Shadow of Ash07-22-08

October 7, 2008  :: 0 comments

Everything you do effects me.
You are the butterfly
to my causality.

Your eyelids open up

Your horizons are
my periphery.

Your voice , in synapse
a chorus of spheres.

The sub-atomic thought moments
that make you
feel alive.

Now inserted
and intertwined
in-between mine.

You are blindingly beautiful
as you explode in time.

I am a
shadow of ash
left behind.

Grande Soul Mate Drip

October 7, 2008  :: 0 comments

You are like
a Starbucks Grande coffee,
in my soul.

You fill me up with this
dark hot
kick it in the ass coffee.
There is no room for anything
or anyone else in this cup.

I can’t drink anyone or anything else.
And no one or nothing else can drink me.
Our souls are married and bonded
and everyone and everything else
drops away
when we are together,
causing ripples of
friction, jealousy, resentment
and all manner of stupid madness
in all kinds of people everywhere near
for some pretty much inexplicable reason.

I don’t really care I suppose
only problem being,
when you fill the Grande Starbucks cup
of my soul
with your burning goodness
you leave room
for cream and sugar.
and you’ve never added the cream and sugar
and I won’t drink it without
because it’s too strong
and frankly a little bitter.

You keep handing me the filled up cup
over and over
saying c’mon drink it.
But I won’t.
And you get pissy saying
I keep pouring you this awesome
goddam coffee
into your Grande Soul,
just shut up and drink it
and I keep saying
No, I drink my coffee with cream and sugar,
you leave enough room for it
there in the cup
just enough
and it’s not like
as long as you keep filling my
Grande cup up
over and over
I could actually get any
anywhere else
the way I need it.

So there I am,
best god dam coffee in town
in my life,
hands down
a bottomless cup
you keep refilling
dark, bitter, and
and although I love the shit
out of some coffee
It’s something
I can’t drink
so I have
no coffee at all.

Or maybe being up
all night with you
just makes me think up
some ridiculous shit
in the morning
before leaving the house
to get a cup.


September 29, 2008  :: 0 comments

In the building, up the elevator, at my desk.
I hit enter to start the computer.
The screen to log onto the network pops up.
It says “Password expires in 2 days,
do you wish to change it now?”

I choose yes.
I type “GOODBYE0728!”, and verify it.
There are only so many characters one can use,
or I might have typed in;

Or perhaps;
Or possibly;
Or maybe even;

Or go crazy with something like;
But no,
there are only so many characters one can use.
SO I settle for GOODBYE, with the date.
Then after a while, that will expire
and she will still be gone.
and I will want to type;
“STILL MISSING YOU” with that days date.
But that will likely be too long as well.
So I’ll settle for;
and that will be that.


September 29, 2008  :: 0 comments

The agony of love,
how terrible it is.

The pain of truly being alive.

Troubadour suffering,
denied sight of the beloved.

Empty silent nights.

Every aspect
pounds and rushes.

through the entire body.

Wildfire memory.

A sweet pain in
every terrible breath.


September 29, 2008  :: 0 comments

I was outside
on the patio doing bench press
surrounded by
flowers and bushes and trees.

I’d finished a set
then sat up to rest for a moment.

Directly in front of me was a
I could see it clearly.
It’s frantic wings
darting from place to place
flower to flower
taking what it needs to survive.

It seemed like time stopped
as I, and this beautiful thing
existed together
in a frozen moment.

It was beautiful.
The kind of beauty
that lingers

it was gone.

I went back to my bench,
but I was different
than before.

It reminded me
of you.

On Fire

September 28, 2008  :: 0 comments

you’re on fire
you’re on fire
you’re on fire
everything about you is on fire.

your eyes are on fire
your eye lashes are on fire
the tiny edges at the corners of your smile
are on fire.
your lips are on fire
you hips are on fire
all the lines that come together in-between
to create this amazing being
are on fire.

your heart is on fire
your soul is on fire
your mind is on fire
your voice is on fire
your words are on fire.
the feelings you feel and
the thoughts that you think, are on fire.
your laughter is on fire,
especially your laughter is on fire.

your dreams are on fire.
the compassion of your actions is on fire
the places where you get occasionally lost
inside your hopes and memories of the past,
are on fire
everything inside you is on fire.

the air that surrounds and slides around
your burning form when you move through it
is one fire.
the infinitesimal empty spaces burning with desire
that come together to create the matter
which manifest your form and being
are on fire.

you’re on fire
you’re on fire
and when you look at me
and when you speak to me
and when I look close at you
and when I listen close to you
and when I feel close to you
and when you open your heart
for tiny fleeting brief moments to me
I am on fire. I am on fire,
and it’s your fire
and it doesn’t go out.
It burns.

you’re on fire
you’re on fire
you’re on fire.

It Is What It Is

September 28, 2008  :: 0 comments

I prefer that feeling.
That dried up feeling.
That spent feeling.
That empty feeling.
I dig it,
dig it hard,
when people are the worst to me.
The cruelest.
The most unkind.
I like it best when I
know it’s coming
like a familiar tune
like train cars
like regret.
I like it most when
I stick it out there
and am foolish
and it gets cut off with lazer precision.
I like it this way
because it’s comfortable
fucked up
I don’t like it when there’s attachment,
like quicksand,
like chattering laughter
like clouds.
I don’t like it when it seems like
a corner might turn
like time is a top hat
like Santa Elves and Easter Rabbits.
I hate it when the asphalt
slides away like cotton candy.
When sweet dreams spill over into
dark afternoons and solitude.
I hate it most when nothing
pretends in my mind
to be something.
When bees sting
and rain dances like a bugles mourn.
I hate it most when I care about anything
or anyone
or anywhere.
When days run away and
fingers snap like bowling pins.
I love it when
I fuck it all up.
When I’m blank tablet.
When there is no one.
When bells ring
iron bars clang
and words dance on paper.
I love it most when I’m alone
when I’m empty,
when I have no attachment.
when I’m burning like the blistering heat of
tomorrows melancholy sun.
I love it most when I’m empty,.
un dissolved
I love it most
when it’s over,
all said and done,
when I’m pounding like a hammer
deafening like a broken heart
sworn in like an imbasil
I love it the very very best when I hurt
because it’s a recognizable thing.
It’s something
It keeps me in line.
Keeps me from escaping wrongly,
strangling circumstance
becoming a butterfly
embracing civility.
I love it most when I’m in it
fucked up broken down
not surprised
I love it,
love it best
when it simply
is what it is.
is what it is.
is what it is.

Spiritus Veritas

September 28, 2008  :: 0 comments

I just want something real,
he said
I just want something real,
he said.

This common experience.
This shared suffering.
This birth into tragedy that
has shaped us so.
Demented us so.
Made us artist.
Let our spirits soar.
I just want the real experience now.
The authentic.
I suffer for it.
I await it.
I yearn for it.
This is the truth I toss about in
meandering lines.
We are in a space outside the tribe.
We are the neurotic episode.
We are heaven’s offerings unto the dirt.

I don’t want
the ones who hide from it
wearing the hiding
like a mask.
I don’t want the ones who
fester in it
wearing the festering
like a mask.

Let us transcend it.
Let us overcome it.
Let us be all at once above it.
Let us enlighten ourselves with
the healing of it.
Let our spirits sing.
Let our words be divine.
Let us be more,
more and more and more
than the circumstance of it.

Faith faith faith faith
faith faith faith faith.
Goodbye to being,
hello becoming.

I just want something real,
he said.
I just want something real,
he said.

I’m not sure what I want
she said.
Something altogether different.
I think.
Come and be
with me

Post Modern Orphic Hymn

September 28, 2008  :: 0 comments

French fry forearm tendons.
Contract. Release.
Tambourine plink ping breathing
diet soda can. Big gestures
when I lean back, clad black at
the stroke of midnight arms
falling palms down facing, plink
again. Neck roll concentric crackling
like footsteps on shattered glass.
All for the world.

All for the world I think,
as some wild June thunder busts it up.
See that puff
of smoke that rises there, as I exhale thusly?
Oh, it’s all full of French Canadian clown music
entangled in fine gravel dusk memories.
Where we stood inside the time stream.
Watch it float up and away taking lost spectacle
elsewhere. Shredded memories no good when
the tall grass has known death and resurrection
time and again
since the slipping away
of wishes, days, and clock tics.

A can song fades to black..
Elysian Mysteries thunder as embodiment
It’s different to be me.
Nothing anyone
would understand.

Machine of Almosting

September 28, 2008  :: 0 comments

Mad genius sloped back flicker in the sun,
ethereal agent sacred clean
caught up in Spiritus Mundi machine.

Echo flapping desert bird wings,
slouching beast, lost, sing, sing
crestfallen desire.
Giant aching acre wide heartache of legend.
Simple fruition of a female golden mean
nothing more,
minus modern moviehouse adaptations.

Pratfall whirlwind blink violin whacked,
depressed on the eve of great depression,
he was depressed, obsessed.
Formed from seraphic anti-matter Goatee
I must already be
an impious version
of singular quantum implosion
safeguarded by the apathy
of everyday notions.

Vacillating melt-down mushroom cloud
dream believer circumstance unspoken,
strictly speaking, fate,
lips against the glass eye road to nowhere,
deserving of so much more.

Just want to grab true real words,
once held solitary in silent temples.
The idea of permanent impermanence like
circumventing the torn rent veil of night,
circumspect in circumstance
always circular.

Abrupt impromptu jagged batwing fancies,
dash about no worse than
clown groupies.

I want to blow out your candles,
make you forget,
inside the confines of a moment, with me.
Tell me you want me,
unfolding as just what it is,
eyeballs, everything unexpected.
Templar treasure comfort just thinking of you.
Upon the heads of.
Upon the heads of kings.

Marching band crackle fizz bear claws
2 anonymous door frame red roses in
burnt toast wind.

Do I drink excessively.
Am I. Am I. Am I.
I am chasing sudden autonomy weeping
letters in the snowy blood of
ancestors already sleeping.

Even now as the moment dim light silences,
chicken wire around my heart and
brainpan self-speaking into
the next simple breath,
and the one after that,
and after that.