Daily Poetry & Prose

I sat again and looked at my feet. The blood had stopped. I had farther to go.  I slept and dreamed of nothing, but I had wanted to dream of outer space. As a young girl I watched the stars and always felt I could go there and back. Now I now my feet are much more valuable than those shining lights. I woke up and shook my heart like a bookcase, the gratitude falling out like many pages of a book, like the cleaning of a canary cage, debris flying everywhere, my gratitude, my gratitude. Falling and landing in space. Is my gratitude merely platitudes? It's an armor I started wearing to protect myself from the dark. I keep seeing those damn lights, though. 

The sacred art: the statues that were made by the basket weavers the pots that were made by the statue-makers the baskets that were made by the pot people in the jungle on the plains these statues came together covered in semen and blood they meant something about the survival against the lions Now they are in a tourist shop built out of cardboard  and I buy it and put it on the shelf when on vacation. The sacred writings: Created in caves by candlelight in dungeons dug by man people died carrying the stones to make this small coffin in the ground where the monk writes over and over again These writings on animal hide with ink from the eye of the octopus and fine colors ground from  the sea shells and the clay painstakingly applied with a small brush made of animal hair and attached with an animal glue rabbit or egg I lost track. I see the images now on a computer screen as I glance for five seconds before returning to work and cat videos.

Life will go on whether you write a poem or not.

I no longer  want to be a poet based on writing a poem each day. I, now stronger, want to be a poet  based on how I see the world each day.

What am I doing with my art? Am I actually creating something beautiful or is it just garbage in garbage out? Am I taking time to create utmost beauty; am I intimately involved with patience and skill? Am I focused yet in the flow in order to make something which is actually profound yet effortless?

Dear God how did I ever forget I've become a painter? I must be unwell call for the horses and the damned street signs I am going to get a can of tobacco and make a run for it. The Levis Strauss company has shuttered the green girls are counting ice cubes I am left on the dust-filled prairie with the sheep and the hogs docile and ferocious unable to speak clearly to the dreams that I had full of fruit punch.

The Ethiopian coffee is dripping then it starts to rush when I move the filter and suddenly it cascades with noise and I am waiting on it to unfill so that I can calmly wipe the plate and then enjoy a cup of strange dissidence.

When six days long a lifetime seems to pass, a bomb held like a kitten in a glass. The second glance becomes a look that lasts, while fat cats count the vowels during mass.

The feline crept along the wall the ivy brushing up against her fur she was seeking a small mouse which she saw run in the shadow along the wall The garbage trucks and puddles splashed but it did not dim her determination in the street light she could still sense the rumbling of his tiny feet.

I totally get that figure of speech I get it like a fig being eaten by a monkey and lost to the rats... Next one is my call. 

The Earth has just split the apple in two down to the molten core as it turns out the world is a peach.

I looked closely at the coral, each tiny hole and divot imagined the diver that picked it up from the sea floor then put it on the shelf I looked closely at the book, each letter and curve of the b imagined the writer that slaved over his desk then put it on the shelf I looked closely at the tiny box full of jewels and designs on top enough to make your eyeballs spin opened it up and saw that it was empty turned the tiny clasp to the left and put it on the shelf I am a curious soul but as it turns out I should stand in the wind and just look at nothing.

Your passionate attitude will need to be curbed we've thrown it all away like sawdust Your mindfulness retreat will need to be postponed it turns out no one needs your advice Your cunning methods to manipulate the mindset have turned a good heart to stone So long, so long another bird takes flight into the starry night.

Deep in the valley of the mind Far away in the shadow of the soul Near to the nuance of the night Towards the faucet to get a drink of gin Push the handle back to get a taste Throw caution to the tornado Hurl the Bible at the broken glass Toss the nickel into Buckingham Fountain Holler to her as she walks past Mutter something made for magazines Swallow the bitterness  Saunter like a shiny cat

The pillowcase on the bed is smoother now than when the moon shone stoned in the sky reckoning me before I even knew what reckoning was now the ship is sailing into the black night I had no idea I was the pirate gold tooth and all put an eye patch on St. Therese the whole building is about to fall down

The permission to flip the found objects into art the allowance to shop for the shoes that will sit on the shelf the soiled letter I wrote and then ripped up The toast I made to his health The floundering fish underwater so bright and shimmering slowly as she swam into my mind and I swallowed under the cover of darkness the pirate swims out to his ship

Where are the jewels? Have you forgotten them?    Strewn around your wrist and neck    The pearls and rubies from treasure chests Where are your shoes? Are you going to walk around in bare feet?    Those yellow silk slippers, your leather boots    Your shoelaces tied tight with truth? Where are the clouds? Where is the sun?    The billowing majesty breaking with light    The glaring lamp in your eyes Late at night as you read French literature melting into your chair  the Jell-O of your soul wobbling with each breath do you remember her?

Inside the inside ring of fire outside the torch bearing running shoes amidst the flames of glory the fanned fainting fans and the heart pumping jumps there's a darker side to the game: When you look at the stance of nations with their colorful leotards and spinning gymnasts there's this nationalism which can get so dark there's no color it can get as dark as the shadow in rubble as the night falls and a child half alive  keeps thinking of the bombs and remembering the home hoping someone will come is she the hero? Or is the gold medal holder on the podium among the cheers what we prefer to think of? Oh, nationalism on display.

I call myself a poet but why use words? Words hurt. Why spend time, weaving them like blades of grass into wreaths? Words hurt. Words hurt more than anything else it seems,  although bombs and bullets likely are worse. Still, there's something stinging and ringing about a harsh word, a harsh phrase.  It's more than the pen being mightier than the sword. It must be wielded more wisely.

 The sunshine is kind of a necessary thing. 

It is a historic day cloaked in black velvet moving across the landscape in a hearse she is covered in white daisies wild Native men chant and blow smoke from peace pipes and renegade cowboys sit on horses in the distance it's no big deal just a twenty mile canyon We can take this in one night with a pig bladder full of peyote Come on now, there's plenty of stars in the sky She'll just become one of them.

 In the interest of brevity, I will add that I had no intention of making you famous. 

I am Big Brother, I am Facebook I am Musk, I am Bezos I am Apple. I see all and pick the ripest photos I show you the people you love and admire I show you what you hate I show you what you cannot stand I make you gasp I control your emotions I feed your impulses and wreak havoc on your sleep I make you scroll and scroll I turn your mind weak I give you moments of sun motivational videos and ambition improvements in self care which you can purchase and have shipped to you  instantaneously. I am Big Brother, I am Facebook I am Instagram and Amazon I am smartphone internet carpal tunnel eyeballs stare at the altar of the self you think you see your own humanity but it's behind a mirror-- meanwhile the real you is burning at the modern pyre.

The juniper bushes are thick and fragrant with their small odd berries which are smoky on the outside when I try to rub them. Hard and purple, their sheen is a periwinkle musky grey that comes off with a little effort.  There's about a thousand rabbits hiding in there, and more on the way, just give them a week. My radiating sunshine was forever telling me the truths about wildlife. I stood on the front porch, not going anywhere. It reminds me of the time I stood by the Irises, their dark purple penetrating my retina on a day when it was eighty six degrees. I was about six, standing out there in the culdesac.  Of course, many years later, I have to remember not to confuse Iris with Isis.

I hit the ball over the fence-- I failed in every conceivable way I roared with the crowd's thunderous applause-- I looked the other way Our mind is like a coin turning turning  turning

Beg your beauty  beg the sky Beg your leg break the line storm cloud coming but it shall clear and the blue sky is the bright one gleaming 

Coins and pickles both turn.  They both shapeshift. A pickle cannot become a cucumber again-- but a coin can keep going back and forth as long as you like. 

The jelly in the belly of the genie shook when he laughed and asked me my wish I longed to be a free riding soul a flying fish.

One of my goals is to be more political and more informed but for now I will throw apples at trees and then shoot a gun into the glass ceiling. I will wonder about the war in Palestine and the apartheid state but not for too long because I have memes to make about how progressive I am.  My sarcasm will fall on deaf ears stuffed with ear buds and echo chambers.

Seances where ouija boards are drenched in wine and bread laughing at the savage masks we wore upon our heads Rage is paid for in advance it paves the weary road where we walk across it with regret, our steady steady load. 

They are jailing the terrorists and straining to see God among the trees They are throwing stones at the bricks  and bricks at the stones Mud at the dirt and dirt at the mud spitting through their teeth.

It might take a genius to quell the Middle East  are you one? It might take a genius to stop the guns are you one? It might take a genius to bring the poor up are you one? It might take a genius to bring the rich to the mountain top of common sense and the gurus to the seat of humility, are you one? Are you a genius, a guru, a poor man, a rich one? Are you a gun or a stop sign? A fist or a bed of nails? A rose or a time bomb?

Sour patch ruffle time tested misfit gold hammered dunk tank hip cat flippant So longer stronger red yellow blue rodeo marching to sunset Wild West voodoo Masterful meaning rhyme ribbon and fury fists drenched in ink plastic Barbie doll broken  long hair and dreadlocks stereo pumping  like a gas tank spilled all my alcohol trying to lift your spirit.

I am noticing a theme in these recent poems  They are talking about thread and waterfalls as if I could sew up the movement of water.  Maybe it's the same in the sense  of how a hem can come undone.  You pull the thread and it starts coming apart suddenly, by itself, and so quickly you can't stop it.  Yet it could also be about the taut line... pull a piece of thread up and follow it with your eye.

There is a silence inside my mind. I like it there. It's not like a Hindu temple, necessarily, it's not like a monk's cave. It's not like the inside of a mirror-sphere or the envelope of a tear. It's more like the canyon echo, the waterfall rocks where you can stand underneath, behind the tumbling waters of fast-rushing infinity and not get wet.

The fade is on fire the braid is on the head of mine as I brush it out it gets caught I tried to revive it like ant hills crawling up a piece of yarn

Refreshed in the breaking dam of my soul uncurled restless river spinning like wrought cast iron handles spin, rusted but worn smooth canyon how I love thee--Damn, OK, got you. Take my knee my hand my fist wrap it up in an angry kiss didn't you know poison and perpetual motion go hand in hand to the medicine land where rabbits run to and fro baby zebras zipping across the plains chased by lions once again you know I held you in mind half twisted like that wrought cast iron a tiny flower peeking through the gates stop don't make me wait there's a giant river a waterfall about to fall over the edge I'm in a raft a small thing a tiny kitten a ball of string fling me into Niagra Falls, baby.

What is this business of excuses of rainmakers and tidally winks Lincoln Logs and Fred Flintstone Red coats from Britain and the long suffering narrator/ What is this business of ruffians pirate plotting goose neck hobos dream stopping kill switch gobstoppers what is this renegade reaching sorcerer continuum.

 8:59 PM When Restitution's weary legs are bowed, and Superstition's wounded whispers call, the blank checks that Mercy writes are uncashed, ten grizzly bears are growling in my hall. Here all the polar opposites attract: becomes Gray: playing, spinning yin and yang  between the Dusk and breaking light of Day: Here I try but cannot tell the change slips.  In Poetry, I'll hide from icy winds which blow through my thin coat and leave a chill. I'll find the summertime inside my mind and reconnect with Dreams of my Free Will. 

Earn a living helping others believe in the spirit of their syrupy soul when their pain departs and they start to grieve the pits of cherries left inside their bowl As you look at your million dollar hem and listen to their sob stories all day for you know the fault only lies with them you take their money then you go away

The bones inside my hand are turning loose like horses in their pens unblocked released rushing mad rampant tidal wave to truth and laughing like a secret mumbling thief I grab for the phone to dial a call a curtain lifting off the veil shroud to see myself as I can know it all beyond what's traditionally allowed I will learn the jazz, the jones, the hot meat and sweat inside a tiny club with lights the neon plate of silence that I eat the just dessert between the horse and hype

 If power lines could run across the moon--that's the phrase which is steering all of this as it's correct iambic pentameter (and a good line if I do say so myself). The prostitutes and rosaries align unhitched from their strings, rolling through the night the silhouettes of cigarettes and gin reflecting in the ugly neon light The hounds of Baskerville run through the fog he tightens the black tie around his neck the lipstick on the collar of the dog the hand around the fattened rooster's neck Behind the tall Cathedrals peeking through Forgiveness rushing like a waterfall the stained glass windows streaming azure blue and St. Therese is stoned among it all The sliver of blue sky I dare to cut Like Miro with scissors lying on the bed To create beauty from oh, God knows what (Not the best but there's some rhythm to certain lines)

If thinking men lay just beneath the sun with gods above and demons down below The hot air balloon rises just for fun just underneath the beak of the black crow-- It soars like an old witch across the moon that stretched pale skin is scarred from wall to wall below is the reflection of the spoon The mirror lake, I see the crystal ball The neon light is hanging in the night The sky itself seems to be taking flight.

If ribbons and the mermaids stopped to rise where Poseidon stops to overlook the waves and misfits wrapped in cellophane agreed that seaweed was the currency of fish Then I would want the clocks to all strike twelve so I could make my silent final wish.

A dim light shines from the street light  it has been covered by foggy glass a dim moment shines in my heart some memory of yesterday it has been covered by the soot of a fire I held the flame in my hand I held the flame long time coming in the rain oh train, gain, sane, mane.

The apples which I've been cracking haven't been through the smoke and haze lately why not procure a cherry bomb and throw it don't ask--it's a dumpster fire inside of a structure fire being hurled out the window with an old piano and crashing into a pit of flames.

A peculiar moon rose in the sky, the last night we were together, him and I. The black wolf sat in the corner, staring at everything with its blank yellow eyes I had miles to walk and it felt like years until the sunrise. I kept going, with a rose in my teeth, a pirate on a sea of soil The wolf came behind me, I could hear the patter of his feet but just barely because he is a hunter and is used to walking quietly. After some time had passed which I could tell by the angle of Orion in the sky I came upon a small stream and glanced into it and took a bath in my reflection my ego rising like the moon my face wet and stoic. The wolf stared at me, unmoving. I dried off and kept going through the brambles of the night when we came to thistles and swamp too thick to move through I closed my eyes and said a prayer and rode the wolf like a Pegasus into the darkest corners of your soul. There I held a mirror to you. Do you see your face? Your shoulder? Your jaw? I set the mirror down. I began t...

The wrapped up trap of crap stuck between the gaps in the teeth of the talker The grimace of the bear clawed man who didn't know nature was a stalker Pressurized tent kept me holy in the last days of my youth I sat inside the belly of a whale and wiggled my last baby tooth.

Banana peel slightly unreal go funk the bra of Lady Liberty Sensual garage tire iron went sideways on Loyalty's Holiday.

Blankets wrapped around my ankles, shackled in warmth  Hankering for the slow-cooked meals of home while under a muddy tarp Thickened ground from rain that will not stop, coming Sunshine is light years away sweet nothings whisper to me silent Famine is my friend, spook me sudden Dreams of graveyard ghosts with sunset eyes Dripping honey to the beehive mountain I've dropped my gun and fell for  your surprise

A burnt piece of art in a freestanding frame press me like a button on a gas tank A great work of art in a gold leafed frame turn me like a knob on a white door A sloppy work of art in a dumpster fire bleed me like a stone in a gravel pit A true work of art in the heart of God touch me like an apple in a garden, man

Basket case, string me together like a line of pearls You asked me to be mad but just for about five minutes: long enough to write a poem and then catch the elevator.  Long enough to catch a train long enough to hail a cab long enough to watch the storm from the 15th floor. 

As if the death masks on the walls could talk  a tiny beetle is crawling out of the eye socket of the skull The ska checkerboard takes a King wicked into the dawn she asks again and again for a light puffffffing slowly on a cigarette avoiding life. Avoiding life is not the same as suicide to jump in front of a train is not heroic but there's more action there than inside of her as she dances with delight rings a tiny bell I hear an echo of this chance at freedom boredom and ennui are her past times I picture her with opium  on a Friday night.

There is no sense in firing him, it's been a long distance relationship between the Sun and the Moon for many years now, anyways. No sense in asking the Janitor for cash.  The film in the camera and the film on that old dusty piano have all become the same thing. It's his attempt to go back in time and call the music back to life. In those old bars, the Grey Ghost played shapeshifter each key whether black or white and howled into some bitter majesty in the pitch black night. Prostitutes and war veterans with prosthetic legs hobbled together as rats scurried between the fences and the cans the sharp edges of aluminum and the dirty nylon stockings wrapped up into balls on wash day and the bright white linens slapping the sky on the clotheslines between the tenement houses 1939. Fantastic story, really had me going there.

Testify to my magic eye I got the apple pie and the war bride I got the taste test and the steel vest I got the insect and the butterfly Genuflect to my intellect I got the right suspect I am lost in pain up to my neck the sea shatters me underneath my glass feet sandy toes drowning Capture my rapture I am done speeding by I am slow train coming I am what you can't deny I am found in the hallway the mission bells and monks walking I am dust on a mirror car salesman fast talking I am ripe like a cherry from the long lost tree I am lost in the seance I am calling me.

If silence was as golden as they say her dancing lips were lead and alchemy

 I often walk under this particular overpass of steel beams where the train rides above and there's a mural and shadows and pigeons so I know the stickers and the graffiti well I had seen the black marker that said FREE GAZA and weeks later I saw  where someone wrote it FROM HAMAS This particular morning I saw a Streets and Sanitation worker with a power wash water sprayer spraying water at such a high force that the graffiti and stickers were going to be removed the spray from the water gun dispersed into the air making a rainbow in the sunlight on a Monday morning Removal by force is ironic here Isn't there a better way like writing in-- FREE GAZA FROM HAMAS AND THEN FROM PAIN --or something. The rainbow told a story I wanted to capture it in this poem and not on my phone. As I write I don't know who the rainbow was for. 

There's some kid named Liam who wore a shirt, and it said there are only two genders and it's this serious issue and I'm asked to #standwithLiam. Language is real. You can't teach someone that the sky is blue-- and then talk about how actually, when it's night, it's black and expect them not to be confused.

The manic stamp of my poetry will not go unnoticed. It started with the ego and then it turned into empathy. I saw the photo of the children crying, their eyes wild with confusion. I repeat: their eyes wild with confusion. Holding, each other and bloody small arms. What was my problem again? Do you really think I care if your art organization gets funding? Do you think I care about your branding racket on NPR? No, I do not. I care about the moon, spinning in space. Half dreaming and stupid as it hangs in the air. I had a thought like a basketball, suspended in time. The panthers that Delacroix drew still haunt my mind. The river of the Old West is spinning too through the canyon of my heart in a late night text LOL was I really to be the angry bride bent like a fender on an old Ford crying and moaning with curlers in my hair and a frying pan to boot with leather pants and a sword trying to take back your heart? OH, hardly. Again, the moon in me shifts. Was the well-timed turd that Ambe...

Her earrings fly through the space from the moon to the landing on Jupiter when I turned and missed the call I found a fallen angel shattered in the mirror Did I ache to ask her a question? Echoing the shadows against the muddy walls of the well I had a cave inside my heart and a small temporary tattoo of a bicycle in my hand.  I had tea with my grandmother, two bags worth, and wondered what my Dad would think if he saw me smoking with hoodlums. I longed to taste the cool night air on the back of a Camel and walk through the pinhole of Africa into the Blues-soaked rags of the Sahara wake up in Egypt with eyelashes longer than power lines, full of soot and chalk and nail polish in the realm of a frozen tundra, where Russia meets the West.

 Hell, isn't it all alchemy?

The old man with the wide nose covered in hard red warts oversized and awkward blind with thick rimmed glasses yet talking quietly shuffling while pushing an empty wheelchair there's suddenly water all over the floor at Jewel right by the flower section  I stand in line at the bank teller, artfully placing a cup of delicate, delicious, expensive espresso in my hoodie pocket daring myself to place it, with the lid, in my pocket, upright while I do my transaction As I wait in line the man brushes me The man with the wide nose covered in hard red warts oversized and awkward blind with thick rimmed glasses yet talking quietly shuffling while pushing an empty wheelchair and I look and see he has oranges under his chair a bag of oranges surely and I step aside so he can get by I catch myself acting like he is a leper but I steady myself as I hold no ill will I just didn't want to be touched by a passerby and of course I then see that the oranges are not oranges they are orange roses,...

The ping pong pachyderm the pseudo suicide with the butter knife the ripe kite reeling kneeling on grapes to make wine The sing song sassafras wrapped up in the trapped gas mask the green beret he wore to war grimy and deranged he returned with PTSD up to his knees a blank stare and a wad of cash. The newspapers said it was all a sham blasted in group texts pressurized in fountains of bloodhounds sitting at the bar when no one was around talking to the mirrors on the blank walls talking to his war bride about his role in the genocide.

No song is bad song. No song is a good song. A great song knows itself. Your closest friends don't know you. The quietest place on earth is the place to play. You're not telling a story, the story is telling something to you.  

Silence the long lost friend the quiet breath of the earth as she sighs giving me all and leaving nothing behind cream colored wall paper falling off in chunks to show the wood underneath with all its wormholes

What is stopping me from writing bad poetry? Absolutely nothing. War machine stop like an overloaded washing machine can't turn can't burn cities can't turn babies into bombs Your Barbie fueled demon sunshine slaughterhouse Rafah dumpster fire sickening sirens screaming in dead of night  fun house mirrors you see righteousness capsized in the sea of war all drunken sailors high on pillaging sucked deep into the  dead of night in the silence when the bombs stop and people pray their headache overloads the mind the neurons fire kiss the earth kiss the earth kiss the earth

There is definitely a madness to the earth I can smell it like the dirt of spring rich with earth worms and decaying leaves Primavera rises like small green shoots rudely piercing the dirt to reach the sky. In Palestine there is rubble the Spring is augmented by the hurtful rockets of bombs and debris why, the girl cries out, is Spring not for me? We've all heard the story of Hind Heartbreaking it makes us want to scream and cry for her so we block traffic trying to unblock minds.

Some days I am taking photos of shadows, and then the sun moves.

Bermuda shorts bicycle cyclical idiocy chanting Ramadan restitution hopscotch Hillbilly wine running down his cheeks crying his sister played a joke All thumbs funky hipster hunting rabbits  Woke manchild flinging mud online Red torniquet turns quiet my ideal deal where I deal with it Wanderlust colonization Western expansion happened Indians already knew the reeds carefully planted and sown could not outgrow cosmos deck of cards goose neck microphone garage Pillage and rape the ramp for exercise the handicapped rodents need exercise Pleasure seeking sundial

It starts with the stretch begins at the beginning Time takes one step down the stairs while I awaken I'm barely making sense and I'm faking  my fall I skinned my knee but not at all Sweet child, I see your face it looks a lot like mine Sweet child, I see your face it looks a lot like mine used to look I'm timid in the fist my fighting flight is all used up steel skyscrapers cut my heart as they erect and build I used to be a boxer high on the fight  soaked in sweat and summertime heat full of ashes of defeat I looked across the horizon to the sinking moon the railroad tracks disappearing in the sun My hands pointing toward my friends wide open to love and  God's changes a handful of violets I pray he wants to  move me.

The anatomy of attitude the bones and the sinews of truth The turtle speed of growth belies the giant tree the acorn will become Tornados in Kansas lift the house and shift a life  Meanwhile I am numb, in a black hat, getting coffee with espresso trying to not look like a bum.

I used to have a burning in my soul, now I have a burning in my elbow.

I remember exactly where I was  when I realized the paradox of money I was giving all my power away I lived in a house I remember where I was walking I lived in a dream I remember what I was thinking I lived in the sea I remember where I was swimming I lived in the sand I remember where I was walking the footprints of Benjamin Franklin all around me. [Based on listening to a lecture by Bree Noble]

I guess I can be glad that I'm not him but I guess I am too old to swoon but there was magic in the air I was there clad in black pants and black boots the bartender was perfect the curves on the ceiling the lighting the magical night walking under the stars across the miles the distance I went to get to  the Green Mill. 

The error of my ways are calculations factual traction on the slippery slope of the xy curve The perspective shift as the ball rotates in space CAD Design, architecture of the heart I built a railway station in my mind every attitude leaning on the other until I was caught blind the pizza sauce of someone's ear talking on the phone endlessly while they shook me down for money. Drawing the line!

Sound is a wave and a particle-- all at once, one circle drives to be connected to the next orbits of sound reverberations of mood calling to my heart in the middle of your canyon. Can you bring me into the fire and the flame? The campsite underneath the stars, where we bled for our brothers to mark the day, put dark soot on our faces and prepared for War.

The paint swirls in blue and red the face I made is upside my own head the black lines of the charcoal flesh become the hair become the mess my neck doesn't look like his my mind doesn't float

There is another Vietnam going on right now and few people are noticing. I saw a girl's burned face. The U.S. is no different than its barbaric enemies,  fully capable of poison and destruction, disgusting and insulting to  free peaceful people. There is no claim to anything: people must stand up. 

The big screen door slapped in the summer wind, and a storm was coming over the Midwest. I went out on the back steps and talked to the cats, we had about 17 of them, and then went inside. I was totally alone and there was no sound, just the tall panes of glass in the old windows of this house which was from roughly 1904. 

Those bastards, she cried, as she held her side. She couldn't believe that she was just shot on set. Tie me down she thought to herself, as she turned cold. Days later, when she awoke from the coma she informed everyone that she had visited God and he had enough carpet tacks there for everyone and there would be no more television shows with guns, ever.

I will write a letter with black ink and let it run down the page. I will stop at a traffic light, and wait patiently for the green.

I'm going to Costa Rica I'm standing in the rain I am going to see my daughter I have three suitcases of pain I'm going to ride a horse I'm going to pet the mare I'm going to look death in the eye and not be scared. I will find the Voodoo Priestess and drink water from her well. I will know the stance of mercy, I know her very well. I will hold the baby in my arms and feel my heart skip a beat; long and languid tropics my cold and aching feet. Did I hear the parrot in the jungle, his cry echoing far and wide? It sounded like this: --------------  ----------- --------- --- - -- -    -     -            - I moved back a giant leaf, and there he is: Beckoning me with his big beak to take another look inside this forgotten cave, where the waterfall runs deep within.

The man from Japan stared at the moon for a moment, before turning his head and looking at the water to find a reflection of himself and the moon on the same plane.  His child threw a pebble                                                                                     the picture.            into the water,                          not realizing that the ripple                                                              would interrupt (go up)

I crashed into the mind of a sign made of neon glowing and softly glaring if there's such a thing as to softly glare.

Sometimes I am concerned. I am concerned that the coffee grinder, which I use to make my coffee, is too loud. It's on the counter, right next to the wall. The same wall  which is shared with my neighbor's apartment.  I sometimes wonder when I am whirring beans at 7:16 A.M. if it's not right next to his head in the bedroom. His pillow could be up against that very wall. His sleeping skull could be a mere foot from the crazy loud machine. I think this as I whir the beans. Then, I continue making coffee on the stove. The stove I am not so fond of. I had a wonderful, crummy old stove perfect for making sweet potatoes and then the landlord's goons came with a brand new stove  and insisted on changing it out. I protested, but lightly. But now, the stove just doesn't feel me. It's white like a spaceship, with bubbly black metal  and it just seems like a giant marshmallow with a bad case of eyeliner blues.

Take me home, sweet statue of stone, your smooth skin beckons my hand to rise from my side and strike your thousand-year-old cheek. The stripes from my human sweat leave a mark on the calm marble while my heart races. 

I finally figured myself out this whole shebang is an exercise in freestyling, or improvisation as the theater folks call it. I am gifted enough to know how to make a run-on sentence sound like I meant to do it, and it's truly a surprise to open the box and find out what I got. 

Plastic attitudes wrapped up in caustic milk Shank Hall Milwaukee ginger root Fade flipper fabulous gritty tooth Hillbilly history hip mystery silk Grease Fur Tumbler Fried Chicken Stumbler Preamble ashcan.

The sensual man is hot but even fire is slow to burn wet paper.

Jack Kerouac sat back ran his bony fingers through his black hair his body sober but his soul drunk, hung over a typewriter like a sheet on a clothes line drying under the sun madly dashing in the breeze gruff and grumbling gears spitting calculated ink tobacco juice aims thought pounds being weighed at market slaughtered and shipped wrapped up in packaging and stacked neatly in rows. The typewriter made each word important an architecture of black bone free-standing finite mechanical physical.

I pictured two people  behind my closed eyes. I hung out with them as they ate a nice dinner and stared into each other's vibe. I watched them take each other home, their reflections flashing in the big glass windows as they walked.

The way the guitar fits together a quilt of notes sewn together by gentle hands The way the frets turn  from one to two to twelve the synopsis of the octave growing to new heights that diminished chord hits me like a descending bell and crashes into the glass doll in my chest. The poem soaked in rusted water drenched in diamonds and dripping from dark room chemicals as it comes into being it slowly features a figure coming into being.

I changed from chugging to channeling, from changing to cooking I gleefully found the doorknob when it was time to go I have been rocked into the timestamp sideways far gone conclusion. I have been provided restitution by the State. The name Pete came off my lips yesterday and I don't know why, must have been the Saint. I worked hard until I worked smarter. I dug a hole for myself, shot myself in the foot, then buried my shoe. I drained my bathtub of all my dreams and all that is left is the silt. I have dreamed of a thousand dreams, oh God, I need to read the KEATS.

The Earth is hot and full of air my hair is wrapped around my stem my flowers find the sky in desperate time the clouds are not the painter's touch but the blast of the furnace of the universe where the plastic cups and roughed up packages find their way into landfills and somewhere deep in our chests is the black hole it all gets sucked into What is this electricity this tiny heat inside of us the furnace of the Universe burns in us In three million years when Elon Musk is on a spaceship tweeting to the Gods and the no one in particular cares my star dust will be wrapped up in yours for eternity.

There may come a time when the rhymes on these pixels are forgotten and left to dust when the cars in Cuba even begin to rust when the Great Wall of China is barren and cold summer is fresh  only in the tropics and the world is sold.

He couldn't take the cold, and couldn't find parking spots. He drank heavily but that was in the 70s He graveled and growled his way into Betsy's heart. He sang Stevie Ray Vaughan covers in Texas. He came back and still could hardly pay rent. Him and the stoners, always short. He went to the beach one day on acid, he took it in the morning the same way you and I brush our teeth. 

 The world is full of tiny cirlces smoke rings and coffee stains coins for the laundry slot rings on the fingers of the haves and have nots The world is full of tiny cirlces spinning the spoon in the coffee cup to stir in the sugar and the cream going around and around like an eclipse The world is full of tiny circles pebbles on the beach too numerous to count the tiny holes where the bolts go on all of the machines The world is full of tiny circles I came back to a place I used to live I swore I'd never return  I was young and full of vigor I knew I was right and the world was wrong I just wanted to hide away and sing my songs Decades later I return Looking in the windows of the empty cafe where I used to play the world is full of tiny circles and I can't escape Can I jump through them like hoops Tiny hop scotch game is it like ripples on a pond if I walk across the two-dimensional water and skip over can I jump through?

The state of confusion The state of the union The state of the separation The state of the delusion

Joy is boring the calmness you need to have once you get it is so underwhelming compared to the ego blast from challenge and conflict joy is boring as you walk in the morning near the stones and the cold Earth as men hand you fliers for the candidate as you climb the stone steps with gang graffiti spraypaint and just see them as colorful designs joy is boring You walk the circle at the top of the hill you climb down as your stomach sinks with the sensation of loss of elevation and you see more spraypaint this time it says Defend the Forest in capital black letters and you walk the wrong way  and you can't get through because of the ravine joy is boring as you walk home with Green Tea and look at the old cop sitting like Buddha with a yellowed beard and smelly nostrils in his oily black jacket on the porch  smoking you had smelled the smoke  a house away and didn't know where it was coming from until you looked down thinking that's a good place to sit and saw him glaring a...

Oh God I am not static I am radio I am reborn I am the electrical impulse of the city in the morn I shake with each ion and charged belief to keep my pulses on the brink of shaking leaves I rock each tattered wire with canary song Lifting the AC/DC as fast as steam in bongs Carried like ghost ships on the wired sea These black strings hanging from buildings are home to me Electricity Electricity count my shaking fingers 1,2,3 Bring me into being Electricity But I shall not worry  I will simply take flight if you choose instead to live by candlelight Keep your own fire in your heart and flame I was far from having a name Look instead to the meadow you will find me there in the purple haze of yesteryear It's too easy to fill the book page after page with rage let us seek a quieter moment within the cage Align, align! Shapes and colors unite Let it all be simple  with a ball of positive light Glowing Growing to heights.

Pressing pause on the ego to wake up in a humble state of mind a bumble bee honey hive of gratitude forming flowers in the mind

My words are going to come out in increments, like a jazz solo from the horn of a saxophone. I waited with my eyes glued shut to hear the sounds of the angels: playing piano and finding their muses in unforeseen circumstances.

A costume shop has a distinct smell.  The costumes hang in rows, with cheap fabric, mocking me. God knows where they've been. I try on a hat, or two or three. I look at the outfits, the genie, the cowboy, the native, the milkmaid. I appreciate the heavy, three-way mirror near the dressing rooms, waiting for someone to truly see themselves. 

It could happen to you: that's a jazz standard. What could happen to you is of a major concern to me. Are you alright?

Did you look into my pocket  and find gold or love? Did you look into my eyes and see a man or a mirror to see yourself as a thief? My pain is not a promise to you. I am going to hideaway.

 Life is over, she said. Yes, I said, over there. Over where? she said, lifitng her head. If we head that way we'll see it. Get your hair out of the way. Look over there, the hair is in your eyes move it with your hand Then move your eyes up to the horizon with your eyes on the horizon you see the distance Yes? Over there? It's over, but it's over there See when it's over It's just over there There's a new life, do we see it together now? Yes I see it. Do you see it? I am quite intrigued even through my tears I see the horizon's distant drawn line where the shimmering sun is setting there and we are setting out.

Today is a day of celebration, of joy and laughter and mirth, of pride and peace and posterity, of grasshoppers and frogs and baseball bats.

It's a hard day a day that is hard, unlike soft days like fried eggs. No, this day is hard. Hard like a stone and hot-- hot enough to fry an egg on. This day is hard. Hard like a handle of an axe. Hard like the stone on the beach. Soft days are soft like cushions. Smooth like the lace curtains blowing in the wind. Wet like a river running over rocks.

It's hard to know what to say about color It's a thing that is soft to express It's a tangible part of my hand It's a sharp idea Color is basically a metaphor from what I understand though I've been taught that grass is green The likeness of one thing to another is not as invigorating as the discovery of differences A gambler once said he was in love with the moment the  dice were in the air. I relate that to the moment we put the puzzle together. Or the split seconds we spend in joyful eternity comparing this to that and back again.

I hit my head against the refrigerator  like a boa constrictor wrapping me in a chill it's not the words we use it's the energies behind them Calm and resolute versus jubilated and unrestrained my grime.

It's an odd feeling to realize that your country is doing something wrong, like killing people and hiding the truth. It's odd to be proud and then remember things like the Trail of Tears and things happening right now as we speak. It makes me want to drag a stick across the ground, sadly. The correct response is rage isn't it?

Heartbreaking? You don't even know the sound. You think a door creaking is a scar. Heartwrenching? You don't even know the pain. You've been pinned to a clipboard, not pinned under a car. I wouldn't wish pain on you not a day in my life But I feel you breathing down my neck and you know that ain't right. Who are you to knock on my door late at night? Who are you to trespass into my swimmin pool swim naked and prolonged lift yourself up and approach the diving board walk slowly to the edge bounce bounce then pirouette into a perfect 10 slipping into my deep?

I hear singing in the art space, and I'm not making this up. Most of my poetry is completely imagined but I tell you right now, I am listening and someone is playing a radio and the voice is high and melodic and yearning and I can't tell if someone is singing along or if it's just the chorus whispery and yearning.

She knocked on the pineapple like it was a door She listened as if it was a radio. I think she was seeing if it was ripe. Her feet were flat I could tell because when she walked I could see the bottom of her shoes. She bought spaghetti and plastic forks apples and a pound of cheese. She held onto her crinkled dollar a moment too long. I sighed as I waited. I was only buying bread and raisins, I had a meal to prepare, and she had already eaten hers. 

I'd like to never forget you. I'd like to fight in the right way to refuse you. My fierce toes can dig into the sand but it's not Malibu. I'd tear apart a ferris wheel to spin like a falling wave lost in what I used to crave I've become a pebble on the beach of someone else's shore.

Oh, pass me by, I said, completely stilted and sniffing in the cold. My ice hands were melting inside my warm jeans, I absently craved coffee. What would become of my walk today? A traffic jam had me held up and I couldn't get through. I had been walking each morning, like an elephant I could not forget. I was realizing that computers were not altars and I really shouldn't be sacrificing my eyes and time to them like I was killing goats before Passover, or whatever is happening these days. The world is a huge mess, a basket of hornets wrapped up in wool and about to burn. Can you even imagine a soldier's life? I toughen myself as I pull my jeans on over my leggings. It will be cold out. But I go.

The sunlight hits the red brick wall and I see your face The darkness falls in shadows on the cold grey cement and, I see your face The red ball of the sun falls behind the trees and, I see your face The waves crash on the beach, in quiet rhythm and cacophony and I hear your voice.

I must sit down. My tired feet are pressing into my shoes, on the hard linoleum floor. Above me, the giant ceiling opens up. There is a clock suspended for all to see. The heavy iron arms move by themselves. Many tiny people in black coats are running to their trains. Each person is on a mysterious path. My eyelids are heavy, and I hear footsteps, but I stay still. I am sitting on the oak benches in the great hall at Union Station. My back digs in and I sigh. The trains are on time. There are men working on the tracks to make sure the switches got flipped, flashlights in the tunnel, caught along the grey cement water-stained walls. There are ticket sellers and bathroom attendants, and people at the McDonald's and the convenience store. I wonder what it's like to work somewhere all day, when everyone coming through is going somewhere else. 

The innovation of the algorithm the data mining thief who knows your every move down to what color of socks you wear Every click is logged in his big, dark mind and the people used to talk about being judged on Judgement Day but now it's going to be Google reviewing your clicks popping up gifs and you won't be able  to escape.

There is no pain in the world yearning for bright light The darkness of the days burning down the mountains has escaped into its own listless night Fascist commentary subsumes the rapture the blaring trumpets eternally demand justice softly muttered against the wall true love is always just graffiti

The saint is sewn into the tapestry with golden threads  reddish hues of twisted yarn fabulous to a chosen few  she holds the Bible up to her breast cajoled by the devil but flat-footed and sure she suffers to stand straight. Misguided woe was just a path of wonder rabbits mistook for a den the grasses beaten down by feet as we pushed through. I slept sideways on the back porch for many moons only to make breakfast one last time before my breakthrough. I had to break a few eggs, as they say, to make an omelet.

It is painful to think of the relativity of the girls and the boys and the farm the rider in the night with the red cloak heading into the belly of the wolf It is painful to think of the mystery wrapped up in the veil It is painful to think of the teepee folded in the rain It is painful to know that it's over caught in the wind like a holler

I enjoyed walking by the lake and eating the sand. I drank water from my hand, and it tasted like the blood of restitution and slow regrowth.

My fingers have bones  they are there, underneath the skin My wrist has a rubber band around it It's a black elastic thing, and it's worn out  so that part of it is thin, and part of it is thick I have it wrapped three times around my hair which is long and greasy today I had it dyed over six months ago by a lady who whispered, "You're gonna jam" in my ear as she was looming over me and she left the color in too long  and my hair and bathtub was purple for days and I sat under the dryer my locks getting singed off and when she blew dry it I didn't have my glasses on  and I couldn't tell how bad it was until days later It's growing out now and I keep it tied up tiny tweaks of grey are all on my forehead like tin soldiers standing guard about to storm my forehead to remind me of age I don't care much really and I rather like my hands with their slightly weathered look. Notes: written after reading "A Small Place"

The angel played the zither way up high caught up in the plaster  stuck there for all time The nuns walked slowly by in big brown shoes with soles as heavy as their babyless hearts draped in the blond sunshine of almond-shaped eyes the angels continued to play their songs Far away in the fields a small boy with rough hair and hands picked up the flute made of bone and with his shawl of animal hide began to blow The zephyrs swarmed in like a herd of rushing bulls crashing through the parlor of the forest Artemis winked and advised that no one challenge anyone to a contest Yet in the wings there slaved an artist intent on his oils and bathed in rabbit skin glue in the bathtub of alchemy rubbing gold into a pan and smattering the light Notes: Written after reading Vasari

The daily act of writing a poem, how dare I think I have outgrown myself  when I am just a wandering child in the wilderness bare feet in the snow fox tracks  picked up and sifted as the whiteout blows tiny arms of sinewy stems pierce the air with their  ambition

All the war in the world has it always been there never leaving always burning like a fire in the core of man Wise old women and wise old men say this too shall pass where there is shadow the sky looms black with smoke  When will the sun shine on the wheat fields women weeping faces buried in their shawls they had to bury their sister and her husband like dogs The pain in the heart is insurmountable like an ocean wave tidal and tsunami How can we live with ourselves humans how can we turn away Those of us that raise questions Those of us that raise fists Those of us that raise flags what is it all for the devil of War is deaf to reason

The summertime of indecision is upon us. We must cast our fate to the wind, and put our oar into the water.