Fall. Wind blows leaves, leaves minds blown.

10-1-11

I am an old sailor now
unencumbered
by the land or sea
I prefer
to dream
For this poverty
of life
Has filled me with hopes
for death
it seems a much gentler destination
for one such as I
accustomed to nature's rages
followed by emptiness
and waste
fertile abundance and famine
television shows
banner ads
and mailboxes devoid of
handwritten words
landlocked or seaswept
at peace with the heart of dreams
I find what was never lost
and lose myself in what can't be found

7-28-11

Change is the condition that can't be changed.
Sameness, normalcy, routine, habit
are illusions we buy into at the
expense of our lives.
Imagine yourself at the center
of an ever blossoming flower
Imagine this present moment is the
sun towards which you turn.
Now abandon these imaginings
what is left is the self
dark, lonely, afraid
the empty shell of the real life
you carry in your breath.
Now breathe

5-11-11

Prime numbers populate the date
Skeletons file out of the closet
where fleshed out by nostalgia they
fill up my daydreams with sighs
and pungent sweat of yesterday.
I dream, I live, I wish, I weave
in and out through traffic lanes
careening towards my Maker with
uncanny precision.  All roads lead
there and here, right now, my
face is still while my ego
kicks and screams flailing against
Death's cold grasp consuming me
cell by cell.  Incredulous, culpable,
sanctimonious, combustible.  I would
call this feeling "punk rock".   Smash
it all to smithereens, cremate it,
pulverize it.  Rise like bread or
birds and dream again.  Without
nostalgia is better.  Now is preferable
to what once was.

2/8/13

Ticking clocks click at each other

Unfriendly at best

At worst

They want me out of this room

And in bed

With the rest of the team

Tsk tsk

Tik tsk tik

Nag nag nag

So devoid of mechanical beauty

Unlike real time

This sound is like sharpening a pencil

With an dull pair of Singer scissors

I want a blanket made of monarch wings

To be wrapped in autumn

To forget this winter sitting on my face

Like a skull

I want tree sap

And summer grass

Or hot cement

And a wet ass

Straight out of the pool

Death to mismatched clocks!

No pleasure comes from imagining your deaths

With mini cocktail swords made in ancient Japan

Was there truth in the love I felt at 16?

This love is different

That was a love of flowers before they fall

This is a love of trees before they grow

But as long as I linger in their shadows

All I feel is the ache of dying

From never having lived

Where do we go when we forget to be who we are?

When will we get the chance to remember

And feel the pleasure in remembering?

When will the birds and bees leave me alone?

Damn you nostalgia filled clickity clocks!

I hate your stupid futility!