Flytrap

In this house the subject of you- a flytrap to my temples.

I wrote of boys in recent history and the intro posed, was, 

Of you? Without discerning elements, who knew?

Intentional, if I know me... blotting out themes that refuse to rest.

The queue consists of high level interest, of that, you still must be.

Annoyed, really, that some part of you continues to T-Bone thoughts.

Even now, the will to edit, swells. 

Clean breaks, they are delicious.

They provide a landing mat for resuscitated musings to lie still

To draw them back into dormancy so that true memory can form,

Inducting useless connections into the archive of 'then'.

Go quietly now, into the night, allow yourself to be led to this place

Where the life of your choosing splits sharply and with finality, a closed door;

Thus considering yourself as 'moved on'.

Music

Nostalgia of this 80's playlist

Is lubricating my mind

To elaborate on themes that I adore

Strong memories of the back of the class 

Neck, shoulders, hands... warmed.

Reunited.

Decades deep, I think we knew

A time would come

When the convection between Us

Would grow, blaze, and glow

For the rest of our lives.

History is no contest for the undecided.

Time and attendance, proven.

The real estate occupied in each to the other

This Permanent Residency,

Will always make

The most sense.

Man

Infrastructure of Mankind

Is, Man.

On the back of Man

From the strength of Man

To the hands of Man

The world formed. 

Man as the Protector,

Builds the tough interior. 

Man as the Lover, 

Brews confident families.

Man as the Caretaker

Breeds innovation. 

Man as a Companion

Forms the perfect complement, to

Woman. 

Tender Belly

Opening to make whole, holes long empty

Relinquish private spaces to hold audience to one

To inebriate time with lusty candor

Hearing words that flow, familiarly

In ways that cannot be replicated.

Thickness, explored

Hands, filling

Sumptuous bellies, meet.

Sweet, sweaty friction

Dripped into bellybuttons

Swimming in salty perfume.

There is a serenity felt here

In the care of kindness- devotion, divulging.

Push in to fill that last pocket of lonely

And gyrate wholeheartedly,

I have been waiting long for those 9 digits

To traipse every inch of 

Me, tenderly.

...wildness unlocked.

The wind blew, I listened without taking note

The flat land ate memory as I drove, script- expiring.

Itinerary has been whispering of detours, and I prepare

to obey.

Landscape unfurling within ridges of grey

The matter maps new paths.

Dry brush soothes as the whirling dervish protects its wildness.

Warning of blindness if one were to wander there,

Amidst unnamed lands and virginal stones.

Only the unwoven are welcome, to chart nothing but the memory

Of soft, wild life, unowned. 

Nature's voice is aromatic effervescence 

Licking the nape with tendrils of silent soliloquy

Never to be repeated, only loved in their maiden voyage

As they pass in and out of open palms, that seek to feel meaning

On unborn plans.

I lay in thought, upon reclined offerings

From a source I have not once doubted,

Tantalizing the feel of all I suspect...

'Erotica, reverberate

Implode my desire and then

Ricochet, infinitely...'

As pieces of my lifelong puzzle return to me

I lament less each day, acutely aware

Of the warmth headed towards me.

Didier

Dark sky storytelling

In the wide open chamber of nature

My best friend and I, complete.

BDC

Time and space, dissolving

He steps towards me with intention.

Light pervades and laughter fills

The halls are now lit with euphoric potential.

Time inconsequential as the swallowing of the last decade,

Belches. Entering us into new eras

Where light and dark meet, and, warm tones exude.

Two names, two voices, two revelations

This twist is 37 years in the making.

Didier, je t'aime.

Posturing

Long live the metamorphosis of day

I read and reread what came before

Meaning locked in memory, for the most part.

No more pondering what has laid claim 

Taking in noise has me believing other avenues

The core of what I am has done better than I had hoped.

Excelled in the attracting of what was needed and when.

Drawing into my resource pool, energy of the highest order.

I think back fondly on the peaks reached in my past,

Loving that they mark territory in which challenge was accepted

Without compromise. 

I did not once trade my urges for something I could not handle 

...the morning after.

No stains depicting decisions that got the better of me.

I lift, I squat, I shift my posture

The future - induced.

Floating in the maximization of all I am needed for

For now, luring with profound intent

The life I have been longing for.

Within reach.

Gap

The speed in which we run, divided.

The air we breathe, estranged to the point of choked.

Chasms to cross with no direction

Save the tidbit of attention thrown.

This world, morphed into moments to collect

Without regard for the depth of connection

For fear of vulnerable revelation.

A half-life, to be certain.

How precious the memories of treasured experience.

A curio of moving trysts, 

Born from lusty, well worn feelings.

Stock sold, bought, and then traded.

The unlimited satisfaction stuck firm

In places where the heart and head roam

The sweaty psyche lives on,

Basking in earned memory.

Father

 Sweat wake, sticky motivation

Beaded collection of stove top manipulation

Orchestrating some way

To grant reprieve to the fear, of what comes.

86 years and to land in this pit

Of gauze and terror. Fuck this wound.

Goring cannot be the answer, though it is

For now.

So I lift, I lighten, I attempt to distract

By any means necessary,

In the event that we squeeze one more quality day

From this man whom I call 'Father'.

Boys

 Turbulent arrival, circling back; third time's a charm.

Visibility- zero, and the Hail Mary's carry on.

Montana, owning the honor,

of housing

That precious, Roaring Fire.

The Lubbad Boy, sending evidence of visual charm

A place where perhaps his guitar strings can vibrate.

It's good to 'touchdown' to such musing.

And The Cady Boy, most loved of them all...

Returning.

Amid the flux of intense happenings

The gems present themselves

In rare and rampant form.

Blow

 Old phrases reread, boom. Who I was then,

Harnessed. Perfect restraint, controlled.

Today, sleep peels back revulsion as avoidance clings.

Pages turn, little evidence left of mindset. Intentional.

This blockage is revolting.

Resistance is the counterweight

As horizontal momentum plumbs

Losing minutes to gluttony

As reform looms.

49, you unfit oaf.

Punch yourself in the face.

Uncork this period of lax and let it blow.

Fucking Let It Blow.

I do.

Day begin

Forcing typical pattern to take a hike. 

Into the wherever of whatever,

That most fantastic replacement word 

For, fuck you.

Friday craves a shucking

Of dead momentum.

Objects serving less than sentimental value

Need no longer be a prop.

Surveillance of a collected decade

Bring deadened noise,

And new motivation to dare.

Dare I chuck the muck that pretends to matter?

I do, 

I do.

Him

Look to see to feel to think

Swayed. Contour, influencing the night

Lured into this space

By masculine order

Willing. 

Aggression

 Crunch hard the monolith of hesitancy.

The purpose of plucking words will aid in which way, again?

Somehow the recognition of methods used, and how they have become overused,

Plays on no gain. No advancement, no clutching of ground gained.

No progress is no progress even when the dirty work of mental taxation is being paid.

I need a new detonator for this task at hand.

Before Spring springs sprouts of uncertainty, and they root in spoiled soil.

Par for the course of managing disarray

I need to plug in and commit to the louder bombs within my range

That open and blare the philosophical nuggets of purpose

That seed in my psyche and wait for proper watering.

Yes, that's it, there, there where the moisture needs moistening

On the planted path of worthy aggression and chosen sills.

Resumes

 Lap against  these ears, came the sound of foamy lather

No shells decorating the shore.

Browned shins and reddish forearms soaking up the sun

As layers of the moment before my eyes were focused on, intently.

Crisis among the ranks as the timing of what comes next - confers

An offer to collapse among trees and less worry, and arms eager for the bending.

Where am I in the mix of these details that swirl?

Thicker skins revolt against the ease of easy, as there is, no easy.

A prick to the heart distracts, racy pulse and heated pressure

Rise before words gain volume, and the turning to prayer

Resumes.

What is there to believe in between us, when the core of you doubts?

The head and the heart have known decades deep

The wonder and awe of what comes next...

This, the elementary spiritual gauge

I run ahead.

JDT

 No guarantees. Living the life before our eyes, in front of our face.

Uncertainty is the banner of the helpless and in times of trouble, flown high

Anything to distract the worry from center-stage and into a place of confinement.

Protein, enzyme, blood draw... the vital statistics are spelling conditions

The Patriarchal head of our table is under duress.

Prayers be strong and forthright, keep our dearest safe.

Unfinished

 Catastrophizing - what does it mean?

The Bay, held fast long enough for the next bout to attack.

Tone deaf rhythm to stay the mood away, until it hits in orchestrated intention.

Megahertz manipulating senses into a frenzy of luscious imaginings.

The gorge holds mass enough to spread the separation between action and attendance

With a  wake wide enough to derail deep-rooted motivation/intention

And it must be swallowed effectively, devoured from a place of rancour

Good enough to instigate moves that are no longer accidental, but purged hard

And taken. Taken out to pasture where rot is the next phase,

As layers of dreaming un-peel themselves from a vision board as praise follows action.

New Mex

 No edit past the closing of the last hour

These eyes watch the feet and the hands of the self 

Walking and waking through life

Carrying the weight of the interior, cautioning risk, carting out exposure.

Rotating panels of unfinished to purposefully annoy the incomplete in me.

Tasks, after all, are only that. Tasks. I am not the tasks set before me,

However, I am the word I gave, to any and all that asked, upon which, I agreed to.

Coughing up guttural complaints, exacerbating my maxed procrastination levels

Who am I beyond the wheel I was yesterday, ten months ago, a half life ago?

The dirt from another State, underfoot. My shoes, smothered

Kicked, skipped, climbed, canoodled... Moseying into a monsoon  summer

Of permanency.

Eclectic tomorrow, with your neighbor scarce living conditions

I am coming for you.

For your trees, your birds, your windy howl.

For your high desert blooms, Russian sage, and jagged musculature.

To claim your heady perfumes,

Sweetened sweater weather,

...and invitations, so bright.

To lure and lay down with

So many warm Tuesdays and Sundays

...and hand held genius 'thank you's...'

Built on the hearth of firm choosing.

Tea and tactile amusement

Will count the hours moving forward

As the lightest hues of lavender dusk

Pervade the open night.

Watermelon for Dessert

Newness afoot, transitioning into evidence

Proof of motivation, visual disruption, upon first inspection.

Speaking to self, I reconfigure the path to take, or rather, the path I make

To land me in an 'elsewhere'.

The elsewhere of last eve, taunting me all day

An intimate rendition of something teased

To trick me into hitting replay

Whenever the murmur of memory strikes.

How would Montreal tackle these musings?

With an even more wrinkled finger, poked into my face?

His white fur, molting, with no more use to expound,

Having exhausted the might of his misery on the echo of nothing.

I am admittedly pissed. His abandonment of our dialogue has been noted.

Though ample warning was given, I dismissed so many of the signs 

Distracted under the guise of 'busy' and 'responsible'.

The male animal brain attempted to connect

And succeeded.

Who will I become from here into the now?

Into the next?

Into November 2028?

Ten years it will have been, past the 'night of highest achievement' was reached

Dining on the intellect of Alpha Prime.

The woe of the hour, now lost on the recanting of such an impossible event.

Retained in memory, words that I needed more, than the reason of the hour.

Watermelon dessert served, post- assertion.

The circle has no ending, says the lid of the cup,

And the pull into the moment- thrice served, x's 3.

It was the unexpected dinner of a lifetime, My Lifetime.

The one and only time 

My palette, eyes, ears, hands, and heart, 

Ever truly

Ate.

Preview

Sustainability 

Packaged in a file, in a cabinet, in a room that is locked

In my head.

Yes, you are there, yes, I am 1/2 to this pair, and, yes

Starvation subsides, on itself, fed with nothing, a hole - eaten.

This is by design. Regardless of the annoyance behind that fact,

Design it is and design it has been and designed it will remain.

Until such a time when the 1/2 to the hole presents an opportunity

And I choose to no longer remain complacent,

Or blind.

And I instead, opt to 

Eat.

Earned

Yesterday, today, tomorrow.

Here, now, planted.

Aware, awake, unequivocal. 

Optimistic above all.

Powerful, powered, dynamic.

Alert, willing, able.

Energized in the best way,

Loved, living, full.

Understood, understanding, smiling.

Time, impermanence, appreciation.

Balanced, adaptable, apt.

Open, alive, loved.

Loving, living, breathing.

Coherent, cohesive, collaborative.

Sharing, caring, kind.

Evolving, metamorphosis, bettered.

Sun-soaked, provoked, challenged.

Strong, flexible, grounded.

Standing this test of time.

Grateful, growing, giving.

Unleashed, unhindered, proven.

My sigh, earned.

Choke

 The holes have words that sometimes speak for days

The Ooooh's and Ahhh's and whatever trouble they may bring, resist the barriers

They will be heard, they are deftly felt. They commune with the thickness

Looking to shame the layers into action, and shock the limbs into articulation.

What must be done knows what needs doing and personifies the preciseness of that goal.

Each and every fucking day.

Lost in dreams that look too good and yet, they are true.

True to the gleam of touch so tender, and the sweltering bliss of sensitivity - shared.

Shucked. Never. Encased, rather. Dreaded droning. A 34 year old horizon line, shines.

But the bird on the wire is cooking in the hot sun.

Scaling the notions in drivel-worthy hesitancy.

Fucking irritating me more than I can bare.

Because I know, how I know, how I know....

The order chokes the chaos.

Enable

These sullen impulses

Locked in sludge. Require

Confrontation. 

E. Kant

 Momentum dictated by urgency as the days pass fluidly

The ritual replicates day in and day out, the mud flows predictably

Into gullets that sit waiting for the screen to play a new theme, the inaction, gags.

How many ways can the meaning be embellished to barely disguise the flow of the mundane?

The bubbling has been consistent and now that consistency has adapted to the new rhythm,

Missing the point - entirely. 

I am good at that. 

Conjuring up the motivation and then sitting in the space between here and next.

The next needs runners legs to get it from here to away

From today into better,

From now - into 'hello'.

When you have grown accustomed to the interim your whole life, 

It takes a massive shove of 'pissed off' to bridge the gap and get to where the getting is good.

The decommissioning of my watch has been long in the coming, and it is coming- no less.

It has been wrong to allow muscles to grow and then atrophy from the weight of their own inactivity.

Reasoning has been strong and what comes next will be the unbuckling of rigidity

To allow the mettle to take on loftier sighs, 

As the bulk of obligations lifts higher into the atmosphere.

And the reconciliation of my emotional context moves front and center.

And to learn to become familiar with things like 'ease' and intimacy.

Resistance is Manifold.

THC

 Sustainability

Listen, feel, integrate.

Capture impulse and reign it in.

Divulge wholly, head and heart, into the shedding of skin.

The 'Load' he speaks of, Yes. I am plugged in.

Those reminders are seemingly everywhere.

The sweat inducing heat of sandy planets

The strands of needy DNA, quickening their pace

Hoping to hook in  and claim rights of passage once more

Before the grayer skies set in.

The baseline - resuscitated. 

Low beat, male heat, assertive protrusions gain in their prominence.

Thick veins moving in dedication

To articulate a course worth taking.

I scramble in the chaos of of my many captioned moods

And revel in the breaking of their monotony.

This slight bump of interest has grown fangs

And distracting me - plenty.

Perhaps, that one last tango

...is ready...

Hmm

 Permanence.

I am here. Solid. Shockingly consistent.

Restraint is the pattern; the pattern is Restraint.

Refrain from acknowledgment. No. 

This is the pattern. Confronting the uncomfortable.

How, still, could the positioning be, to have remained so strong?

Rhetoric has once again gained footing, however, the wondering out loud

Has shifted. Analyzing the potency of a decade

I am split. Recognition of the 'why' is fully supported

Equally, the recognition of 'what next' is required.

Tricky mental jousting, derived from the constant need to understand.

And I do, and I do, and I have. Putting that context into stronger, visual patterning

Comes next.

Preservation

 You are the spine of my compulsory indifference

Slathering on thick, the ability to last in this devalued world of benign neglect.

The burly ingestion of your purge of words deposit heavy as always, into the investment of US

Growing in value without a single iota of proof that we exist to each other past the tap of a key,

Or the occasional catch of our mixed voices, dipping into real-time, to fill in the instantaneous gaps.

Breathe.

You, 

In.

What might that be like? Catastrophic, perhaps. Though the answer is irrelevant.

The interest does not stem from any actualization, but that it merely exists with minimal effort.

If I never spoke to you again, it would not matter. The case of your existence has been made

Substantiating the worth of your name, etched into many warm corners where solitude stands.

It is a powerful notion to be held and upheld with no intention beyond what we declare.

And 

To have that be

Enough.

And it is, it so is, and will, forever be. From busy, snowy, Southwestern intersections, words poured

Staking internal claims in patterns that we could not have designed any more sturdily in our 'today'.

Whale skulls on abandoned beaches rotting to remind us that from ashes to ashes, and dust to dust

The practicality of your importance in my life is treasured in brutal silence, where we safely roam

Roam and remain tantalizingly provocative in the gap of time between us, feeding inner animals.

Preservation,

Poignantly

Perfected.

Gone

 Wax and wane

Tidal pull, guaranteed.

Stretched between events and breathing, that map of life - queried.

Like popcorn strung from clean cotton thread

Expiration of decoration will come.

Incense and cigarettes pervaded the rooms

To the then of the naive, young being in me.

These nights wading in fog, reluctant to orchestrate

Superficial nothingness, as fatigue gets the better of night.

4 distinct patterns this night, the hum from the glow of the light

Eyes darting to and fro, into the programmed accessories

The glare of irritation persists. Whittling down the tapping of eyes

To opt for eyes to skim over words, back-lit from soft pages

Published for 'Old School' delight.

February kicks in and the Retrograde recedes,

Another Friday to tuck away and forget

`

Until the End

 Birthday, begin. Hello 49. The anticipation of your arrival has been 9 years in the making.

I was warned of your brevity, and the urgency in which you demand 'focus'.

Good, I am ready. I have grown each day until these moments when time would tick louder

As I work to accumulate synergy in all I am attracting and orchestrating.

This manual of instruction is mine for the designing, and thorough in its execution.

That murmur that exists always has been readying itself and will continue on in dutiful loyalty

I have been walking this path in all manner of weather, and adjusted accordingly.

As the last year of my 40's begins its descent, I thank myself for the years lived up until this NOW

They have been toiled and tempered with accountability and demanded Respect

Respect in unspoken ways that knew the rights would cancel out the wrongs, and carry along-

The constant win. This is Patrimony in action, unfailing, and, sturdy as they come.

To have slathered on thick, the female muscle when no male muscle stood forward...

Has, and will continue to, impress me until the end.

End of Story

 Repetition. Hones to a science, and then suffocates in its monotony.

I roll the topics out, they hit where they hit and I analyze the sounds they create.

Frustration sets in as recognition of repeated story-lines advance into new space.

This has got to stop. "This has got to lie down, with someone else on top..." -D Rice

Leave it up to the lyrics to nail down the point- creatively.

J.W. making the best sense in all of this. The tough route is the route for me

It is what I respond to best. It is the way I was raised and how I improve.

I will press on in that mindset as I know any other mindset appeals to me - less.

Structure, discipline, motivation, intensity, chunk after chunk of forced forward motion

This is what I know; this is what I identify with. Skirting around with anything else is laughable.

The older I get the more important this way of life becomes- asserting itself on me- daily. 

Procrastination is a useless goo that crowds around all limbs and sets in like expensive cement

Destroying intention with muscle. One more year until 50 hits, what then will be my excuse?

Truth is - there are no excuses, there is only myself and what I am willing to tolerate from within.

Done with my opinion when it comes to the actions of others, it means zilch- end of story.

Concerning myself with my own Ethos is second only to breathing when it comes to this life.

That glorious compass within that I have never had to reason with, only have I ignored.

The days wane quicker now, and time eats more life at a faster pace each day.

That sill with preferred view comes when I create it and not a moment sooner.

The elbow has work to do and there ain't no time like the present.

Tool

 The obvious blares and I react, careful to contain my observations.

Luscious colors illicit the recanting of memory, into days made whole

The motive of nature, flipping every switch: systems-  GO.

This language is the oldest on earth; the very definition of 'create'.

The palette of Man still lulls these senses, readying the rouge with wet.

How many more days will be spent etching plural meaning?

I do not know. This is the beast of my patterns. Embellishment of the senses.

Hoping to trigger select prey in a fashion that Mother Nature has perfected.

It simply cannot be done; I am not hunting for myself.

Or am I?

There is an existential cadence to where my interest lies.

There, that word again; encapsulating double tense, and, making sense.

The Catholic in me is strong. Aware. Accustomed to control. 

Restraint is perhaps my most powerful tool. Practiced with ease

No matter how thorough the allure of the vice. I am grateful for this.

  

Inner Chant...

 Initiative needs no audience, in fact, it needs nothing but itself.

Distraction is a contemptuous sea where indulgence has no shortage of swimmers.

Which of the two will occupy and determine the course of life?

To be aware of both is half the game. To stay put the tentacles of inaction

Is often not a goal for the mind built of entitlement, built of sloth, built of the weak.

I see no strength in weakness. I do not associate the necessity of such to get ahead.

To be weak is to give up. To be weak is to complain. To be weak is to accept defeat.

Defeated people eat gobs of their misery, they cannot get enough of it.

They will offer it up, of this - they will love to share. To be heard is to be loved.

To be listened to- is care. To listen without prejudice and hear without helpful advising

Is equally weak. 

Love and care contain constructive aids that are to be distributed as needed.

"Who am I, Darlin, to ya? Who am I...?" - BH

What constitutes these thoughts? That comprise who I am into the toughness that I understand?

By which design and whose measure did I come to be this way? The spirit dictates?

The Soul? Are they one in the same? Are they separate? Do they deliberate?

These facets of being, they have been with me, built into me- existed from the start.

I think far back and can still conjure early feelings and the notion of 'why?'

Young in California, yet able to remember the purposeful finagling of internal fear.

Seeds planted to a core that was unsure. To take the 'why' and analyze it, quietly.

Keeping love and care at the center of all focus, regardless of how confused I became.

The years have laid upon themselves in succession in such a way that I can look back now

Proud of the avenues traveled and able to rationalize the 'how and why'. 

The grip of the grist and the trimming of juicy fat have been taught to know their place.

To be given due is the best and perhaps only way to get past 'uncomfortable'

Heated beings that spend time listening to their core become better managers of their life.

I hear the noise and recognize the chaos of everythingtryingtodistractandimpugnme

And I leave it where it is- outside the perimeter of my vulnerability. 

After nearly 49 years of existence, I am a strong, capable, caring, intelligent and honest fighter.

Life IS strategy. There are hurdles that arise both naturally and planted.

If I lack the wherewithal to fight, how will I get to the other side to love and care for anyone?

Least of all - myself?

The skin is thick, the sensitivities are protected, the lessons learned are respected.

I suit up each day, in varying degrees of priority, ready to tackle the now and the future.

I want this life. I want it all. I will earn the inner and outer bruising that comes with territory.

If we don't understand the balance, we are only half alive.

Chosen Hues...

 Heated Thursday, with appropriate amounts of strain and pressure.

How do we live well if there is no path worth learning?

It is more than resistance; it is the ease with which to fall back

And languish in the lax of 'nothing' that entices too many into inactivity.

Days pass, I look out the window, and see the sky, thankful for its consistency.

It is my job to do the changing, to recognize the beauty and MOVE towards 'worth'.

That future windowsill, I imagined her again this morning, 

And how intuitively great it already feels to know that in the future, she will be mine. 

Mine to arrange and dust when needed, and to look out of, into that vast Southwest Glory

To see future skies from her glazed gaze, and smile in gratitude

At the whim of a dream and the action taken- to grasp and control enough

To make what I wanted - mine.

Tabletop Possessions

 Pinch of iniquities, cramp the days

The torment of shallow beliefs clings thickly to impressionable ignorance.

This, the reason for 'off the grid' living.

These inanimate objects that crowd around me

Hold varying degrees of value as I conceptualize my future.

Pruning of memories is inevitable, while I gauge the worth of attachments

That may or may not, make it through this transition.

Taos, firmly planted into my psyche, perpetually enticed 

To return there and traipse the land long enough to pick over trails

And commit them to memory.

The washing of slate has begun.

As that action performs its magic, mental limbo twists and turns

Bound by the need to chase inertia into safe corners

To breed more doubt and insecurity. I feel the resistance to change

And ante up my resilience. Fuck monotony and the hamster wheel it cruises in.

My dreams demand much of me and I honor that call.

There were sacrifices that came before my name was first spoken,

And to their due, I will not be remiss in their payment.

This life is built for creation.

Soul Shitter

 Gall. Your gall, it behooves me.

The mud of your own incandescence emits misery.

Shame rides high but hides poorly, you, smoked out of your comfy hole.

I would say "How dare you?" But I am aware of your dare.

Cultivating resentment for the recognition you assign to others

When the results you seek are theirs. Blech.

Shame too, as such a statuesque being could still, reconfigure his course

But no, not you, you clutch too closely, to the malignancy of your making.

Years of regard for you, discarded to the shitter.

What you really crave, I suspect, is to be slapped for all your smugness.

I used to desire time alone with you, to open and welcome the whole of your mind

The blowhole of your bitterness has replaced the idea of you and the muse in you.

You, my friend, scream silently of an urgency to be cracked. 

Cracked from the caked on lethargy that you alone, have slopped on thick. 

From rebellion to resignation, where did the gorgeous fire in you - go wrong?

For more than 20 years I contemplated that talk between us. How little I knew you.

Open your carcass wholly; expose the desiccant of regrets that you harbor

In exchange for some moisture, to lubricate and sweeten your soul.

You have been  a monolith of consideration in my life from the time we first met.

The intoxicating inhalation of the young you - I could not get enough of.

And your lack of risk for worthier outcomes has destroyed the man in you.

I have no interest anymore to engage you as you navigate your case through bared teeth

That shit gets old, repugnant, putrid. Your ping into the atmosphere is expiring

Lacking all effort which will lead to the eventual outcome of zilch.

To have loved you so long and unfortunately, long enough to see you rot

I debate within as to whether or not I should give a fuck about the status of our friendship.

Or perhaps I would be better off utilizing you as a powerful lump to launch off

Into greater positioning where I can claim that the "mercy" of your back has afforded me opportunity?

Your patronization of powerful females that keep their eyes on the prize, needs muting.

And for the record, that exceptional being that you so carefully continue to 'remind' me of

Would die a second time - if she knew of your willingness to use her tenderness to demean strength.

Until next time, fuck you. Your 'wolf in sheep's clothing' attire is grossly ill-fitting.

Bulky Pages

 The repetition has begun to denounce nearly all former points.

Tis a sin to read, and reread of years past and their resolute points..

A-ha! Here I am again, beginning with an intro to open again that door

That spells the same message. The trade, the worth, the wait - but wait!?

Show me the twist! Am I now catering to more of the same?

Or when, upon when, upon the when of fucking whens, will I build anew?

In the flux, the ease of known patterns continues to wrestle for the lead.

No. 

Dear red Moleskin, your intentions have held strong, your bulky pages

Do beckon for more seawater and gouache swirl. Your dried captions

Entertain me further. This time; this now; this outcome; structure loosely

A life of firm sound, built away from the bulk of these musings.

It is as if the ether has layers that are now exposed to me;

And the where to from here requires that I peel those layers apart

And climb right in - to the life that now presents itself.

50 soon. One last year for forty. To untie, unravel and eradicate monotony.

It is courageous to open this mouth and with fluid intention

Speak of the life I want. The life I am willing to build. The opening of 

Good futures. Grand canvases are touched and handled with care

Often, and again, and often even more. Pushed, adjusted, hung, examined.

I have catered to intensity my whole life. I have controlled what I could

To accentuate secure outcomes, and I have done this well.

This new Season is forming. This next phase is determined. 

Empowered enough to take the echo of all I have been exposed to

And rocket my way to something stronger, heartier, healthier, warmer

Loved in ways that are without limit, and felt with ease.

High

 Attempting to reconnect to that stream

Of consciousness that hits each time a pen is

Impossible.

Thinking hard to reclaim nodes that poked out freely

When once my mind lifts off and away from stationary noise.

Who I am when I sit away from myself,

JBP suggests to watch myself and see how it is I navigate

The life I am living. He is now my Muse.

Everything that pushes out from behind his blood and bones

Is the absolute stuff that Heavenly Dreams are made of.

His is ether talk made simple.

None to this point in time in my entire life

Has ever pierced through to the recess of what is deeply felt

In the manner that this man has.

Ethos, Pathos, Logos.

Smooth intensity. Aggressive confidence.

Intentional restraint, and deliciously persuasive.

It doesn't take much to listen and swoon and gel to the nines.

This man is The Highest High.

A Sampling

 Thursday has noise, and much of it is Beautiful.

My son walks to commemorate his graduation from high school.

A milestone event in his life that he accomplished a year early!

Jack Be Nimble! Jack Be Quick!! 

Jack follows dreams- And the results- They stick!!!

I am blessed to no end with my glorious brood.

We have among our ranks - 4 Artists: who operate 

At Fine Artist levels........ Ode to Joy for me, as their Mother!

We have 2 future bilinguals in our midst; Japanese is their choice!

We have a singer/songwriter who plays guitar and piano....

And on evenings rare, I have been witness to the beauty of her

Spontaneous instrumental creations!

The scholar in our midst has a mind in overdrive

It is a wonder her head can contain all that transpires there.

Art, in so many forms, practiced; Spiritual practitioner

Stones; Tarot; Meditation; Writing; Digital; Tactile... 

It seems to name all, a mass conceit would exist

But No. This is simply a sampling of who we are.

Independent thinkers. The world needs them to exist, and,

They need them to be backed by Accountability; Responsibility;

Empathy; Understanding; Confidence; and Willingness to 

Stand Up For What is Right. 

If we have learned anything, it is that Freedom must be

Practiced and pursued and not practiced from a place

Of submission.

Suffice

 Would I settle for the ghost of you?

Abyss of days between the Us and You

Thousands of days have passed since we could see 

Who we were, who we had become.

And that letter you wrote, ringing true to this day

All you felt and the wisdom behind your words

They carry your sentiments still locked in the chamber

Of all the beauty we felt, before the road split into two.

That twinkle in your eyes, your laugh, your smile

The authenticity of everything you shared in our bubble

The world that only we knew, and the injury committed 

To that tender, intimate and precious fellowship we gave

To you - to me -  to each other.

That day in your room on Wintergardens,

The rain on the windows as you sat in your chair smiling

I knew then that to preserve the best in you

I would stay until I could stay no more.

The time came and in that transaction, I traded

Everything you gave to me and all the ways I felt

For new life, new love, and the legacy of Us - born anew

In the heart of our child; a girl, soft, sweet and true.

"...and if I can't be next to you..." 

I settled for better than the best of You.

And though "...I miss you more than life..."

Our memories suffice.

A.G.

 Invigorated, visual bliss- descending

These burners, once lit, pop and moan for encouragement.

The sleeping zone, aged and dilapidated

Grown mute with time and inactivity...

Has been lured once more,

Into intoxicating leads.

Much of You...

 "Here's to the babies of the brand new world,

Here's to the beauty of the stars..."

Lyrics that roll decades forward 

To stick in my psyche for periodic enjoyment.

I have committed to memory those things that elate me

From so long ago, like these lyrics, initial joy remains.

Wired the right way, and gratitude abounds

The path has been set and continues to unfold

In such a way that I march through in confidence

Trusting my gut, bones, head and heart.

It occurs to me that Solo is a State of Mind 

One that I was born with. This belief system is not learned

This is not formulated out of necessity, this is who I am.

Who I have always been, who I will continue to be.

In love with the loyalty, the dedication, the perseverance

In love with the tenacity, the resilience and the bare-knuckle battles

They were always going to win, as this form of steady

Is untouchable.

Reasons, explanations, descriptions- irrelevant

This tune is mine alone for humming and enjoying.

Control is the single-most powerful action we can exert on ourselves.

And when that act is wrought to its core with conviction

The likes of which are built for ONE mode - 

There is tremendous honor and satisfaction in welcoming each new day.

To rise to action in continued motion that has  long laid the groundwork

Of a lifetime of 'The Good', the will to live flows proudly.

Of the two, my Father is built this way, a Stoic to this very day.

And the rebellion necessary to engineer innovation, is not to be underrated: Mother.

She was contained in the vessel of her design; wild, beautiful, and strong.

Unyielding. I am much of you, and mostly him and blessed to call you mine.

Fresh

 Practiced mania sent out in pulsed waves

The puppeteers up top enjoy the view.

Orchestrating chaos as the nameless benefactors

Pick their teeth of rotting meat, to make way for

Fresh kill.

Tickle and Slip

 Here, before any words spoken,

I sit and analyze thought.

What will Thursday bring?

Thursday, will bring, whatever I induce.

January 13th, a day to design with intent.

Ideas swim, muses distract, intention must

Be the solid Victor.

Sleep brought cumbersome dreams 

Of misplaced jewelry, hanging from threads

In places that dementia would only know.

The message here is dubious, lingering

Is there use in deciphering?

A single copper ornament, lost to its pair

A friend, recently stripped of all familial company

The cast in order of appearance was particular.

What philosophy is carefully placed in this setting?

Where my pillowed head floats in controlled chaos

Meaning, mulled into deep, wordless explanations,

That coast in agitating vibration,

Coaxing distraction enough,

To tickle and slip away.

Free

 In later hours the wrist takes its liberty

Vision dances loosely on the brink of slumber

And still, the compositions present themselves.

With less control there is more risk

The relaxed state promotes flimsy with flow

A grace-line that knows to roam freely 

When sleep takes its leisure as limbs give in to rest.

Two nights now, a slight pattern - forming

The wavy vibrations toy with visible dimension...

Or so I am told.

To what do we attribute to, this midnight muse?

Who glides in gypsy formation

In indelible strokes?

As the severing of workloads cement themselves

I too, like the wrist, post-slumber

Take some Liberty of my own.

Who knew something so powerful as an Inalienable Right

Would be proudly invoked

In a world now parading with the illusion of 'Free'?

Boise Boy

He sends, I read

Punched. 

His words, stirred

Aggressively making their home

Inside me,

As they always have,

Stitched in tight.

Vultures swirl, encircling

Eager to dig in...to...

The viscera. 

Inky tendons, tightening

Flawed indelibly into view

An expulsion of pages

Dictating turmoil. 

Throat rope tangled

Controlled fray, exudes

Blinded eyes that 'see'

"...bone dry words form 

from twisted lips 

come from 

someone something strange 

a throat deranged..."

We roam in tune best

At these distances We have known

From flurries to salty sea

~And anxious knots in time that rots~

Betwixt the Now and He.

...known

Sunday ends in familiar tones 

The abode, dutifully open for inhabitants 

Who sleep to dream to rise and make ready 

A life of welcome change. 

The greenery, happy to hear our sounds

And the inanimate contents, made ready

For use in the home we've built and known. 

Launching...

Finality forming, by

Automated triggering.

The dump of my earned remains-

Clarify much.

Light blows open the status

Of the beginning of: The Where To-

From 'Here'.

Excitedly eager

To climb sturdy ladders

That lead to an infinity

Of yet, untapped wealth.

With value grown, and confidence ushering

I return to begin the finalizing

Of books that are begging for closure.

The Future, launching...

Ratio

 San Antonio, Texas...

And Hatch chili peanuts.

Gas, still under $3 a gallon

This State, a State worth knowing.

I am recognizing this gorgeous place

As I drive back in the path I know well.

The vast expanse is promoting itself

In unabashed tones of Freedom.

Space. To breathe, To move, To elevate

Pursuit of dreams made whole.

I am eager to claim my plot of this story

And drive hard to the mark of Change.

Ready

Willing

Excitedly able.

Midnight oil burns through morning

And on through each mile that we pass.

2022 sees a ratio of gain

That I WILL obtain.

NOW

Value

 Unseen understanding

Tangible, emotional currency

The value of which is traded 

Without trace,

Makes this form of living,

Sublime.

With Love.

 I sit here in Texas

Aware of the time

As the world swarms slowly

In hastened momentum.

California again soon,

To make decisions that lead,

Elsewhere.

This is a good life, 

A blessed life,

A gifted existence.

To be free to choose

To choose wisely,

Based on the wisdom

Of all my experience.

Intermediate life,

You are a good life.

Thankful for the powers that Be,

And the God that has been

Walking beside me

Listening to me,

And guiding my light.

Filled to the brim

With Love.

High Wattage

 Inevitably, the time comes

To involuntarily drag me through the urge.

The pristine flavor of untouchable, 

Devours me.

Practiced

 How long have I walked with words that have ailed me?

I think to utter and prop up my bones in doing so,

But the dig into my very being, incurs remittance.

What words can I find now, to crack these practiced codes

Entering into a better bargain to sate the days as they pass?

The voice is crowded with frustration that seethes and moans of monotony

I must better serve my posterior for when it surges forward

The need to have acted on foresight will then be put to the test

And questioned in detail for what may have gone overlooked.

I want to then counter with 'no stone unturned' and revel in preparedness.

I am hunting for worth and Steppenwolf, to tally the marks I have carved

To inspect and deliver the prognosis for which I must deter.

Lengthier meaning, longer streams of thought,

May they begin to coach stealthier practices and evacuate the tight, terse twine

That I have been weaving along my interior 

To brace the emotional hernias that puncture through from practiced restraint.

Necessary, practiced restraint. 

I am here.

 Another volume, delivered

The involvement and the emotional investment,

They have grown.

Turning into the idea that a way to ease sorrow

Can be felt; the news shared, deserves emphatic empathy

Delivered with concern, true care.

I am here, dear friend, listening with respect

And I am mindful of your experiences,

The fragility of life, parading.

Full Tilt

 115 notes,

On how to tell the story of pain.

A year to gore the innards with abrupt malice

Funneled through a disease without cure.

2016, an impalement.

Breaking in the upright position

I festooned my misery into a manageable shape

That took me to shreds with impunity. 

What does it mean to be broken?

I will never know.

The grist is worth the ingestion of any hurdle

To earn the worth to carry on.

Words in their arrangement serve to protect nothing

Confusion cures ignorance, and that will do

Procurement, a word I adore

As it seeks to attach skill to understanding

Giving way to a comprehension, sublime.

Some stories are not worth understanding,

Certain levels of agony belong caged.

Secrecy is a precursor to composure,

When light requires forgiveness in its lifting.

I know a man that gets this game.

The level of what is at stake, 

The wisdom to keep his mouth shut

And the potency of his commitment to restraint.

Such animal mastery is also, bent for secrecy and containment.

It is often the understanding alone that can portion the scales 

To the equilibrium needed,

To lead a strong, stout life, worthy of respecting.

Enough hounds prowl without regard 

...for more than their 

Own hunger.

Pangs of which, once punctured

Care nothing for the kill.

And who cares to hear these musings,

Of lives well lived, and shoulders that never caved

These are words that form little meaning 

To none other than Self, who seldom pauses to wonder how 

That same self will evaluate and preside

Over the decades spent in well controlled demeanor.

I am leaning forward more and fascinating myself

With potentials that eek of action, and grease eager to spread

Would there come a time where the Now will crave more sprint?

No.

The time is Now. The Will is Present,

And the wisdom to know the difference is

Parading like Maximus in full tilt.

In This Now

Chisel off the hesitation,

Or the story remains the same.

That languid layer of testifying tongue

Cornering the verbose into paralysis,

Gaining no ground.

The New Order is Intentional

In ways, everlasting.

Powered by would-be oppression 

And the nerve to demand:

Better.

Been walking awhile on hesitant turf

Offensively protecting my interests.

Independence is a living act

To be claimed daily with effective patterns

Grindstone tending.

The insanity of repetition 

Keeps the average - sated.

I am hunting for something more, than

Satisfaction. I will pursue

Better leverage.