhyming couple and a death threat.
That may have been misleading. Allow me to interpret.
The world is a lost as a whole it is dying, and humans wrote the map.
Before we forget the concept of trying, let us all fill in this gap.
Rewrite this crap.

The Golden

There are things called poison arrow frogs.
There are things called golden arrows.
The deadliest of all poison arrow frogs
is called the golden tree frog.
One can Imagine that if you were to
dip the tip of a golden arrow into the skin
of a golden tree frog, the recipient of that
arrow's point would die a golden death.

The Dreams

forgetting almost everything would be the best way to make it go away.
no longer do we wait by the phone, are phones wait with us.
i strip down to my boxers and stand in front of a mirror, only then do i see myself as i feel myself, almost completely exposed.
when i sleep i dress the imperial janitor of my mind to look sharp. I put him in his nicest blue jumpsuit, with a gray tie and shiny leather shoes.
during the night he is more a curator than a custodian.
everything is in order just before i wake up. Spotless.
forgetting becomes easier as i try harder.
sometimes the janitor is a bellhop,
sometimes the bellhop is a sea captain.
the bellhop delivers flowers,
the sea captain delivers flowers.
i strip myself even further now. i am naked to the walls of my room.
yet i am still not myself.
i lay down in my bed, my very comfortable bed, and i sleep.
sleep has never came easier to the restless.
and then the dreams, the dreams, the dreams i must forget.

The Canoe Enigma

Every time I try to type something. Canoe intercedes.
He lays his rust colored tail over the keyboard, and tries to stop me.
Then he loses interest and chases: dust motes, invisible beings and insects.
The window sill is his hunting ground, he is not to go outside.
He knows squirrels, and raccoons, and oil, and asphalt.
How well he knows these thing I don't know?
He is a mystery to me. I see him as some sort of enigma.
His tail just swished back over the keyboard.
I lost my train of thought.
Now he is on his window sill perch.
Never losing his train of thought, or, never having one?

spellcheckl

i am so stoned out right now.
i am like some kind of android,
or droid, or actual living thing
without any type of individual
or
intrinsic thoughts of my own.
i am rapidly typing these words they are
splelled wrong the grammar is all wrong
my eyes are glued to the typer the
keybored whatever teh fuck its called.
spellcheckl has handicapped a
generatiuon and will only do it
worse over for the next.
i m so stoned out right now
i feel totally
like a balloon head dope fiend.
and i like it
because i am actually not that bad of a persona
at all
and i take care of business,
everyfday, like the song.
ps. if this were in ink, like from a type writer
i would have eityher have had to be skilled
or left the typos as are.
i rest my case/.

Redwoods

She forgot the very important things at some point.
She forgot that I am an astronaut, and a bear.
She forgot that I have a compass that has a bearing
on a truth and love and that I will never rest until I discover them.
I admit to being the story book giant always wanting too much of everything
I can get my hands on, but that is in the nature of a giant. my capacity for giving was proportional to my capacity for wanting, gigantic yet not realized in my actual potential for taking.
She forgot that I never lied and so nothing I could have done could have been for ill gotten benefits.
the was no machine in my love, no mechanical plans, at best a custodian never an architect.
my heart is no chimera, it is a fucking redwood.
my dick is a redwood too.
so is my will.
nothing breaks my will but lightning.
that is exactly why i rarely choose to exercise it.

(Untitled #2)

I had a dream of a love affair with Europe.
It would be me and a family in the middle of something
as quaint as is earthly possible.
I would buy bread from the same man everyday.
I would learn to play an instrument
and if anyone from this life wanted to see me they would have to travel to see me,
for I would be gone.
I used to think I would act my way to the top of a very tall stage.
Perhaps travel: Rome, Istanbul, Shanghai.
I would be the leading man in every show, or the villain.
My presence would have been commanding.
Musical refrains, rhyming couplets and roses thrown at my feet,
ending each night with a bow.
If I were to be a drunkard I could be hero.
I'd lose all fear and find myself outspoken toward people
and eager to participate in causes I would not generally lean toward as:
safe, profound, alluring, fun.
My manner of justice would be swift and case to case,
but I could be a story book hero.
Considered being: A lost boy. An astronaut. An explorer. A revolutionary.
Never once considered being: A politician. A motorcycle driver. A prophet. A pawn.
Tried my hand at: the beat, the street, the pack, the power.
And failed.
Tried my hand at: the art, the heart, the thinking, the thoughtful.
Didn't do half bad.
In the process of trying: peace, love, evolution, education.
Doing the best that I can.

My Mind City

Forging metal out of petals of large flowers grown as towers, filled with people good and evil, large and small, short and tall. Orange flames ignite in furnaces, fellows with bellows fulfill their purposes.

Little children lilt hither and tither, and no one speaks of how all flowers wither. A fear that lasts a year that casts sheer, a dull veneer upon the eyes that all looked skyward, and the ears that scarcely heard, a single word.

I speak here of my heart, my deepest soul, the steepest tole. The gift that wont stop giving, the life that wont stop living. My brain and mind, all in real time. No one has ever came close to an answer, the equation eludes, a beguiling romancer.

The seductress is a cold bitch, she lives deep inside my side stitch, promotes doubt, increases worry, whips storm clouds into a flurry.

The visionary isn't nearly as scary, she helps me find my way. Her powers make me cower, but her hearts in the right place.

I think at next to light speed, a millithought becomes a stellation. I want more than I'll ever need, but do I not give due compensation?

At the top of the towers of flowers, is a clock that does not measure hours. It measures the souls max capacity, and sings the results to the rat city. I admit it's bit confusing and odd, but it's filled with the bests of intents. It has no intention of creating god, its the humans it wants to invent.

Morning and Afternoon

i mean to eat the flesh of the fruit
when i hit the stone with my teeth
and the shattering noise ruptures all
that base reality is enough to bring me
all the way back to cannibalism free
afternoon.

the sun rises to my back side
i spend my very first waking moments
throwing stones toward a noisome squirrel
hitting the roof of my neighbors workshop instead.
the stone hitting home scares me
back into that base reality
that is a predator/prey free
morning.

Likes and Dislikes

I spent all morning fixing the Escort.

It needed a new battery.

A 30 amp fuse.

And a gentle repair on a seemingly unrepairable light switch.

It still needs a lot more, but it's legit for now.

In the afternoon I parked the Ferrari.

Then got into the Bentley.

The Ferrari sounded like a jet,

the Bentley sounded

like it almost knew how to speak.

I'm not lying, I wouldn't make something like this up.

The Ferrari was red, the Bentley was orange.

I tell myself I don't like such things,

cherry colored Italian sport's cars,

pumpkin colored British luxury sedans.

Those thing's are for the bird's.

But I do like them, I just can't afford them

and wouldn't know how to justify buying them

if I could.

I'll tell you what I don't like:

I don't like that I had to drive myself home in the Escort.

I'll tell you what I do like:

That I drove the Escort home at 11:30pm.

And all the lights worked.

And it started on the first go.

Hobo Hangout

A tall and slender tulle reed, though still,
creates small perfect ripples at the waters edge,
this is done with help from the wind,
a gentle and almost stationary wind
brought up from the depths of the sea
and met with the foreign urges of the moon.

Small fish glide in the shallows
invisible under a swath of microscopic lily-pads,
minnows/tadpoles/water-skippers/divers/trout/biters
Six different creatures easily discerned.
Feet, four of them, splash through the shallows.

This is not a violent splash,
this is not a harsh intrusion.
The feet simply needed to get to the other side,
and so they did, and then they were gone.

Sunlight light a ripe age, drips with the water, is the water.
Mountains above feed down and share a multi-faceted array of stories.
Leaves, always leaves, dirt always dirt.

Carve yourself a seat in this world, in this dirt
with a philosopher that respects your place, this place.

Invent the world,

it is in need of a new splendor.

Re-invent,
invent,
the reeds
and the frogs
are here
to watch.

happy/sad

fingering the pages of my old sketch books always makes me happy/sad.
i don't like being happy/sad.
being with a girl as beautiful and challenging as my girlfriend makes me happy/sad.
i don't like being happy/sad.
i have some serious skills. i have some serious setbacks.
these two being present everyday make me happy/sad.
i don't like being happy/sad.
sometimes i am just happy.
i really love this.
other times i am just sad.
i really hate this.
the duality of that statement makes me happy/sad.
i hate being happy/sad.

Gallows

from above, the winged creature of life and death struck.
a birth a death a life a life ended.
one in the same the way it were arranged the corpses in the muck.
a hearse, last breath, dull knife, upended.
flowers arose from the spot on the land
images spoken just slightly offhand
a man and a woman escaping the plague
a child thats left on the street with no legs
a journey man ordering planks for the gallows,
his fathers crops rotting and land turning sallow.

For Her

the crowded streets of her mind are humming
with the noises of some indiscernible chaos.
there are a multitude of thoughts
running in long lined relay toward a glowing archway
at the top of a long and steep staircase.
there are exactly as many steps on this staircase
as there are freckles on her golden browned skin,
it is a long climb.
in a place that looks somewhat like a palace,
but feels more like a labyrinth, she finds herself, lost.
there is a december quality of cold encasing the bright light
encasing her body.
she has traveled the pathway with her thoughts,
running along side of them in equal time and stride,
many, many times.
every time she makes the trip
she forgets the palatial aspects of her surroundings,
she finds herself in a sweat,
overcome by the labyrinthine nature of the place.
in the palace is a prince.
in the labyrinth is a minotaur.
locked within the sweet smells of her braided hair
all of the denizens of her city sleep.
lulled to sleep by the beat of heart good heart
and the buzz of her great brain.
electric lights go out with each of her steps,
darkening the pathway behind her
down which the minotaur chases fiercely,
intent on devouring her flesh.
but as always she makes it to the end of the maze
that was never a maze, but was always a bright and glowing palace.
through oak and wrought iron doors she squeezes her supple frame,
as always, the minotaur recedes or evaporates or ceases to be.
instantly he is forgotten.
the prince who is an architect and a poet is there to build and recite.
the crowded streets of her mind again are humming.
she dreads facing the steps of the stairs and the walls of the labyrinth.
but as always she steps into pace with her thoughts,
and on they run.

Dogs and Cats

I sit in fear of losing my dog or my cat.
Like coming home and they have escaped.
Empty house, empty yard.
It would be horrible.

I think how silly that I have to worry about
my two most favorite beasts escaping.
Descendants of wolf and wildcat.
Namesakes of summertime fun.

I wish they could escape into a safe
haven for all the beasts, without cars.
Damn cars, and mean kids.
The ruin of friendly beasts.

I feel stupid somehow for worrying.
But it's real fear- cars, kids, lost.
They are helpless and curious.
So I keep them confined, for life.

I think that being confined,
is far better for a dog or a cat,
than being a pile of guts
without a name or a friend.

I hope.

Cramped

there is a crammed together version of my world
out there somewhere.
mournful refrains echoed out of melodicas.
the chords strike joy somehow, but it is hard to say why?
maybe it is the food and drink accompanying them?
sorrow runs deep, nothing but joy on the surface.
a vein of courage added to the
everyday through a drink or a smoke.

i wouldn't drive in this world, this world is cramped, cars doubly so.
i imagine myself happy
because
happiness is the best dish on the menu,
and happiness just also happens to be the
cheapest.
the filet mignon, the ahi, the cornish gaming hens,
they are expensive,
they are rich,
they are never attained whence not given.

in this crammed-up, back-water, sun dappled life
i imagine myself shaggy and furrowed of brow on occasion,
dapper and explosive on others.
i see women, a woman, some amalgamation of all of my expectations
of what a woman should be.
even in a crammed together world
i do not see myself alone.

the language spoken in this world is one of gestures,
kind and cruel, graceful and crude.
there is hardly enough room for speaking,
music is omnipresent and sound itself has a hard enough time of surviving.

i figure out early on the best way to approach life
is as a dog.
i am a kind and loving dog, dog gestures do the best.
i do not sniff assholes.
i jaunt and volley expression. mimic and charge.
lick the air lick the hair.

i impart joy in my heart and explore claustrophobic spaces in my body.

this crammed together world is a prison and a paradise.
it is an archetypal desert island grafted on top of an island resort,
the paradise and the prison are present,
but for whom?

it is always crammed and cramped.
an exciting bad dream where you are in danger but alive.
i live in this alternate world when i am sad and when i am happy.
the rest of the time i occupy the other world,
the world that isn't crammed all together, it is more spread out.
some would fine it rather empty.

Cold Shower Days

Sitting alone at my desk, naked,
forming thoughts along with smoke rings
from a medium sized joint.
A few moments ago I feared I was having a nervous breakdown.
So I masturbated and smoked this joint and now I feel much better.
I am considering a cold shower.
I can never actually bear cold showers,
almost always they are nothing more than a bold luke warm.
The joint is done now.
My heart is filled with love for a woman whom I feel may have been a lost venture.
I wont say her name,
I would only say her name so that
if we don't work out she would know this poem was about our time together.
But there is no need, if she reads this poem, she will know it's her I am talking to,
so I wont say her name.
Now it is time for a shower
that dreams of being cold.

Bonobo Ballet

i want to be an aardvark, slip my tongue into your honeycomb.
i want to be a slender snake, you the doomed mouse, pounce!
the foundation of the building that is you,
will crack and crumble under the earthquake that is me.
i am going to edit you, dot your i's and cross your t's, lick your v's.
i am a crude barbarian now, and i see you in the shadows.
i want to be a base jumper and dive headlong into your crevasse.
i want to be a wrestler and pile drive you into the mat.
i want for me to be a bonobo and for you to be a bonobo,
that way we can get the work done no matter what.

Be A Human

brandish your heart,
sheath your ego.
no more time for quibbling over
the lesser known evils of your subconscious
or
the more often known details of your every
days.
if you could live like a dog and read emotion like a books page,
you could then be happy with a jaunt and a volleyed expression.
mend your insight,
rip apart your judgments.
no more use for old bike tires filled with thorns
or
broken megaphones that speak only in robot voices.
if you yourself could be a robot and read facts like a books page,
you could then be happy with a click and a analyzed expression.
don't be a robot they are too predictable,
don't be a dog they are too tractable.
just be a human: heart, ego, insight, judgment and all.
it is the only way to go.

30,000 Flowers Chandelier-or-a dinner invitation opened a door that though fleetingly ajar, beheld bright, bright light-or-The Bright Side

'Maybe I will stay tonight?' she said.
-I plucked 10,000 mums, 10,000 roses and 10,000 dandelion puffs, for a joy such simple words created. I strung them together blossom to stem, alternating the three type's 30,000 times, in the end the resembled a chandelier of flowers.-
'Oh, please stay!' Was how the chandelier sounded to her, such things are easy to hear, but so hard to see.

I had to work,the harbinger had sung,the door of chance flew shut and I knew it.

'I'm sorry I got everyones hope's up.' she said.'Everyone?' I said. 'I'm only one person.''You're everyone in this room,' she said 'Everyone that matters.'
-I took a wooden match and struck it a handmade cabinet. I used the flame to ignite the chandelier. Dreams like that can only last so long. In a blaze that could be seen from her vantage point on the moon, 10,000 mums, 10,000 roses and 10,000 dandelion puffs, burned to ashes.-
'Don't worry about it I said, be logical,' I said 'I'm fine.'
-I hate fiercely that I can't change tides with my thought's, I thought. Don't go to the moon yet, stay near the fire pit one more night. I stared at the dying ember's of the chandelier and tried to look tough, it's not hard to look tough when you stare at fire.-

We danced to see-saw rhythms:coalesce,amalgamate,mating chimeras,earth and fire,coal and forge.

'I'm euphoric,' she said 'I feel completely satisfied.'
-I don't, I thought. You opened a door that beheld bright, bright light and didn't let me walk through it. I am selfish when it comes to light like that!-
'Good.' I said. 'I'm glad.' And I was. For it seems regardless of my wants and needs, her being satisfied makes me glad. I only wish that my temper didn't make me to burn that chandelier of flowers. I wish she could have seen it.

(Untitled #1)

Apparently there were primal priorities in all of us,
before we were even an 'us' or a 'we'.
There were changes being made,
and charges being let free,
Crosshatched lines on steel emboldened the lot of us.
I learned patience.
Then I forgot almost everything I learned,
almost instantly.
I was perplexed by the thought of an endless desert,
in which only I could see the future.
Only the rest of everyone follows me through the desert,
not knowing the end is not in the future.
A sharpened steel knife cut through a drought in the heart,
it eliminated most every bit of:
gnosticism, atheism, monotheism, polytheism.
Impotence, omnipotents, irrelevance and present tense.

Two Women of My Mind's Eye

I burden myself with the logic
of what is right and what isn't wrong.
Somewhere in my little mind up there they collide.
The space is small but the highways are vast.
Somewhere in my head there is a concubine that
tells me she is there for me and I believe her.
Elsewhere in a different part of what is myself
in my heart/dick there is a visionary,
she is beautiful but cruel.
Her temptations are fresh,
her dream is almost perfect,
her ideas will change the world,
but she is cruel,
to me
she is cruel.

Two Planes Escalator

Iron sided staircases were standing, the steps ascending,
two a breast from each other.
There weren't any markings, or signs of direction,
but the flow of the entities was obvious
up and down.
Those that cannot see it
see nothing.
Those that can feel it
feel it and nothing at once.
This is a conduit regardless,
there is a beast within regardless.
A horned and winged changeling,
a tentacled cyclops in manacles of ivory.
A mother and her child ascend,
a businessman conversing with a clergy man descend.
All four of them feel a terrible chill.
The two djinn espouse an aura of mange and fickle nightmare.
Beings trapped and confined in a modern day lamp,
a staircase of iron and Araman's magic.
Thus ends this story. Mother and child were fine,
shopped, grew old and died.
Businessman less so,
possessed, defiled, dead.
Clergyman,
oh have no pity for the clergyman,
He is fine
I am sure.

Bear/Rocket/Lily-pad (Girl)

I'm a little shocked she says.
Why?
Well it's only our second time...
and...
I came a little.
Good.
It was like a small compact one,
but very intense she says.
Very good I think.
It was 'aight I say.
If I have the honor and the privilege
to have sex with you
again
things could get a
little...
crazy
she says.
Fucking rocket ship!
I think.
Ignition blast off!
Very cool I say.
Later that night
when the shuttle fuel has burned
empty,
I am alone.
Sitting next to his used spacesuit.
Dancing bear-cosmonaut-soliloquizes.
Could she have been
faking it he asks?
Was it real?
It was real for me.
Coming is easy,
the going is hard.
Growl/roar/scream/howl
grunt/ hoot/hiss/squawk!
5,4,3,2,1.
Blastoff.
And he walks toward a short hibernation.
I am a bear, he thinks. Who cares?
Smiling he goes to sleep on his lily-pad.
Head rested on gentle claws.

I am a Pegasus-You are a Unicorn

I am a Pegasus
You are a Unicorn
I am a giant bear covered in fire fairies
You are a slender pixie guarded by knights of stone and steam
I plan to build castles
You plan to remodel the already built
I crush what needs crushing and you crush right there with me
I can eat jar after jar of your after thoughts
You jar me time and time again with your laughter
You are a wrinkled and well worn flannel shirt
I say the pentacle of cloth is enough, but you always wear my flannel shirts
You are a slender branch of ice and electricity, it hurts but numbs just before
I am a tumble weed, growing for the sake of growing with no real goals
But I am beside You and the glimpse of happiness that coalesces with You and I
I am a Pegasus
You are a Unicorn

Couplets

Golden wrappers line the floor,
I lock the door, recline some more.

The big hand reaches six o'clock,
I gently knock upon the lock.

Elements of earth and fire,
I do admire the angel's lyre.

Golden arrows pierce the tarp,
My blade's are sharp, I steal the harp.

The last wish of a dying djinn,
Clad in green I take the queen.

Wild Boy Inside My Skin

I went to Guadalajara. The bus ride was four
hours long. At one point we went over a bridge
that was like one thousand feet high and only
had a railing like the one we have on that tiny
bridge on highway twelve. I almost shit my pants.
I witnessed cars float by on Venice style canals
that had moments before been functional streets.
The bus driver kept making this weird noise like
a lazer gun, I wanted to send his ass to space.
I drank a half a bottle of tequila. I went to a
reggae bar and missed my friends. I danced in a
conga line and then drank the other half of the
bottle of tequila. I played video games by myself
in a mexican style Chuckie Cheese's. I ate a lot
of food! I smoked a bammer joint and then took
pictures of myself in a bath tub thats color
matched my shirt. I solved one of those little slide
the tiles around puzzle's at an open air market so damn
fast that they thought I was a genius, or at least
autistic.I saw a little girl get layed the fuck out by
a giant globe,and then she laughed, tough cookie. I watched teen aged boys
double-dutch jump rope, and I laughed. I witnessed about five
hundred people riding bikes and gliding along in fruit boots.
I still don't know what the occasion was. I saw a restaurant
called Chong Wah and it made me laugh again. I played Rummy
in a Cantina for five hours and kicked some ass (well, not really,
I'm still losing, but I am losing with style). I went to a concert
that I some how was on the list for, I am a lucky guy like that. They
were called Explosions in the Sky, and I guess in the right crowd they
are incredibly famous. They sounded as if a tarantula of love was flown
in on the wings of the angel of death and stopped on the way to ask
directions from Beethoven and Bach's ghosts who were fighting over
a bar tab, then flew on to the house of my future ex-wife and asked
her what she was waiting for. They made we want to cry, but I couldn't.
I liked them a lot. I got back on a bus and was home by five in the morning
last night. Now I am in my teacher clothes, and if I hadn't of written this
nobody would ever know there is a wild boy living underneath this skin of
mine.
But there is.

Ballad of How to be A Good Friend (It take's one to be one)

Grip fast to the dreams of those around you.
Fill them with your own fire and steam and let their sails billow and
jets thrust the group that is you to a new, perhaps better, locale.
Agree almost instantly with nonsensical truths that get breathed from
the mouth of a loved one. Say to them 'I understand...or want to',
before you take the words and adjust them.
Find a place that is private to different minds but open and
vibrant to your own, dwell there. Invite your friends so that
you do not become lonely.
Sometimes a shout or a vengeful barrel of fists will come
knocking down, with a fire, at your door. You must accept
this as the truth of a thousand white lies, or the dreary
obligation of one who has EVER chosen to love.
When a bullet or a knife or a tremor of passion
finds you fit to be the bearer of its burden.
Do not be one who doesn't argue.
Argue with a fervor, for this is YOUR life!
Stand tall as is possible amongst those who admire you.
Admire them for their trust, in you.
Vantage points, shelter, high standing trees,
fulfilled engagements, truths, laughs and
voyages unknown are what they see in you, are what you are to them.
To every person there is a set of great virtues, that in those around them are lacking, perhaps nonexistent.
To allure and inspire each other is our destiny
as a species prone to being beautiful.
To fight and to fuck in a crimson tide pool,
is our animal,
to whom I am grateful.
But is it perhaps just our day to day?
For that I am hopeful.

The Metronome

It was a metronome to start, this thing we have uncovered.
A little box, of ticks and tocks, and bass lines undiscovered.

I tapped my feet and whistled soft,
you turned your form and tip-toed off.
The beat engulfed you and then me,
and mixed us up chaotically.

This song I've heard before you said, but I've never heard this verse.
Long before this score's encore, you've had the universe.

The piece approached it's first crescendo,
the heat burned up the innuendo.
You shook my form with mirthful wiggles,
I shook the bed with blissful giggles.

From underneath the linen sheets, you pulled an electric amp.
Painted red in bed it bled, out wishes like a genie's lamp.

I took your hand while the music was going,
you whispered the truth where the river was flowing.
The song reached it's bridge so we forded the stream,
how long does the concert run for in this dream?

It was a metronome to start, this thing between you and me.
But musicians sit in the orchestra pit who swear it a symphony.

It was a metronome to start, a beat the heart discovers.
Tick's and tock's of a small little box, where inside live the lovers.

Real Erato

Originally there was a bit of a difference between all of us.
A few things here-a few things there.
Soon after that things began to change and now I find it hard to see a single similarity.

I was a monkey in a past life, to be born again as a rat/half man half horse.
Reincarnation is the only time I will ever be born again.
I started small then smoothed the sides into a chestahedron and set the stellations free.

I passed by Erato on a leisure flight and can verify fully it's authenticity.
It is real, no more built than us. (how much?)
It was easy to see that it was yet another case of us being us to a point where we lost sight of the truth.

Out there, in our own little force field the eye of the storm is colorless.
The color is on the inside of us.
We can share it when we please, which I try to do but often times it is just too vibrant to let it go.

Dirt Roads

Earthy times we're living in.
I'm always wondering about dirt roads, and promises.
Girlish guy's and manly women.
The age's are changing.
I am changing with them but I fear it may not be fast enough. I am a grower, not a shower. I have wondered about wandering.
Dirt roads there are plenty of dirt roads. There are plenty of rats
born under my same sign who don't care enough to travel willingly with me, to me, into what will become me.
It is a last ditch effort
every time I say
I love you.
I am hoping that once it's known, I won't die alone.
I am always wondering about clouds,
of rain and acid.
It never comes, I stop looking up, and lose the fear.
The rain never ever burns my eyes.
It is a cleanser
I'm in need of being cleansed, often times we all are, all throughout our lives in a myriad of forms, of changeling's and horns, and wings.
In a cloud of dripping wonder I live in a steamboat of thunder, and travel down dirt roads of my own creation always in contemplation.
I wonder. I am wondering. I am
a man. a man? a man!
Man, is in the need of knowing,
so is always wondering.
Who speaks this language? Please can't we just have a one single and sweet conversation? Find me.
I sit and I wonder about the futility and the fertility.
I am a man of change.
I have wings which I hide and horns I fear to bear.
But I am here with you, in a love of this place. This earthy place we live. All, must and lust and dust. All for the brain to gather.
I wonder why I am like this, why I am always like this, and that, and I am there, but, not here, but, there. I can't be still. I can escape.
I have no desire to escape.
I am a captive of my own captivation.
I am happy to be here,
and
squabble/fuck/rant/laugh/grow.
Fuck dying.
That shit it is the pits. I want to understand that last. I want to understand that mess long after I meet the adder and/or understand this pile of dirt
and the roads of there and here.
Please allow me a bit of time to cry and to love.
Please let me tell my stories to the dead babies
after I tell them to my own.
I guess its a a simple wish, but it is fatalistic to think/believe I could ever ask for such a dumb luck.
I am
much smarter than that.
I have seen too many dead end dirt roads. (Luckily, I find them very, very pretty.)

Waiting

Waking up late, and walking around my house in circles.
Smoke something then walk some more circles.
When time is in my hands
I have a bit more than I know what to do with
I find myself thinking of you.
Of course I work later today, who doesn't work today?
I am looking so forward to tomorrow night.
I like the day, the prospects of the next
But I look most forward to the night, tomorrow night.
Sit at my desk, write some shitty poems with no rhythms
No rhymes are needed at this point, only thoughts
And if I am not the luckiest son of a bitch ever
To be waiting to hear from you,
I'm waiting to hear from you only because it's fun,
While knowing I get to see you tomorrow night.
If I am not the luckiest son of a bitch ever,
Than I am not a damn thing.

The Girl Who Didn't Know It Yet

She called me from the top of Mt. Everest,'I'm here at the top, but the Moon doesn't look any bigger.
I could here the tears in here voice.
I called back,
'I am a rocket ship, did you forget? You need not climb a mountain to find the Moon.

She shouted at me from across the battlefield,
'It's done, we are victorious. But now I am too tired to rejoice.'
There was blood up to our ankles.
I shouted back,'We are heroes, did you forget? We don't rejoice in victory, we learn and carry on.'

She signaled me from the bright side of the Moon.
-The view is stunning-, the signal read,-But the Earth looks weak and small.
I used a giant mirror like she had.
I signaled back,
-I am here and I am huge and strong. The view from the moon is great, but you are greater still!-

I sung to her from the surface of the Sun,
'Do you see? This is it! The future cannot get any brighter.'
I could see her eyes, her eyes could see.
She sung back,
'That light is from the future of the Sun. I had no way of knowing it would be so beautiful.'

Morning and Night.

Primping and lying prone.
Morning and Night.
Joking and crying.
Morning and Night.
Fucking and fucking.
Morning and Night.
Fighting and fighting.
Morning and Night.
Fighting then Fucking,
every night,
Good Night.

Dew drops

In the morning,
when the rain isn't yet ominous,
when the sun isn't yet sure.
Thats when I wake up and breath.
On the days when it's not raining,
or the sun doesn't show.
I try my best not to breath,
too much,,
for fear of being lost.

An Observational Corpse

The elements around me are stone.
All I see is mossy earth.
I see it when I close my eyes,
and when I open them,
I feel it.
I can taste the water
and the salt in the air.
I can feel the stone
around my shoulders,
my eyes,
my heart.
Who knew a dead man could be so...
perceptive.

Life, Love, Earth.

Life is like a big fucking,
whining, glossy, confused,
winged, dark, bothersome,
intensive, vocational, theater play.
The concession stand is over priced.
The seats are too small.
The usher doesn't care where you sit.
And intermission is the only chance
you get to leave before
it's all over.

Love is like a big fucking,
gross, overstuffed, sensitive,
deranged, smiling, impoverished,
red bumpy, sweaty, prickly, down comforter.
The dream of a lonesome dreamer.
The holder of heat.
The hater of being shared.
And within a year or two it takes
on pounds of dust weight,
and disgusting yellow stains.

Earth is like a big fucking,
pourous, ungainly, remorseless,
potent, humorous, dirty,
stranded, elite, impolite joke.
It's way too long,
and I get the feeling
the punchline could really
fuck up
my
sex
life.

I'de Just Die

If I were to discover that I could sell my blood
or my poems
or my thoughts.
Which I guess I could if my blood weren't
tainted with
drugs.
I would do so willingly.
I would jab a fountain pen 6 inches into
my heart and
write a poem,
with my
blood.
I would sell it without a second thought.
And use the profits
to pay for
my funeral.
For I would die.
If I could sell myself for money,
I would just die!

Being Polite

When a young child falls,
you should not laugh.
When an old man falls,
you should not laugh.
When I fall,
you
SHOULD
laugh.
When you fall,
I
SHOULD
help you up.
And I will,
Once I am finished,
laughing.

Me

I'm a lover.
I dream,
I scream.
I am a man in a man's body,
with the face of a child,
who
is
lost.
I ache.
In my knee's,
in my heart,
in my dick.
I have dreams.
But usually I forget them
before
I
go
to sleep.