Collected

Found along the way 

Trinkets of sentimentality

Sweetly placed nearby. 

Soft and sewn from years ago

Surrounded by ocean treasure, and

Wooden whispers. 

There is the flow of organza

Easily read in the knots and the burl.

Placeholders brought 

To continue dialogue found along pathways

That declare creativity be pursued 

As often as humanly possible. 

Equation

What is 

The algorithm of my moodswing?

Can there be such things

As to protect and serve

What's best for my chemical content?

Autonomy befits the body

In ways, everlasting.

To control breathing

To the extent that it's involuntary 

Is nothing to scrutinize. 

However, 

What if time were indeed consciously spent 

On the mapping of mood

And manipulation of such?

How long before obsessive deliberations 

Induce a collective 'backing off'

To numb oneself of the 'responsibility'?

These tangents

They both bore and entice

And seemingly only during periods of time

Where further examination is

Scarce. 

Morning

Dawn is kind, gentle-hued

No motives but to welcome day

Gentility proffered to those

Who wake in silent gratitude

For what life gives without asking. 

Scent

On the trail to 'something'

From hence and whence it comes

To sniff the longevity of these potentials

Without snuffing their need to be

Sated. 

And what of satisfied and all its fillings

Would that we could,  

Cavort with the dreaming...

Without maligning the structure of

Security. 

Civility to Self, to needs, wants, wishes

Maslow's hierarchy, tumbling. 

Where did he factor in the undermining

Of individualistic trade?

That strong be the need to provide warmth

At the cost of the swapping of 'needs'?

I need more, Maslow, more 

Than surface-present particulars 

And the conditional understanding 

Appealing most to many. 

The roar of my agitation, 

Befits the bellows of Outer Space. 

Fog

Wake in silence

Wake in dubious headspace

Wake in the chill, 

Of one. 

Minute quotients of existence

Excavate without prompt

The ignored rebellion lives, though 

Mute it remains. 

Give power to life

To time spent in service, in duty

In refuge. 

In love. 

Solitude, the pariah to the self

As known preferences clamor, consistently 

Reasoning stands its ground, corrupted

Only slightly, by strong, "what if's"

As I have stated plainly to this self, 

'Fuck' those doldrums, enough, to veto

The chatter of the body's lament...

In this now, this is my chosen 'order'.

And yes, I know, all too well, this method is Painstakingly chosen, 

It does little to stem the flow of continued

Abrupt- disgust. 

Detectable Idle Chatter

Let us no longer pretend

What we know to be true

What we feel without fail

What we hunt for in our stillness

In our silence, 

In our truth. 

I dream of you when, 

I let go. 

I explore your presence, daily. 

You land everywhere, 

Confident, strong, tutorial. 

Enough with ambivalent decay

The cortex welcomes you, encourages, you

Needs - You. 

Live here with me, as you have been

Come less, come more, just Come.

The dubious explorations persist

The boom of your delivery, Timeless

I will welcome you Always

Amidst idle chatter, titles and all constraints. 

You, plus Me, equals - Best. 

Profound. 

What to Do

Humiliation creeps, up, into secret creatures

Shaming them where they hide. 

Given away by undefined behaviors, 

Tucked in tight, betrayed. 

Ownership remains sightless 

Admittedly stunned in horror

To be delicately called out this way

Regardless of how soft, the whisper. 

Aged, another lifetime

In this postabsorption state.

How to rectify this fucking humiliating place 

That I have designed, some 8 years deep. 

Single, I have remained, 

Murmuring little in defense of my reasoning

And now therapy sought to alleviate

Rears deep, ugly heads snarling at discovery. 

Weeping serves to turn the heat into steam

The steam, again, giving weight to reality

That in this trade of time swapped for focus

I emanate loss through my silent skin. 

Expression of senses, plays out scientifically

Without hesitation. Hypothesis confirmed. 

Hope does little to stem deep-rooted need

To touch and be touched, remains the answer. 

Monotony

And what of outlook, when

Known contributions donate wholly

To the tone of what comes next?

Coagulating noise becomes the burden

Of the hour, when

Repeatedly I acknowledge

The better process to practice. 

And yet here I am

Centerstage in the swarm of monotonous

Uselessness. 

Books strewn about, waiting 

For inky stroking...

To light the fire of incandescence 

And burn away old and flaky skins

That coat the conscience 

In misery. 

To The Moment

Indigenous to the moment

Distractions eradicate

Lost to the quotient of 'unfinished'.

Words, they evaporate 

Leaving me to wonder

How my foolishness made way

For potency to grow bored, 

And disappear. 

These pockets of time, of feeling

Leave, in their lost spaces

Holes filled with doubt. 

Love, is desirous, for more, than the return

Of itself. 

It carves a dungeon

To house the skin-crawling singularity

Of limbs wrapped to themselves. 

It will placate cave-dwelling 

As the ideal home for cerebral sludge

A worthy backdrop for the heart and the head

To bang out their reasoning

Their deviations, 

And their docile resistance 

To work in unison, 

Achieving-

Stoic trophies

That serve noble purpose 

But do little

To soften

Souls, 

As years  speed and slide

Slowly by. 

No Record

Time, exploded

Propulsion of days

Zipped, then zoom. 

A labyrinth of hours

Behind me now

Undocumented, 

Like weather in unknown worlds.