Waters World

The deliberate markings of the waters under the bridge

expressed themselves like falcons in the cloak of doves;

needing so desperately to pretend that they were in charge.

As it were, batteries like that of a cell phone

reincarnated

as a flashlight

made it obvious

but undeniably overlooked

that power is relative.

Intangible polar charges were so miniscule in relation

to the globe

but for so very long

it was the very best that we thought that we could do.

Devoured by the unknown,

dangling, impertinent ghosts,

it was easier

to ignore

the infinite grandeur outside of above and beyond

our petty minds:

what a permanent mistake.

Tiny magnets

grapple

with heavy truths,

it was better

they remained unrecognized.

Invariable impermanent opposites were in fact

the cornerstone

which gravity itself

apparently relied upon

except 
corners never mattered so much

as graves

central my moment is lost

your beginning

is my ending and 

a glacier

makes the prettiest laughter

of your rains

it is time

only time

which defies definition while owning every letter and every number,

invisible things are the most undeniable:

I live for the ghost of a blind man who traveled the globe alone,

definition a curse

explanation an ankle chain

l climb every ladder backwards

discovery my only purpose

in a dark sea of starry unknowns.

Wander

A wild flower strewn in the woods endeavored my arrest

the season affect

and the prestigious counterweight of motherhood

took abreast a skylark

like a thought

imprinted in the ebony of chaos,

black, and white

a field

of hellos

a modicum of pale yellow light

and the powder of pollen

clinging to the wingtip of a be

made itself an icon

of impermanence

suspended 

half-wait

inside the catacombs of my mind

once

in awhile

i find you 

grasping

for 

steal blue ink cufflinks

avoiding the crowd and consequence

of reaching too far

but here we are

stillness left the moment floating

like the rapid beating wings of a hummingbird

interrupting the precision of your wants

the quiet sealed a passage from rest

we are one

and I didn't have to wander.

Voice

We were shadows

tripping on tongues like weightless quills

spilling into pools of deep blue sapphire ink

ghosts suspicious of the sea

we are ghosts suspicious of ghosts

confining to a finite truth 

within the infinite

like monkeys

clinging to rocks

while staring

at the moon

upon the shoulders of a stumbling galaxy

We are not the story

but the page

and hence

entranced with a screen

and yet

unable to comprehend

the tipping point

of language

clinging to the separation of thought as though

the air i breathe

isn't the air your lungs just gave me and 

I 

discover

a demarcation

between the characters

of

say

and see.

Curve Stitch Year

Near the intersection of pace and chaos

a sparrow with a red-tipped wing paused to note

the patterns in the cracks

between the woulds

wherewith if there were a sudden summer gust,

might open up a hollow wherein everything's something

stands silent shining deep within,

a world of concrete magic swept beneath the shrugs

of fury-eyed decisions in the wake of 

fear-filled madness

There were times,

when,

that something was our everything,

you know.

Penniless creatures glide gently above, marking soft shaped hearts

latched to frothy strewn clouds and rainy bows,

flapping wings striking paths above darkness far below

Your boots

were always brand new,

and the sticker price was

heavy

and the prints always disappeared with the snow,

you know.

A minuscule lime green thread wraps around the tip of my finger

some unmarked obelisk

and stretches far into the yellows

to say hello,

you were here, I marked the spot.

I tied another red one from here stretched to flaming orange,

and also, there you were.

Blues,

stretched to royal purples,  you were here, you were there,

we were everywhere.

Sparrows lead the way with beaks of  arrows

while perfectly the world slides off the gentle sway of their backs, 

like the curve of your cheeks;

that softness where no matter what hardness I might know,

may it always be there.

History

The pale crescent shadow inside the dark iris 

of the gorilla behind bars

 - what let's me know that he is real -

isn't something I'd trade easily

for that bright sky honesty I can't forget 

shining like a rowboat wading in the sunlight

of your ocean blue eyes.

I built a tiny sand castle inside your left tear duct,

and a little girl with her red plastic bucket

crafts her dreams next to the the shoreline 
so safe inside of there.

While the quiet one with too much to say

sits and waits the time to pass;

Life flickering before him holograph

like memories on super-8 projector screen,

the story of the youth he never had.

A trajectory of iridescent arrows marks a circular path

of breadcrumbs from the zookeeper.
Eleven dusty pigeons rise beyond the surface
like incense smoke and flying ashes,

yet his chain of rusty keys can never be set free.

Convinced he has reenacted the great and mighty jungle

all for me,

these fake plastic trees,

the dirty glass of severed self-awareness,

the smudge of fingerprints 

which keeps him clearly from remembering

the wilderness where we belong.

Wildflower coconuts constructed just prettily enough

to distract the conscience of the ones who won't care for

instinct

and the reason

why gorillas don't speak.

Song

To My Father In His Time of Repair

Though we may look upon you as ghosts looking into ghosts
mirrors gazing into mirrors

the abyss, crawling out and staring back inside itself 

to wonder at the leagues beyond your see

and the meridians of your maritime adventure,

we are neither seeking what is lost

nor what to gain when

We are watching at life

and how it moves

like zoo keepers

at a grand terrain

building ant hills

just beyond the horizon

where the elephants do graze.

Watching at life and how it moves
like bee keepers
reading stories in the swarms,
shaman reading palm prints in the seashells,
sipping honey next to sea and storm.

When you went away
and came back again
like the tide turning back upon itself
after seven days of slumber,

you became more wondrous to me
than Apparition,

a hero from legions unknown
who returned to us again
filled with light
and magic,

and your new favorite word was:  good.

Daddy, you couldn't keep me from the wonder,
you couldn't keep me from wandering,
you couldn't allow the world to be anything
less than Endless,
when I looked upon you and searched
for the meaning of bedtime,
the meaning of Monday,
for the meaning of struggle,
and for the meaning of prayer.

To tend to the present moment with you

is this gift

whose wrapping papers

are endless

in their ripping.

Ice falls on green meadow carpets.

Winds speak in howling tongues at night.

The water laps in drones over a pool of water
like the daylight that glows like embers in your eyes
in this kingdom we call Home.

Father in the time of your repair
may you breath the second chance at life

that couldn't be taken had it never been given.

Song

Year of the Dragon

to be undecadent, irrelevant,

unmasked and unadorned,

thin horned,

to be erroneous, alias, vaporous, not clouded

billowing like a gust not a breeze

whispering through cement fairy trees
idolizing ghosts of consequence,

to be earthly and inconstant,

marred, and of the sea,

to punch like a wildflower, peonies bursting at the seems

in grandiose firecracker exits,

stage left,

to come back again,

to walk backwards,

and also forwards,

to be captured by your own imminence,

to be loud and unhindered in your solitude,

to slash and burn the forests of your darkness

until it crashes brightly in that heavenly hue

of something new.

may the invitation remain unspoken

may the expectation dissolve like sugar

in the our glass

may you more

or may you less

may you be loved.

Faded Moon, constant store light

chrysanthemums, i cannot de-syphon the code,

The colander, and coriander - mixing waters in this present, tense, only passing through

the nots that came before it like a potted plant -

roots so deeply embedded

re"plant"ing is a paradox.

Windstorm, I am passing through a bird

Muscular disc trophy,

My old fascial release.

Purr the gentle kitten paws

perching on a high wire

softly treads a sky below a ground above our feat

triumph is a zero in place of one,

to steal a second on the outer planks of darkness

how i know you could be anywhere

or here testing rope strings in the nightime with me,


pale eon dual threaded moon

his and hers

yours and theirs

moment

but never hours

Captured

a polaroid

promise,

but it fades.

i am wearing a holographic ring tied around my finger

to remember.

or otherwise Saturn

is a jewel,

and my grasp

an outstretched milky way.

Vitam Diligere Mortem

Whatever the cost of light, broken or

transfixed
through different apertures
Or the chance to remember.
The dream that visits like a long lost Father-
a gentle nod of the head
and then turning its dusky back
just with the rising of dawn.
A Mother at this uncommon doorway
owned by no one
and yet
to find sudden home
Inside you and me, we
Build these preservations
from sustenance
Which is: what you fed to me,
Which is what I,
Return to you
A thousand fold only in this promise, Time.
To Love.
To see past the lens.
To know you
As for what you are including all that came before
or left without
and however
may return after
Is Family:
This code
brought to me by instinct
and the not forgotten turn of a million ages.

When I cannot use my mind therefore
I turn to my heart.

And you there without wings,
Perchance may use your vision
To do the same thing.

Or if not,
We will carry you.

Click Here for Song and Video: Kilian Martin

Sundrop; Falling Suns

Home

A litany of mirrors make this room seem larger than it appears.

Crosshatch.  Laser.    Tripwire.

Pound havoc:  storm, earth shudder.

Near and far away.

Pale ocean sigh dark angel closet night

taking shelter on the rooftop

on the island

in the stairwell of a dream,

inbetween

surrender.

Pool lit peering out of

beyond a thing in

paradise

a bird of

prey.

Partial ellipse of the moon.

Partake in

rituals

to make the time

Khyber-passage

These essential silences.

  

Einstein's Cliff

my understanding          of time altered

by perception       and       sensation of 

                                  you

correlating to a fixed point in space of

which there is no such true thing except

in the exception of relation to another

fixed and unfixed location of a thing

which brings me to formulate a certain

                           precipice

before which a multitude of undeniable

things are put to the edge of a question

and set to raise their own answers or

death.                   Such as permanence,

impermanence.               Creation and

destruction.   Such things as words and

understanding.       Communion and the

essence of a meaning unattached to

word but an isolated case like a solo

flight of white bird that hangs suspended

beyond the reach of the black night of

time and or gravity unseamingly

disintegrates in the presence of such

highly unmarkable things. such as you.

                                                  

Song1 Thom Yorke

Song2

Song3

Video

Ashes to Ashes

I came  to realize that they were real;

that is to say they had arrived with purpose -
glimmer in the eye with trajectory, 
and then settled, and then stayed.

Running brooks shooting off from wild and unmarked river
into private woods,

and down the long and twisted bending line
tapering into offshoots, tributaries, streams, puddles,
-beached-
 drop or two of rainlet water

falling from once thirsty leaves.

Crowded around me like ghosts, shadows, bones and rustic jewels

of other pirates once on course.
Cramped like minions, crabs barreling over each other

not sure whether or not to find their way back to sea
but following the massive herd of moving limbs beneath their sideways feat.
Collections - meaningless.

Plastic bag blowing onto sidewalk in the grey sky street.

Once with belongings - ownership, owner and home.

A woman in her own dark forest
 touches the plant that is growing
on her windowsill.
How many times in one lifetime have you seen the sun?
How many times today?  And what of the moon?
She turns her lamplight, and a shadow to the room.

This is only a prologue to a temperament of sediment.

                                                                                                              

                                                 

Song - (Don't like this vocal style but love this instrumental).

Roku

The curve

while your back is turned

and the light a blue grey

I revisit

like a girl

and a basket of apples

in November

near the orchard

where it rains.


Song.                     

Anti-Theft

Colloidal slivers of iridescent blindness formulate

the space around me

creating Time the perpetual fugitive.

Palindromes running back and forth
inside my mind

is a sleepless ship teetering this way and that
on a quivering tightrope line;
                     Air, an aria.

I sat like stone and perfect still

prolific to and fro the traffic sound cacophany

visual antitheses of motorbikes, goats, rickshaws, cars,

horns, cows, and wagons

lions, loin cloths, and madness

make

the echo of a silent Tibetan bell

sounding only once

as you approach.

5 uncommon languages fail to translate

         

what your eyes

are speaking

with my eyes.

With these tiny hands

I built a cold dungeon made from the greyest stone

and there in the damp and quiet

did weave a blanket

made of thick and shiny metals, chains

to capture that one moment there within.

And yes, like a blue-eyed laughing beast

did the sea come rolling in

to call my fortress

some mere castle made of sands,

           and wash it all away.

All except for only the Absence

which could not be stolen

is the sun-shaped cutout

here in the center of my chest:

the sun fell from the sky that day

and burned a hole through my soul.
You do exist.

For the servant and the priest, the soulmate and the stranger, from MVG.
Song2
Song

Strawberry Love

love of strawberries started at first as simple

infatuation.

               This heart-shaped shape

emerging from dark and shapeless earth.

How could a curve so soft

carve its way out
from the heavy weight of a rock torn world
so deliciously?

Or unravel next to this spear of velvet green?

How could god's liquid dream
even imagine
to survive or exist

on a planet made so filthy

with

excuses?

What rain did feed it

and more

importantly

how

did it

manage the thirst?

What were the endless days

made of sun parched and alone

halfway between living and dying?

  Why wasn't anyone watching?

Who carried you

ungently from that field?

Which hands did shake you

from the earth, which

carts barrels bodies

did take form

to parcel out your space?

Who sold you to the masses?

What was the price that You paid?

How could these alphabet letters

or those dollar sign numbers

signify answers to any of these things?

No
wonder
why
you
are
so
quiet.

I took a knife in my left hand

and sliced you whole in my rite

palm.

piece by piece

the heart shape

repeated itself
over and over
again and again

until there

was nothing

left

but your red

ink

dripping

from my

fist.

i devoured you whole

and tasted

the

pain

of your death.

(Song2) 

(Song)

While You Were Away

When you were gone

the alphabet changed places

with the numbers and

time started echoing

differently.

Seasons burst open and interwoven

like black holes stitched into an

otherwise seamless tapestry.

Architecture melted

like candles with the sun,

my feat slipped upon

puddles of wax,

and everything that once did run

began to swim.

Snow started falling from my

            mouth.

Feather pens replaced

         ink cartridges

and needles

made for good post-it notes;

every single point in time

and place shifted;
matter made matter

that you have gone away.

Song for the Times  

 Scroll to 17:19 for song Here

<--> Clotho <--> Lachesis <--> Atropos <-->

song

Song2

song 3

HourGlass Soldier

Building your face with tattered
pieces of roses

forcing the garden to answer

to a silhouette

restraining the carefree fall of a petal

to the sharp arc

that draws from the height
of your left cheekbone

and dips into your chin

like heaven's parentheses

to etch, to grasp, to capture

the outer edges of your

uncontainably graceful slips

at the shoreline of

the places where your soul

crashes into your body

in this maddeningly

silent bolt of

enlightenment

without the

thunder

watching storm clouds
span across the limitless skies
of your iris
and you there caught
in the eye of the storm
in a black hole
as deep as night
swallows the day whole
and sinks into the
the farthest reaches of your
wartorn mind:

I find the shadows of
history
roaming over your site
like a curse
of blindness
at birth
is where you
learned
to fight
la lucha, la lucha,
flor y mi amor,
la vida es la lucha.

Song and Video (click here)

Protection

I could sit and write in the dark
in the place where danger
met me face to face,
repeating all the steps that
led me to that moment
and not even flinch

because of y-o-u.

Sea urchins are that spiky looking creature on the outside,

you said,

but on the insides - this is what is there.

Don't chew it,

just let it melt onto your tongue.

Like the words do,

in reverse.

In reverse

I could see patterns

slowly lifting with the fog

but who could say

which was the flower

and which was the seed

in fact

when I look at you,

the entire orchard

is already there.

With a sea on my plate

and endless fields of lavender and roses

seated across me at this table as my guest,

who would ever stop from being both
eternally roaringly hungry and completely full?

Ours is this sacred and homeless rite

in this vagabond garden of a feast on life

which you slice into parts like watermelon

and while I taste the seeds

growing in my tummy

I can feel it all becoming whole again;

the soil and the root and the rain

and the farmer's hand,

a hole in the ground

is where I came from

and Eden is what we're

becoming,

coming Home

again is a story

of finding sunlight

at the very crisp edges of darkness

and so we walk these dirty streets

in need neither of journey nor destination

just as the roots must do

as they burst beneath
the surface while

the whole world is sleeping.

I saw you close your eyes

when we stepped onto the forest
path of pitch darkness.

It was there that you taught me

how to see

with eyes closed.
It was you who took my hand
while the others only laughed.

I watch your face

meld from

tiger

to

dove,

tiger

to

dove,

And now knowing the absolute wonder

that you can be both,

I can only trust that I can be everything everything too;
even right next to danger's very own front door, with you.

Song1 (click here)
Song 2 (click here)

endless thanks to Mina Hu

Acute Pressure

Dear Dr Molsmon's

blue eyes were backlit.

Blacklit room square and sunken,

with me like a dart
board in the middle.

Light as a feather stiff as a rock,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

on a table, halfway between

the ceiling and the floor.

Tiny silver pinpricks -
chinese needles asterisks
mark the pain

I couldn't feel if I didn't look.

Make yourself so heavy that you are

dripping down like tree sap, slowly sinking

beneath the table into your own tree roots.

He said.

Was there something you forgot

to tell me?

No doctor, what we see is what we get.

  

Doctor, I haven't stopped unraveling
since that time.
Wherever stillness settles in,
movement mixes in my
body sepulchre chamber
for a phoenix
rising in heat and ashes -
mad thrashing wings
crashing into things
is what happens if
fire says she'd really
rather be water today.

Seated unseated,
setting and a rose,
these lines pulsing from a heart beat
up the spine accross the wingspan
and out the fingertips
dripping like warm a current
electric, soft glow.

Plug in, baby.
Mirrors melt as glass does,
so do I.
Be a dear,
caught in the forest,
not in the head lights.


Song2
Song

Stumbling On Clarity

                       white

           circles            strewn

       on                          the black

carpet                                 made

     me                              think

           in                     crop

                    circles:

crop circles like these.

Touching fingers.

This un-seaming.

If it weren't for the floorboards

I'd have sworn we were submerged -

Like flashes of silver inside

some warm and salty

          ocean,

swooning inside the surf

of tiny catfish chasing

the tales of their own bubbles.

Fluid

thought

afterthought

all

wet.

The pale pressure
of your REM

bleeding with my own.

Words

clinging speechless

like

dangling

stars

hanging from fishing lines

overhead;

no glass ceiling

but the great and slender
surrender to
nothingness
is the divide between
this world and
that,
meniscus,

the brief wooden

arc

of Neptune's canoe,

floating by

while the sea king

steals a summer
thunderstorm nap,
tossing and turning
in a dream
of  two lovers lost
at sea.

Finding my self

Lost in circles
there

with you

was as unexpected

as the sunlit globe

that hovered outside

that window

like

a second

coming.

I    could     rest    less
for                         ever

in                          sides           

these                   sorts                

of                              un

glass boxes with you.

Crop circles in this song. (click here)

Hidden song for lost and starving lovers. (click here)

Carotid Artery

Would you let me be a sailor?

Not the captain at the helm of this   

precious

Mission.

But the one who is seated in the corner

atop a broken barstool

inside the empty tavern
at dock.

Wrinkled,

and alone.

Would you let me sit

and taste that ocean for a spell?

The rain as it pelts on

half-open windows.

The waters as they speak to me.

May I be as broken as the broken

seat which I am seated on,

and still,

like a mountain,

made of many pieces,

not yet crumble?

May I share the silence

with you alone,

and no one else.

Song.

Author of Dream

Peering away at the surface, pixel by pixel.

Respecting the nature of the puzzle, puzzled.

Standing atop a cement block floating

between Nothing and Nothing, comes something, something.

Missing the Stranger who knew me, cell by cell.

Balancing on a weight of this somethingness,

made of nothingness,

a chip off a tower, a crumb of the moon,
of missing a piece, of missing you.
Timelines travel on rainbows of light to merge

with thought sounds which bloom in my head

like quiet explosions of springtime,  Aware

of the pulsing of promise that flows through my

being like whispers on water and puddles unseen,

only a dream,

only a dream,

passing and pushing and baiting and pulling

and barreled away inside petals of everything

peeling away and unfolding itself one passion
at a time.    A promise is this:    a kiss on the forehead.
An arrow of hope wrought with iron melted and
twisted and molded to bind hope itself into Knowing.

Loosing a language not born for such things,
secret codes crafted and carved and hidden
inside the predawn monaliths of night's most invisible ink.
To the moon:   Safe for Unveiling;
Accept for my presence, a sleepless path
surrounded by heavens and lit by starlight.
Ever so graciously playing with silence,
Tiptoe on rooftops and dance with the quiet.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    
* The Sower, Robert Park Harrison                                    
                                                                                                                                                                                                       

If and When Should Ever Want Want

If modern day gypsies were nomads,

and hearts were less mental than cyberspace,

I'd be this mover and this packer.

A hall labeled You-Haul would

host all of my most sacred possessions.

But I scraped my wrist on the packaging tape

while sealing off a box labeled with the letters

              h  o  p  e

I drew a map for your treasure hunt
made with palm lines and fingerprints,

and boxes were a part of this trajectory.

It is suggestable to live in codes.

Pieces of yellows, blues, and lavenders,
such a collision scope of confetti

to mark different measures in this path.

It will be a long ride, and a very tall order

in a giant-sized truck, fit for two,

but seating one.

And I'll be staring at the yellow line

that draws staccato down the middle

of you and back again.

Earthtones hit the pavement

when I start to remember how

to use the breaks.

Otherwise, everything is lined

in yellows, flourescent yellows,

effervescent marigolds between

an army of traffic lights, and you.

Poles witness the demise of rubber

planted dreams,

to most other eyes, remaining

unseen.

Which may be the fittest place;

not for you,

but for me.

But for me;

the world would go on

marching,

but for me.