Two parts one

I left you back with my other body

The great shade between

Here I am speaking to a great nothing

While something sings to my ear, come

Back to what is away

To there, where you have me, my

body is, inside of your mind is

Inside of mine

On my mind

All my mind

All my all

And yet

Here

I 

Am

Night crying

Real Tears are

So heavy whether

For joy or

Pain

They always repair

They always

Matter

Child rules

The most wonderous glory

That it is 

to have a child

comes from

The reflection of who you are

Untethered, unfiltered

One cannot turn away

They are

you 

Unchained

Ready

Note: This was published in the MATC magazine the Phoenix along with a few others of mine. Here is the link. http://matcphoenix.com/2010/10/18/ready/
and a few others of mine http://matcphoenix.com/?s=Nicholas+whitehead


Poised and ready,
He stood on the back of the couch,
Quite high when you take into account
The boy is only two.

But he is ready:
He’s had two whole years to practice.
As I walk into the room and see him,
He leaps.

A smile wraps up his face,
His eyes wide and aware.
I cannot be swift enough
To stop him or even hope to catch him,

But as I said
He was ready,
Born that way in fact.
Doc said it was quite strange but indeed true.

With such grace I might never see again,
Smooth as an Olympic gymnast
His feet find the floor
And he dashes into the kitchen.
For one second
My heart beat a thousand times,
No, a million
And wore itself out.

My boy
I can only hope
That the day you run short of ground
You have grown wings.

Built the Sky

It's about time
I lived inside time with
road rashed skin
bone and and flesh
left along the road of so
many times I forgot
the future is the wind
the suture is
a hand held
by a daughter
who thinks her father
built the sky

No Poem

I have not written a poem

I have not printed it, sold it, been sold by it

there has not been ink spilled in glory’s name

there have been no profound insights

         important distinctions or favorable descriptions

I have not been changed by this poem

         That I did not write

there were no new outlooks or dreams made clear

I have not danced with this poem

there are no beat words, no flowing of sublime reality

         nothing to hold on to

you never read this poem, I assure you

there were no comparisons to dead men’s ranting

         dead as this poem is

you are not reborn through my words

you, my friend, are exactly

                           the same

same as the dirt you forget or the iron that does not

         compose your will

same as same loves and has no name

there never was a poem

there have been no self songs, no fire or ice, no Grecian urns

no samurai who sing, no diamonds, no chimneys swept, no gods

no conversations about death

                          there are none

I am NOT better off, I am NOT a better man

there is nothing to ponder

there is no paradise

my 2 + 2 is still 4

I am still…

I have not written a poem

I have not written this poem

There is no poem

Spark

I know of a fantastical creature

A being of some kind of mad sun 

Joy futures place

This being is named 

quite perfectly

Spark

spark is the first and only

To hold the beginning: the moment

Spark is the type to flitter about

Swimming inside those 

Who want something

Spark is the type to have grand eyes

Wandering the thoughts that seek 

And those who want magic

spark has been hidden

Washed in empty black space

And yet a tickle of light 

Whispers purpose

But spark has spent the better 

Part of forever 

Swimming in pitch tar 

Confusion

Spark had friends, oh they had

Glorious fun, sleeping on the Atlantic shelf

Wandering the core of hydrogen and helium

Visiting the beauty of synapse

Now spark is trapped, holed up

Imprisioned, spark 

Is slipping into the past

And you are the savior

Will you open up

The thousand year door

It is no match for 

Your secret strength

will you know 

Spark, will spark 

Be safe inside you

Now

That you

Have a voice

Scents Memory

For a long time now I have hated the smell of nail polish. There is no specific reason why I hate the smell, or at least not in any way that relates to painted nails. You see the smell reminds me of hospitals, and really one particular hospital and one particular experience. A defining one. The kind of experience that links itself to an certain kind of smell.

I have always found myself attaching memory to scent. I am sure there is some scientific legitimacy to this idea. I cannot say, and finding out is not the point of whatever this is. For my own story, every single event that has made the person penning this, has been indelibly attached to a smell. Like wood or gasoline or nail polish.

This is one of many examples.

When I was 15 years old I was angry. That sounds quite cliche I know, but it is the only I know to describe my problem. I wanted and longed for something. Maybe it was affection from others or some sense of reason or purpose. Either way, it made me hate all that I saw in the mirror. I had those in my life that would care for me, but it was not enough, and so I was certain I must take my own life. I was sure that if I was dead or had almost died then people would really care, not just care out of obligation. How truly awful is that? I used suicide to try and make the people did actually care, care more. I have no way to really explain why I did this.

My first love came to me at this time, and maybe that is why I was such a mess. I had never really known how mysterious and beautiful a woman could be. How like trying to hold water they could be. Up till now women were mom, sister and the other. Andrea tore open my chest and left me vulnerable, and I loved every moment. We spoke as much as possible, and spent all our time together. Her parents hated me, and as a parent I am sure would have felt the same. I was a wreck in all the ways a parent fears the most. But I loved her and she loved me. It no small way my love for her was also because she was the first girl who let me touch her. Not my first kiss though, but my first body buzz. You know that sense of warmth and confusion that only learning sexuality can explain. She was all I wanted all the time. How foolish it all sounds now.

I would never love like this again. There was just no way it could be possible. Life must be all down hill at this point. So I took a bottle of prescription strength Tylenol to seal it up. I would entomb my love and it would last forever. Doesn't that sound so romantic? It should, because it is a lie. Many things that are romantic are 40 percent lie. Look it up.

I took the pills because the anger said to do it. So I did, and later on did it again. This time it was around 9 pm. How odd I should be so sure of the time? I had been sleeping and I remember looking at the clock. I have often reflected on the possibility of it being something in my dream that drove me, but it is to fuzzy to know.

So I took them, and when I did I was so sure of the need to do it. It felt good to really control something. My life, the most important thing, was under my control so I would exert that control. I felt power.

Then when my mom came home and I looked into her tired eyes, I knew I had done something horrible. I also became distinctly aware that I would do it again. So I told her what I had done but not the truth of what my intention was. I told her I had a stomach ache and took too many. I was in a considerable amount of pain at this point, and begged her to drive me to the hospital. The closest hospital was several miles over in the next town, along the way I confessed my true intention of suicide. Only I was not really sure what that meant, so I just said I wanted to stop the pain. The absurdity of wanting to stop pain with further pain seems woven into the human condition. We fight wars to save lives. So I confessed that I just wanted it all to stop, and I took pills to do it.

She immediately began to cry and feverishly ask why I had done it. Why did I want to die? I said I did not want to die, I just wanted it all to stop. I wanted to stop being angry all the time. Living inside of such frustrated confusion was too much for my young heart. If only I had spoken those very words to her then, she might have understood. As it was all I could do was cry and repeat how I just wanted it to all stop. I am sure she never understood. It is my mind and it has taken twenty years to understand it myself.

She rushed me to the emergency room. From here the memory becomes quite blurry. I remember they tried to get me to drink charcoal which would absorb the Tylenol. In case you are wondering drinking charcoal is exactly as awful as it sounds. You are consuming a liquefied charcoal substance. To this day I can taste it. Each time I would try to drink it I would throw up. Each time I threw up my mother would cry. And with each cry I could feel my shame consume my everything. I remember vomiting so many times that at the end I passed out from exhaustion.

The next time I woke up I was being given some kind of clear liquid medication. It was early morning and a nurse was coaxing me awake to take my medication. The nurse had glasses and gave me a concerned mother look. She looked middle age with blond hair. With a mothers tongue she told me I had to finish the whole container, or I would have to get charcoal again. I finished the medicine without hesitation. Why should I recall this nurse I cannot say. I never saw her again for the three days I was at the hospital under observation, which really means suicide watch. The one thing that sticks out most of all was the powerful scent of nail polish. Before my eyes had opened I could smell it. Possibly the nurse had just painted her nails. That is the only explanation I can think of and should not care to find another. What I will say is that I will always have an instant link to that place in my time. By choice or not I go there every time my wife paints her nails.

When you are young it seems like you can feel the entire world all at once. Even as your every action may be truly selfish.

For every memory that fills my story
there is a smell
an odor that will
forever link my present
bridged through the mind
into the forever that is my past

The scents of memory
tickles my nose
whispers into my ears
do no forget

this is who you are

Relaunch

The night was written

I was late to arrive
And there were so many people
Not much air to share
Breathing in each
Others self consciousness
I found the poet
I envy
but respect, he
Has his gears oiled
I find the first ATM
Ever constructed and get
Whiskey, and then more
In the crowd of friends
And fools
I touch
A greeting
My favorite ginger
hugs me while
Ordering a drink
She is not the mess
She was
They call out numbers and
The readings are impossible
To hear, but I put on
My interested face
I smile as poets and
Essayist's wax romantic
Screaming to be heard
Above the crowd
Captain suit coat was
Missing, but queen
Of the spectacles was
All the voice that was needed
She soothed
Like the poet I envy in song

I speak to those
I will never know
Never laugh with
There is a man who asks
About the Victorians
And I bitch about Tennyson
And old man Fischer

I feel old here
But I am not
I feel the white noise
Of people loving youth
And possibility
But I do not touch it

I know you all
I know you all

I love you all

Home is waiting
Home is waiting

Basement

       

Brick Shelf

      In my basement there is a shelf against the north wall. It is constructed of cinder blocks and wood planks. This shelf has been in my last four residences. It has moved with me every time I have moved, and was at one point much larger. I store my art supplies on this shelf and even a good amount of books, before it was paired down. There are various paints, usually primary colors, charcoal pencils, paint brushes, pastels, both oil and chalk, paper, pens, pencils and one unintentional artist book. (I will get to that later) Lately when I go down to the basement I don't even think about this shelf. I should.

This shelf is filled with reminders, and almost all of them lead back to my divorce with painting. Maybe it's just a trial separation, but we have not been talking lately. So I have been avoiding this shelf for some time. It's as though we are awkward friends who have had a falling out, but we still run into each other every once in a while. You have to try and think of something to say, but it never feels right, so you find yourself avoiding that place. Then you feel guilty about avoiding. Today I do not feel this way.

     Basements love covering your memories with dust and dirt. The wood of my favorite brushes is warm when I hold them, even though it is always cold down here. When I finger the charcoal pencils I am reminded of my favorite medium: Black, white and all the wonderful shades of grey, always so beautiful to me. 

Painting stairs

I.

These stairs are dangerous. They lead into the basement of our home, and I never quite get used to how dangerous they really are. Our house is so old. On the real estate listing it just said 120 + years for the age of the house. Somehow, this made it more appealing to me. Whoever had bought the house before us had tried, with mild success, to remodel. I gather they had wanted to flip the house, but had to give in and sell it for a loss. I say this because the basement looks like they had started but never finished reworking it. Walls are unfinished and the stairs are one heavy foot fall short of collapse.

      When we first moved in, my father in law had put in a railing so the stairs were slightly less dangerous. We still do not let Olive or Ronin go down there, well, never Olive anyway. The basement is what we keep hidden in the basement. We rarely bring anyone down there. If someone ends up in our little pit of despair then they are usually drunk or in the process. This is ironic as no person, let alone one intoxicated, should traverse those rickety bones. And somehow they are my bones.

      Whenever I go into the basement I am going into my psyche. Flashes of my life events become basement lights. They are turned on so I can change the laundry. The floor is unfinished; covered with dust and dirt.

It floods every time it rains and we keep our distance till the memory subsides. Here it is always cold.

II.

I feel some shame for keeping my paintings all wrapped up in this dungeon. They are bound together and set aside. Huddled like the masses, waiting to be wanted. There was a time I felt an intense love for them. Now they are the prisoner of my basement. Erin only loves some of them. The paintings know it, so they understand why they are in the basement. It is not fair to Erin that I speak this way.

Ego was hung up on every wall of every one of my previous homes. I was sure my work was breaking the mold, changing the game and unflinching in mastery. How could I have not known how foolish I was? I still love these painting. From time to time I will go to the dungeon and feed them with attention. My little hunchback babies, chained to this dank remembrance. Hidden away.

Erin doesn't actually dislike my work. I think I am the one who really does. Maybe I just wanted more people to think they were wonderful. Some people did, but they were usually high. Erin keeps me grounded. I still have a painting hung up in my dining room. It is not my favorite.

Drivers License

I.

  

On my basement shelf as I am rummaging through my art supplies, I come across an old id and two drivers licenses. At first I am not sure why I have these. Then I am reminded that at one point I had the intention to catalog my aging. What an odd thing to do.

     The most striking of the three is the first drivers license. This is not due to the image of a clearly handsome man, but do to the date of issue. I did not get my drivers license until I was twenty two. While in high school I liked to drink, a lot. This was among several of my other extracurricular activities. Being young and enjoying the drink often leads to the law telling you that you are not allowed to enjoy the drink. I got several underage drinking fines. The total was somewhere around $1200.

      It is interesting, how you cannot truly notice the passage of time until after it has passed. Had I understood how much these fines would affect my later life, I might have been more cautious in my drinking. And yet I can also be quite certain I still would have not given a shit. It was hard for me to care about anything but my own immediate gratification then. 

When Serena first had Ronin we moved into a nice duplex and tried the whole family thing. It was such a nice place. I got a new job, and things began to look up as they often do. Soon after, the calls began. Money was owed from my transgressions. Willfully I had chosen to ignore these calls from collectors, so they did what they do. My wages were garnished. I remember Serena showing up to my work crying about how much money was being taken from us. We wanted to hate everyone but we knew it was my fault.

Things became very hard for us for a long time. Eventually we were broken just before the debt was paid. I can now say that this was when I knew I had a divorce in my future. Is this why I kept these drivers licenses, to be reminded? I still have them. Hindsight is a cruel thing. Money is worse.

Oz Cup

When you work in a call center for a cable company you are often inundated with useless trinkets. They hand you shiny bobbles and posters, and little puzzles with famous people on them. All of it is essentially garbage. I have however kept a few mementos. One of them is a tin cup with a logo for the former HBO show Oz. It is approximately four inches tall and has a diameter of about three inches. I use it to store all of my useless pens and highlighters, as well as my charcoal and regular pencils.

       I separated from Serena and later on met Erin while working in this call center. It is interesting how much change can be linked to one location. My life changed for the better in getting the job, for the worse when Serena left me and then when I met Erin, well what can I say? We are still married. This was all over the course of three years which feels like both a short, and long time.

      When I first met Erin she was outside smoking as I walked into the call center. She was chatting it up with one of my local female ambivalent acquaintances. As I came upon them I mentioned to her that I liked her scarf, Erin that is, and she thanked me as I beeped myself into the security door.

                            Intermission

I am struck by the number of highlighters I have. I laugh at the fact that most do not even work, due to use, and I have not thrown them away. It must be because I once turned a college notebook into an artist book, with the highlighter as my main tool, and several blue/black office pens as my secondary tools. Working in a call center in my mid twenties lead to more than one of these little books. I only kept one. Sometimes I will flip through it, but it usually makes me feel old.

      The last time I paid any real attention to my art supplies was almost a year ago. I was commissioned by a friend to paint a picture for auction at the opening of a play at The Alchemist Theater. It had gotten one bid that turned out to be false. It was apparently submitted by a man who later had a nervous breakdown and was removed from the theater.

I never picked up the painting from the theater and they actually have several of my pieces. One hangs in the main lobby/bar. It is of my ex. It used to hang in my apartment until I realized how much I loved Erin, and it needed to go. It has been some time since I have been to the Alchemist, so it may not be displayed anymore. If you see it you will know it by the woman floating out to sea on a red couch. Just like my ex she is always out of reach. I knew then, when I painted it.

                                  Oz Cup (more) 

Later on after we had started seeing each other, Erin told me her friend had told her not to talk to me. Had she known Erin at all, she would have known this would have the opposite effect.

      Now looking at this simple tin cup I am inundated with so much memory about Erin and our courtship. We had both come out tumultuous relationships, and were not ready for the love we both felt so immediately. Even up to the point after we had moved in together, we refused to admit we were a couple. Then I asked her to marry me, this was almost a year and a half before I actually proposed to her.

Now I look at this tin cup and it is a bit dusty, but still very functional. I wipe off the dust and it looks new. It shines. I should bring it upstairs and use it again.

Tuss King

A molecule will dance

Upon me, turning my

Eyes sideways-inside

I loved you, friend

I cried a single tear

When I knew you

It was I who taught

You about humanity

And failed 

Savage ( third, very extensive revision )

savage is a good word
                 a beastly word

it does what it wants to

some words are lazy

like procrastinate or 

                           guess

but savage…

now that’s a word with      teeth

lions and sharks are savage

a wild eyed              mountain man

is savage

reality – savage

             savage is a machinist 

bending steel

             savage is the sun's core

roaring

in a grand fusion

savage is      savage

it's a good word

it moves with purpose

savage hunts down    other    words

consuming them

while some British personality narrates

Work-shopping

I love the sound of shuffling paper…

a search fruitless and loved

who wants to go first

sounds that you found

play with the form.

curious about the process…

strong, experimental, needs work…

The rhyme is deadly.

Fucking punctuation Nazis!

I might not be reading it close enough

in defense of the dashes

Tom and Jerry escapade

you have some real joys in it

random spurts of information

interesting and terrifying

it needs work – arrogant

see, no capitals

The ending needs work

I love the ending

I wanted more…

don’t change a thing

I think there is a missed opportunity here…

I would always keep in mind that…

Blueberries ( Third, ever so slight, Revision )

Blueberries

Spring

Breezing around

 a slight chill being won over to sun

Olive and I share blueberries

she loves

they burst

she smiles

the constancy of children’s happiness

they say blueberries grow brain cells in the pre-frontal cortex

gifting the ability

to learn

and memory

the power of the blueberry

Am I teaching Olive to remember?

Will this shared happiness support her in the savage days of puberty?

The malaise of adulthood?

Will she crave blueberry pancakes?

the season forces my hand

the blueberries scatter across the earth

returning me to her eyes

her perfect ringlets made translucent by sun

the futility of holding on

to anything

she runs off into the yard

the wind stealing her laughter

Late Spring

snowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowgreensnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnow

Uneven sun

skyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskysunskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskyskysky

Concerning The Body

First comes the fantastic electrical system

followed by...
Ladies and gentlemen...

The Bones.

The eye bone is
connected to the Pollock
bone
the insane alcoholic bone
is connected to the Isaac Brock
bone
the 3rd Planet
bone
is connected to the Dostoyevsky
bone, the concious man
bone is connected to the
Ghandi bone, the
alteration of the thought process of mankind
bone
is connected to the Michaelangelo bone
the smooth porceline bum
bone
the you bone
is connected to the laughing bone
is connected to the joy bone
is connected to the yearning bone
is connected to the some kind of action hero bone
is connected
to the me bone
the every
single
thing
bone

And now...
The Empty Gestures

Green Wall

The tree family
Occupying my yard
Calling themselves a wall
To the west
Demand attention
They drink the soil sun
Attack the garage
Reach for the power
Lines, they will cut
Off the links to media
Threatening
to tear me from them
Them from us

Concerning The Ghost

There is a ghost memory with many arms and eyes singing reason to the wrinkles in my hypothalamus are growing heads of lettuce go until they be a massive massacre of bolts on savory finger steaks of blood phantoms and book ends unto themselves the million minds dig us a nice grave of pyramid schemes? Scanning the filters of ugly Hawaiian shirts made of TV movies and gameshow hosts of virus ballroom dancing along the ocean brain. What a fine skeleton we all sleep with. What a fine summer nightmare.

Concerning The Mind

There is certainly a master
of joy robotics in a clan-
destined major metropicalis
of facilitated quantum egregious
matter smashers

However, one might not live forever enough to slip the noose around the heliocentric magnetism.

Thus, an electron has
enough friends to sleep in
The Void: The Expanding
Synapse: The Magnet is silent

The crime is the amorous knives of the iris singing the death of a mute voice.

Oulipo

The word plays in the mouth
It dances with the tongue
Slipping around the vocal chords
Racing back up the spine
Up and out
Up and out
Racing back up the spine
Slipping around the vocal chords
It dances with the tongue
The word plays in the mouth

Fatherhood + 1

Erin convinced me
To let Ronin run
With the boys, the wolf pack
And have fun: FREEDOM
One more night

Just let him
He needs it
it was the second
night of a sleepover
and I said NO, you must
study, study and be better than

But Erin finds my tenderness
He never gets to see
his friends

I submit

If only I could
throw off this cantankerous
personality and just
let
the
boy
be
a boy

Erin does me a great justice
softening
my callous hand

She is my better
my reason
my conclusion

Men of Reason

One must remember
That with every steel chamber
Every broken mind filled
With rage and mist

There is another
man of parts who

Is living every day with purpose
Trying, wanting to
There is a mother
A son, a something slightly
More
All the possible good is happening now

The sensation of arguments
Can you hear them?
Every piercing story
Rides alongside one of joy

Do you hear them?

Avalanche

matter scatters
matter sca tter s
matt er scatt er s
mat ter sc at te rs
ma tter sc at ter s
mat ter s c at t ers
m a t t er scat te rs
m a t t e r s c a t t e r s
m  a  t  t  e  r  s  c  a  t  t  e  r  s
m   a   t   t   e   r   s   c   a   t   t   e   r   s
m   a   t   t   e   r   s   c   a   t   t   e   r   s

Ami or Dust

Every once
in a moment
inside a thousand
Matt ( an ally )
will link up, with text
and a subtle, "hey"
"You still breath yet"
"I do"
"I miss you buddy"
"Ya, times are full"
"Yes they are"

It feels years removed
and still near as the voice
in my head.

Is he the hand of war
made sun?
Is he the choice of years
over moments?
What is a an ally, a partner
in crime, a voice of
hope and nonsense?
What is a stone soul
hero?
Can a man know?
Can he be what
Is needed most?

I could call or should.

We have a madness
of technological wonders.
Yet we only speak
when I can hug him
and shake his hand.

Your Skin

The thread is
Through me, through you
Weaving beauty with pain
My skin warm as a blanket
Sings your name, sewn into
My skin, your skin
Into and within

This house
Is so empty
Tonight

Star Mind

There is a very impossible reason I might have to move to the inner mind again. In the far, far past I had to fly a way to live within my certain mind, but now I have been left with only my impossible reason. Sleep.

Before all this came to shine I was a member of a reason impregnation. I had been second father to a star son. The joy I felt in knowing that I could be half beautiful was far more than I could cry for. It was a son who made me a father sublime.

How could I have known the thousand ways a bird flies? No one could eat such powerfull nonsense. Now it is important to make a distinction between no sense and nonsense. You see nonsense is the lack of a wound within the moment and no sense is the place where hope goes to die. Even though I was a victim of all the monsters of logic I never lived hopeless as a fish. But.
                                                           I can swim. I can drown. I can sleep the sea. I can the ocean be.

So to be begin again for in begininng one must die the day. It was, as I had mentioned, made to take the impossible journey into the within. My man soul giver had come to sing the words to me. Words were spoken with blurry false eyes about how the man soul did not know what I would do. I tried to tell him that the sun always has a face as long as you look for it, but he was so within his mind despair to hold onto even one second.

I told him he had made me stone and steel, and I could not do him less than honor. Many give up the demon and many live to become the dragon, but some they fall into the ego. The ego mirror is poison to the art of beauty. I know beauty hands. You burned the knowledge into me. I tried to sing these songs to my man soul giver but it was all waves on the ocean.

The link of sun life is always a dream. This is the king of truth when two such magnets come into each others force.

"Be free of my soul"
"I am free because of your soul" The words made a statue out of stone.

My star mind was glowing with savage purpose.

You are Made of The Universe

You are made of star stuff
are you stars
made of stuff
you are star made
of stuff
star stuff you
are made of
star made of you stuff
are you made stuff
of star

You

are experiencing
itself
the universe
experiencing itself
you are itself experiencing
the universe
you are experiencing
itself the universe
the itself universe
you are experiencing
are you the universe
experiencing itself
You are the universe experiencing itself

Remember to Remember

I am not sure if I remember how to remember.
I am so good at forgetting how things go and such
is the way of a man who chooses the blind eyes
as a way to remember that forgetting is the only way.

I am so good at forgetting how things go and change
the way you must look upon life. I burn the memory
as a way to remember that forgetting it the only way
to cut out the massive tumor, or should I ignore?

The best way to look upon life is to burn the memory
of your father who taught you how to yell and paint
but not to cut out the massive tumor that cannot be ignored
any longer. I remember when we went to the ocean.

You do know your father was a painter and he knew
about beauty. I remember how he used to laugh when
we went to the ocean. The memory is salty with forgetting
how to burn it all. In the mirror he smiles at me.

Beauty must live with regret, remember how I used to laugh?
Look at this foolish man who chooses the blind eyes.
In the mirror he smiles at me but it all burns away.
I am not sure if I remember how to remember.

shitty napkin poem

take a look
at this awful non-
sense here
I wrote a poem
a terrible poem
on a god
damn
napkin
I must think I
am some kind of poet to
do something so pre-
tentious
The words are convoluted
the rhyme = zero
no meter to speak of
just a fools excuse
for wasting 50 thousands dollars

"look a ship of wide
birth, moving among
an ocean of faces expres-
sions of confused awe, see
a great blustering wonder
harsh air constricted
moves on slowly
and with reason
as it is, knows you
move in fear"

HA!

Ice Night

The night finds you listening to awful music
Look at this mess of things, garbage
Every nook
A ghost at the wheel

So then

A fucking word of advice

Don't ride the pitch horse slick
Like a black hole
Of ice, and risk an evening dream

Slow, slow, slow
I can't see anything
But I am not in this moment

Fun to die
For reasons sake
A thought takes you

I am losing control

SLIDE

Where have I been?

Social Ruin

I found myself on the wrong side of fucked it up
my hand thought you wanted me to be slick
hindsight is such a cruel bitch queen

I remember when I fell into your naked arms
with too much to drink and the joy of mistakes
I found myself on the wrong side of fucked it up

There was the time I puked Robitussin alarm-
ing you with my use love of the hallucinogenic 
hindsight is such a cruel bitch queen

You can be sure I won't forget being the the joke
of the day, beaten to a pulp with boots and words
I found myself on the wrong side of fucked it up

It's not so much the shame and regret
as much as it is the absolute shame and regret
hindsight is such a cruel bitch queen

Every night a thousand events of social ruin come to play
what in the holy hell did I think I could or should do?
hindsight is such a cruel bitch queen
I found myself on the wrong side of fucked it up

Ancient Times

Beauty lives with death, but not

For life, she died today, again

Do not live inside your hate

Three days gone before I had known

How to deal a blow to the estranged

Beauty lives with death but not…

Like a summer sun tattooed upon your home

We tried to run with a jar of golden pennies

Do not live inside your hate

Two brothers lived through it alone

But now a door has been closed

Beauty lives with death but not…

In a way that must be known

You will have your hate to have it end

Do not live inside your hate

Can I lift this weight; this stone

Two fathers found purpose in sons, and now?

Beauty lives with death but not

For you to live inside your hate

I was a ROBOT

The arc of pure light is blinding

It was a message all in binary perfection

I didn’t know I was in the machine

Those files they die too, the hard-

drive can be erased by gears and suction

The arc of pure light is blinding

You were buried, fragmented inside

I hated the way you programmed your son

I didn’t know I was from the machine

Three days dead a father told one boy

Not the other good son, not the automaton

The beauty of pure light is blinding

My brother told me my hate had died

The text was so much; it burned my iron skin

I did not know I was a machine

Opened to the light, the memories dance

If she died must my hate die? Will I speak with him?

The arc of pure light is blinding

I am still, with curious hope, part machine

Ambivalent Regret

I

My grandmother died today or
should
I
say
She died three days before I
had known my
sister and brother knew before
and were sure I would not want
to know or would not care: I hated her

or

I thought I hated her

When we were so young the sky
was still magic, we survived a summer
within her angry house
my fathers angry
childhood home become mine
for a while, we
my brother and I, well
It is sort of a blur now, the son
blurs the events

II

I remember too many days of rain
I remember stealing a million pennies and cookies
I remember the morning dew soaking our feet
I remember Anthony crying and looking hard at his savior
I remember wanting to be able to save us
I remember how hard the cars shook our earth
I remember the dead wolf howling, warning us

I remember that no one knew we
were gone, they just knew we has stolen
the pennies, so they tore apart our space, and found
nothing, we tossed the pennies on the side of the road
to save our skin

III

If I told my father what would he say?
if I was speak to him again
after
years of estrangement, would he
listen?

what now then, what
now
then

If my hate for grandmother, has died
has a part of me died?

I think I
must speak with my father
I must speak with my father
Will I speak with my father?

Dogs of the Bone

When I was born a pup to a clan of family dogs
They loved with a harsh hand: True family dogs

My brothers were pit bulls, hating the cage
my sister: no queen, running with the family dogs

I lived everywhere, moving, always running
to a strange land, a land without family dogs

The city loves a stray, wait that is hate I think
so went the days of pretend, longing for family dogs

Drink from the illusion, smoke the good intentions
sleep in the alley, know freedom, forgotten family dogs

Every home needs a dog and every bone needs a friend
I want to go home; smell your hand, live as a family dog

As I ran to my false utopia, so I ran back home
vulgar,imperfect, always kind and fierce family dogs

I will build a castle to call my own, but not be a king
have my pups, settle my mind, live as a family dog

More Grace

This mirrored face and glazed eyes are in prison held
With a heart that sees only the scars of an aged tree
And the muck of regret in battle raged form I can tell
This is what I build for my goodness but I cannot see
There is a man of parts an endless heart who is free
To make the wrong as much as the right move upon sky
And sea. But the reflected fool a wizard might be
If his hands would live with his hopes and not wonder why.
And here look at this safe place, here I can have a word to sell
This wife of the universe has many a heart to give
She saw me with more than pupil, as an equal unknown
She saw clay and a way to be the great David of art, to tell
A story; my tales of my two cities. I was to be shown
How I could love the father me and the part I own

With Grace

As any man who in our world does long
for art might see in the mirror a man
of parts, I see  the muck and mud song
the ageing dying leather bound face and
hands broken, bleeding, calous. My wrong
mindedness is oft too sharp for kind hand.
I know everything and nothing, my brawn
is massive but lame in function. I modern man.
Yet somehow, against all cause, her love
matures, she who can sense that which I refuse
or cannot see. Where I see mud she sees clay.
Where I see a man broken by time and abuse
she sees a heart worthy and true. Every day
as wife, mother and queen of endless grace

of Pi

cherry love.
have
some, banana
cream
won't you, come on dig
in to the deep chocolate airy good-
-ness, yes!
here comes the key lime; smile.
taste the neon tart
so very green
oh, but the apple
will not be out done, savor it
pecan sweet goodness, crunchy comforts
delicious perfect circle

Empty Space

Words are dancing
Hands chanting, the
Shattered matter
Landing on paper, here
There is a super nova
Greater than an atom
Speaking in the vast
Void
An atom occupies, it's
Own universe and defines
The motion of word
And wave
For quarks and top
Quarks as quantum poetry

I am learning

Faster falling
Into the center

Here there is change
In the crumbling stone
You can smell it, see
It, it will consume you
The hurricane, the
Angry roots
They wither
And so do you, but
It does breath
The part of you learning
It dies, it lives

Ask

Am I the storm, the eruption
the super nova

The wind living
Am I dust or mountain?

Do not expect an answer.

space field

when we ran as fast as we knew we could down this forever road
it was all so very like a vacuum of thought, we knew
that as robots we would be immeasurably powerful and gracious
we would be hero's living off the land and space aliens
flying into the sun as the gravitational pull on our ship becomes too
much and our eyes burn out
just before we are incinerated

a mess of things

matter s cat ters
this is
how
a bag of candy, canes
was bagged up by a child
in paper for sale christ
mess
too sweet for
my tastes
these brittle hooks
red and
white, little fingers
hers there
here
where
baby mole-
cules
matt
er
scatt
ers
scatters  s   c   a  tter   s

Red Giant (Quartet of sonnets)

eight billion years

a difficult measure of time

to hold.  it is known within

the astronomy community, this is how long

it will take for the sun to kill itself.

certainty comes within this instant

it will be fantastic and magnetic. the grand inferno

of galactic fury indescribable in intensity and

magnitude, all that is our corner of infinity is at once dust

becoming space and other stars will be born. in the final

hours this deity of our past will decimate all that was once

holy. pulsating, growing in wrath it will

incinerate those who knew what time meant. a red fusion

of helium and hydrogen seen across the universe

a red fusion filled with hydrogen minerals is

the face of every single day, comforted by

the sun. when the sun greets us with an out

ward stretched flair will there be man to scream?

I watch how this will all unfold with comfort in

the years being numbered. do you know their

are only 8 billion left? how many people rebel against

the notion of time ending? I watch across the screen

this red and yellow wave length, it is warm, filled with

the kind of comfort only matched by a hand

slowly wrapping around your throat. there is just

enough time left for us to look at each other

for each of us to look at each other

confused about how we sacrificed children and cows

and nailed each tree to each others, we built stone every

things to erect ourselves, we put it all on a Grecian

urn and threw paint and words at a notion, we racked our

selves. we who held out our hands and remembered to be

forgiven for wanting. the masters painted us art

and we see great torture. Bukowski knew

it was all shit. so much lifted out of our mind and left too

long in the sun. great men live and die to be generous

gods. and the TV reminds me, we

only have eight billion

chances to get a diamond day.

what is the nature of god’s need?

what is the nature of mans need?

eight billion years is

a difficult measure of time

to hold.  it is known within

a red fusion filled with hydrogen that a mineral

is the face of every single day, comforted by

the sun. when the sun greets us with words

for each of us confused about how

we sacrificed children and cows

and nailed each tree to each others, built stone with

every moment and it only took

eight billion faces to call years to this very

instant and remind you. the sun is always ready

the sun is always ready. the sun is always waiting