Tuesday, November 29, 2016


A gail of night blew softly down
The down lay waking, slowly, yawning- hidden
The caricature of night loses its chagrin
Enveloped in ideas that steep long into indigo

This dark texture has wooden shoulders,
Burning never from the toiling of its intent
To take on that rich finish born of well-oiled rubbing
And solvents- sublime.

Manzanita rouge paired with
Lace-wood’s  un-repeating intricacy
The warm hue of mixed motion exudes
The musk of Lover’s- divine.

Would be the woodworker, hard on his knees
Stop at midday for a rumble of softness?
Lunch on pillows and breasts
Peeking out, peaking up

The slow mind wanders
After eleven hours of eye-burning CM.
The post-dinner banquet of thoughts
Travel South in Winter, seeking sweets.

I am wandering everywhere tonight,
Allowing the murmur of whatever the fuck wishes to be said-
To be said.
Wise? Ancillary to my cause.


I see these notions
Grown full and formed
Formed of quiet,
Formed of calm,
Formed of torrid and terse.
Opened at the ending
And ended at the daring.
Booming in and onto
The copse of idea
Grown strong and stout
From then to next.
It becomes blatant in the body
To remain coveted
Covered, coiled.
This pendulum of self
Tick tocking ever diligently
The to and fro of which
Descends never
On any one spot worth trusting.
To be moss-grown is unworthy
This lustre, this love,
This life-
Be mine for the taking
And mine for the giving.

'...to be.'

This is a haven for thoughts that have been exercised
Ideas that have been loved and made
Elections of ideas and feelings, given their due.
Works of a life worth living. Intended, real
Authenticated energies, molded into ‘themselves’
In a home where energies of love created human beings as well.
This life is blessed, captivated by the charm of my own doing.
Credit is nothing, due- meaningless
At the core of this being that I am, I am full
My existence serves the purpose of creating
Creating something not from nothing, but from ‘feeling’
Feeling moves and grows and monopolizes thought
Until pounded out, pulled in, pushed over
Taking shape of the ‘something’ it was always meant to be.


Sour milk, spooning
Pushed away
Poured out
Onto the gravel of nowhere.
The trail is uncarved
I am mapping the quest.
Happy in fact,
To pioneer ‘I’
The Road is unknown
And in that unknown,
I find unlimited beauty.
For now.
Until the days of something ‘else’
May evolve.

'His Momentum'

Blue sky above,
Made beautiful in the nowhere
Ocotillo melodies unfurling
Festooned in a stupor of punch drunk love.
Walk, walk away from the group
Into the path of nothing before me
Nothing but the trail of scent,
Left for his attentive grasp

“I see you, I see what you’re doing…” “..and I know exactly why…”

Tongue dive at midnight,
Into the swollen holes
Of all that we drove insane
Parachute walls, capturing that glow
Of privates that prowl
On the inside, on the inside, on the inside- OUT.
That was the beginning of a decade of fuck.
And the sweetest fuck it was.

“Open your legs…”

I remember that divine 2am crawl
And the hip gripped hard
Those hands that handled the hornets nest
Of all those mewling desires.
Bore the weight, the weight; the prize.
The fullness of limits pushed further
Dropping back down to the atmosphere
Having spent everything on his momentum.

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Crinoline and Taffeta

Twenty seven turns of the dial
The egg- released. The cushioning, come undone
I listen, and he's loud.
I hear longer, I hear more,
Nuance, engaged.
Listening is perfected in this tight drum of 'one'.

"...forget the breeze..."

I am back. Pulling more teeth
Churning the knots with their torn threads.
I am understanding myself
In ways that can't be undone.
This is a self-infliction addiction
Reminded of what I go 'without'.

"...easier to touch..."

I can go on all night, cranking that sound
Sucking on its pilgrimage as though noticed.
Sinking into the sweat of sound
The ground beneath gets harder, darker, dense.
The loudest wail is meant to transcribe- nothing.
Disguised in crescendo's of clever denial.

"...why am I clinging...?"

Where is that book? The one with the polka-dot cover?
I told those pages how I felt, cold feathers in a corner
Cuddling themselves to console the caustic post-pluck.
The bird, the bird, the bird tonight, is my aesthetic.
Never mind the crinoline and taffeta
Broken beak's don't whistle.

"Come let me love you..."

Rewrite your song, Friend.
More complacency, more arrogance, more flippancy
Regurgitation harms our insides, left baking, moisture-less.

"Come let me love you..."

There is no time to think anymore
On what to do or what to say.
Time only to carry on in determined purpose.

"Come let me love you..."

Distortion reveals more gallantry than desired
We hide nothing in contrived attempts to bask in talent
Taper nothing in ignorance, for too obvious is the outcome.

"Come let me love you..."

Love's intention, too pure for conformity.
The humming softens, the matter laid to rest.
Acoustic love song, sing me to sleep.

Rest is all I have left.

Friday, November 25, 2016

'...the knowing...'

Bent knees genuflecting
Ode to the purity of calm.
Reluctance to believe that spontaneity flourishes
In the swift energy living in limbs
You need but move and move in trust.
The finite becomes expansive
The limited- uncapped.

What enigma is this that has beaten the odds?
Would that the knowing grant confident strides
There might be weight in attempting to understand
The chrysalis needs cocooning to remain hidden and protected
Might the truth too, be jeopardized in light of its pursuit?
Give way to mystery and the beauty of intuition;
Radiant is the life that trusts in faith and understanding
That good be done in good time. 

Sunday, November 20, 2016

The Whites and Greys are Dancing.

Swarming, the tides foam
Brittle lips moisten; there’s a crack here
Looking for light.
Puzzled pieces blunder
Signs of cohesion touch down-
To tease and remind
There is reward in success.

Non-porous surface
Impenetrable; breaking the fall
Of mess.
Would that these limbs serve as a construct
Evoking fresh new experiences
As time affords what is made time for.
Bristling confusion, these rhythm-less tones
Dance in the nothing of noise

Perilous gut-ache, roving in tune
To the sarcasm and odor
Of apathy.
Is this the mechanism at fault?
Fucking nonsense, I know better
Weighed down under significance
These truths are mine.
I own the allotment I run, completely.

Unfinished it seems,
These unrehearsed labors
Uniting prickly observances and toast for eyes
Fatigue slumps forward, in life, in limb
Buying the credit it needs to refurbish
Joints, jackhammers and jimmy-rigs
Tomorrow comes and lifted chins
Balk for nothing once the keys are turned.

Solid performance, my days are full
I earn what I earn and meander under overpasses
Head tilted, eyes lifted, to ponder the weight
Retrofitting of my own done now in great ardor
Biding cherished moments to squeeze in more care
Appreciation is bent in half, elusive, expensive.
Wrinkles shift, hair blows
The whites and greys are dancing.

I did right when the time came
Oft and oft nought, consuming fire for self-service
In light of my love.
The riddles bloom deeper next
In deep succession, less and less pass through.
From those historic halls of motherly roast
And relied upon supplies,
The teaching was taught well.

It’s late, and I am hiding in my words
The reading between lines holds too many secrets.
I fault no one for these vulnerable ploys
That I yet employ to snuff truths,
Truths too thick to swallow
Too broad to shit out.
I am what my maker made me to be
And a fair amount of self.

What more could be asked for,
When the compensation, I feel,
Is enough to remain full..?
Full, even when the wounds are raw and the logic is gone.
This life is cruel, beautiful, caring and kind.
It is this way because I ask that of it.
In understanding. In love.
In me.

Living Room

I look up and see, this life- living in me
As witnessed on the walls, of seasons- passed.
These walls, limited- will that limit own me?
The time to rearrange the scenery
Has come. Is here; Is NOW.
A canyon- shifting, magma motivated
To burn and reveal: unspecified claims
I need a new outcropping
Of cognizant boulders
That beg for creation, to lift, and bring to life
What has been waiting in these shoulders
All along. All along, all along….

The aesthetic is energy
Potential. Willingness. Otherness.
Conception, to dream, within a dream
To extract tension, and throw it
Chuck it hard; blatant in all its wretched form
Against walls, against platforms, against canvas
Slather the potent feeling
And baste it until it resigns. And,
In its resignation, entices new life to unfold;
Giving hard lines to develop
The nerve that has patiently waited
To bang the gong of release.

Action to architecture,
Archiving the motivation that burns
Hot- in the belly, in the throat, in the box
This constitution of self, promoting silence within itself
IS enough. Enough. ENOUGH.
Splatter this drought with droves of strokes.
The manifestation of life has been hiding
Long dormant leaves, rustling
Vehemently denying that they will fall before color
Beg in strident waves… to come
Come hard, and with heavy handed purpose
Creating new life, among the mud of Fall.

-stream of (Saturday) consciousness-

Balcony descent, the odds are slim
Careful timing, or predisposed
Goading, mustering nerve
Weight to the scales of motivation

I have enough silk spun
To handle the gust of Saturday
Determining navigation with a broken compass
Yes, yes. That is my Achilles heel.

What boredom I now feel,
To attest to such bullshit.
I am the author, dawning on these days
Dawning on the precipice of so many ‘ways’

To rhyme in the reason of glistening thought
To meddle with backbones, accomplishing nought

What breeds the radar of amplified acts
To hem down the nothing with a brutalized axe

Quicken the ardor of daylight to draft
With molten hot action to hone down the craft

“...you been lonely too long.”

Dry skin of Winter
Song of the proud
Ignore the stark splinter
Of deficit’s shroud.

Flesh made of layers
Peel on the fly
Fuck the naysayers
That lean in to spy.

I’m brushing off notions
That bug me too much
And drugging with potions
The indecent crutch.

Poof goes the daring
To drag out the snitch
And forego the wearing
Of the thick-welted switch.

Winter is fallow
With blistering need
Sucked deep into marrow
And omniscient greed.

Where the fuck do I go from here? What am I to do with these latest developments?

Festering concerns have nowhere to land
Just to shout in silence, to rid the self
Of the unfairness in life’s twists.

Minutiae crowds corners of all hallowed ground.
This loyalty, a brand so severe
Betrothed when the light was young.

This, the enigma of matter that none can procure
Developmental waste, continuing to repudiate
The rot in the center, emanating out.

There is nothing to trigger a new cause
Only (un)limited days continually pondering-
The 'delving into theories' of why a heart bleeds.

For soon, a time for loss will fall
Onto the laps of resignation, to shut one last time
This door of brutal defeat.

Thursday, November 17, 2016

...labor at the cost.

Coagulated motion, stuffed into a box
Appeal to stagnation breeds strong
The fluff in my head is toxic
Turbulent times paralyze these knuckles
I sway, head down, looking for something
To rid this night of insignificance.
The numbers rise and fall
Magnetized to the motion of opportunity cost.
Do I stay and eek forward, intent lost?
Or walk elsewhere to cash in on the impulse of nothing?

Weary roams the lonely
Defeated by this day’s actions.
Studious to obligatory needs, yet
Appalled in the aftermath of fucking off rest.
This day was meant for luxury among the weak
However seldom the time alone may be…
This day was built for wellness
But the strength of my hierarchy of needs
Has fucked the kinder side off.
How am I this way? I labor at the cost.