Each day I cleanse myself of memory,
black words on white.
That is just what they are,
words hanging like beads of water
from my hair, or from a fishing rod,
or from a leaf.
I don’t know what force exists
behind these beads, or these words,
that allows them to describe more…
I am tired of preachers. Tired of
the right doers, and the mangled
souls obsessed with a perfect balance
of control. We are all getting so tired of it.
Exhausted by their fear of death, and fear
of imperfection. Neurotic, and nail biting,
tired of words spoken to sound intelligent…
Something is happening on the earth.
In Hindsight it will be clear, or more unclear
with added distance. The maroon shade between the
buildings, the emerald cement, the charcoal windows.
Something is happing on the earth.
Screens stare back like abyss’s, boys grow into girls,
and girls into boys.
Something is happening on…
A Poem
Night lays upon your brow,
and all you ask is honesty.
The face reflecting is not
the one you knew growing up.
You stare across vast distances,
across the velvet sea.
You ask for nothing. Expect nothing.
In expectation there is dissapointment.
Expecting dreams and end points,
and rewards for attempting.
You…
“There is something hostile trembling in my Certitude.”
The eyes serve as lenses,
lenses that greedily rake in the world.
The brain is a house of storm fronts,
grey as dusk and pulsating alternating currents;
A house full of somnambulant gods,
whom we converse with in sleep,
wandering through
groves of ambrosia
and grapes fermented…
A Poem
On Nights Like these i can’t tell if I am just
a floating formation of chemicals electrified, bouncing
around infinity, or if I am really infinity itself.
Not on some ego, esoteric nut bag trip, where
“were all one mannnnnnn.” No, a real
strong and pissed off intuition…
Their Certainty blinds them more than they can know.
With an absolutism that coughed smoked flesh from ovens,
and sent souls to the northern tip of Siberia.
They are so certain, so moral, so ready to kill.
Souls dirtied and stained by parasitic trails,
bent and refracted; their certainty obfuscates them
from themselves.
They lord…
A Poem
A day of collecting sea grass,
green eyed shoes dripping
up and back and down the
side of some forgotten alley
where beer bottles and valiant
Quixotes share a moment of respite,
disputing what shade the earth casts
as it crosses mars, and back now,
forth towards the end…
The morning wakes the heart
And the heart, awake through the night
presses against the ribs
stoically, spreading its rhythm.
Your DNA remembers harder nights,
so unlike these nights,
where fangs pray for easy harm
or someone lost.
You wake on occasion, Suddenly
Suddenly listless, and sure
that you can…
