A Time To Speak To Matters Unintelligible

A time to speak to matters unintelligible

The calendar of my hours spins
like a maddened dartboard.
I throw my missiles of choice
and can no more detect where they land
than where I find their resupply.

Is this life becoming waste

I do not bid to place blame nor fault.
I do not think myself unusually cursed or maligned
by forces unseen.
I just wonder,
is this life of mine to be the average of mediocrity

What record of worth will I leave behind.
What presence of achievement do I carry with me
but these dry, dirt stained hands,
but the fruits of a garden long decayed,
but words left to settle like dust in the road,
but midnight laughter forgotten with the morning meal.

Is my triumph the delay of mortal tragedy

Can inspiration survive,
persist, lie, lay flat, and reemerge
with the next season of rain.

Is my love amphibious.
Do I croak needlessly
in bogs without depth
in deserts without sun.

Did Nathan know the bottom of the world
was waiting for him.

Is there a method to this madness,
or is this method beyond mad,
insane before onset psychosis,
lost before any thought of origin.

I know pain and love and weariness
and lust and hunger and boredom
and whiles and smiles and forever feeling
of her skin.

I know nothing of what belongs to this destiny.

I am in danger of losing grip on the divination of my divinity.

I speak this warning, and alert my soul.

Fuck You

Chameleon Without Colors

Chameleon without colors
I’m twisting upon a rope,
I know not the tree, nor the reason,
I hang high and choke lower than in my throat.

My guts like a wet coil of reeds,
twisting and piling upon my belly.

I know not who I am nor where I be.
I feel a foot, without a knee.

Darn this sock,
Dream this daring death.
I am absent of purpose,
at a loss with chaos.

Whence delivery?

I know not, and the Knot.

I wish Alexander and his sword.

My Mind Feels Far

Pay Day, Same Day.

Pay day, same day.
Waiting for the ball to drop.
Sounds cascade like a too well ordered waterfall.
the City sounds.
Cars and monkeys driving wheels.
We turn.
All wheel with daily rotating of the sky.
Rushing into the East, over another 24 hours of Earth.

It’s nice.

One shouldn’t complain.
We are not scratching in the dirt for our sustenance.
At least not too much,
Only at the gardener’s choice of pain and derision.

The cats actually sit quietly;
even though the little snakes are known to be lurking
beneath leaf and bramble.
A moment alone, away and with the gracious bleed of ink.
Burning off the mind’s chiding through finger tips,
through the familiar twitching upon this papier.

It’s about now.

It’s about then, when the ball drops.
Yet another move in this kinetic opera,
this furious fairy called Time.

As the light pours its last upon fading eyes,
the meat is neat and unaware.

Who could ask more of eternity.


I know the secret, and forget it often.

Meatness makes it that way.
And yet it is difficult to remember
all these faces around that abound are
real worlds in themselves, alone and questing
their singular quests, as we each do.
Too many minds unconnected, needing silly books of smiles
to touch and compare compassions.

Do you like it.

And I’m glad for wife and glad for growth.
Glad for death and give a happy nod to Winter.
Stasis is death.
To know death Rushes is to know life perserves.

Organic, carbon-based life has struggled
for so long;
solving the puzzles of the universe.
We are the livers, the processors of the inantimate,
the insentient,
into a questing, zealing, revealing, concealing,
into a Question, held and wondered upon,
held to the light of a deep woods fire,
held and shared for desperation,
across miles and generations.

We live to live,
to give a name too simple for all this Chaos,
and so name ourselves.

So dig it, you get it,
by just not accepting what is.

This is the final and first secret.

Shadow In Situ

what upright shadow in the forest speaks to me now in fogging whispers
what small smothering animal shivers beneath the tree’s icy bole
what terrible words does it tell itself of memory, of grudge, of recovery, and revenge

what time is it in the forest
when all creatures wait for the other to give way to sound
to reveal their hearts, first by beat, then by steaming sheen of blood on snow

who watches for us, in this coloring colorless noonday dim of Winter’s lingering perch
who will strike and show our skin to the world and declare
“All See! Know the Bareness of your Fallen master!”

There’s nothing to do but wait, hold still, breathe not at all, dream not too deep
and craft the warm words of next season,
a final never found reason
to continue bleeding inside, in circles, in situ

In The Waiting Room

We Are Shadows Cast

We are shadows cast
By our souls’ interruption
Of a light unseen,
Of a radiance born inside
The small, tight corners of dimension.

As the wavering dimness
Of my commuter bus’ exhausted vapor
Upon the road in morning sun.

Does the world only reflect
For our eyes to catch.

Can experience be separated
From Being.

Is this why basketball hoops and navels
Are round.

Life is a continuity of Identity.

A careful juggling of what
Has gone before
As evidenced in what is
Seen now and balanced
Against what is expected
To Be.

This is the essence of Human consciousness;
and is the inherent tension of our race.

Identity is found in the lines of your hand,
In your gaze to the horizon.

These are not at all new thoughts,
Only philosophical preambles,
A shuffling of cards in the parlor.

It is only the concentrated shield of our
Ever re-etched pattern of ego,
Highly held against chaos
That keeps us from the Madness of
Unassumed reality.

Also, ice cream.

A Thing Of Dream

A thing of dream
Ripples beneath the waves
A thing maker of what is never to be,
of what must be
Tension of creation
Alchemy in the void
The life from death
The end of a wheel
The flat spot on a perfect globe
Dreams of God,
Unknown to His creator
The darkness in full sunlight,
the beckoning shade in desert
Death as but a thin film perspective,
blurred by surface tension

Tomorrow is past
“Enter on the B side”
That’s why you dream of it tonight
There are no riddles that do not rhyme
Blank in the Fills
Truth is lie
Lies are never knowing
And am not I
Spelling words,
but with images from the back of your skull that
Cannot be woken from
End each moment in life
with preposition I beg you,
of