The forest.
Fern and flower standing,
bending in sunlight toward it
like desperate souls
in their one tired moment
of beauty and grace.

I stand above a geranium,
kneeling as I pluck it
from the light.

She dreams in aqua blue,
seasons melting into one another,
dancing among fallen leaves
or beneath the golden sun,
     her fiery green eyes shimmering
     like emeralds in a jewelry store case,
     skin like water running through  fingers,
     dancing, dancing,
hands thrown to the sky
casting rainbows like ribbons
to celebrate the dawning of her joy.

In ancient times, you once were mine,
and we were queen and king.
The jesters all sang songs for us,
and gifts did royals bring.
I held your hand,
walked through the land
while people smiled at us.
We never spoke an angry word,
content with all there was.

But soon enough, Jealousy
let himself into our gate.
And riding close behind was Lust
and Lonliness and Hate.
They rode into our castle then,
and took your hand from mine.
And rushing you away with them,
they spilled all of our wine.

I gathered up my forces,
20,000 banners blew.
Rallying behind our love,
we went in search of you.
We must've marched 1,000 miles
before I heard your voice -
much unlike the one I knew,
little more than just a noise.

I spied you in a tower high,
chained in your misery.
The subtleties of love, to you,
were just a mystery.
Then I resolved to break the walls
that kept you there from me.
So many died, and tears were cried,
but there was victory.

And now I have here, built for you,
a tower of my own.
I'll keep you there within my sight
as I sit on my throne.
And the walls that are surrounding us
are strong and high and true -
a symbol of our victory
and my love for you.

With your voice like bells
and your eyes like Mars,
in your purple coat
and your gown of stars,
would you ever lower
the window of your car
and point me to
your door?

In a breeze you fluttered,
like a feather in a storm,
into my weary mind
in such flawless form
and you raised your banner
around which I conform.
But you didn't even know me,
did you?

I thought I could be eternal,
like air or sound or memory,
that I would be a ghost
in your attic forever.
I thought you would keep me,
or be kept by me,
find joy in my movements,
love in my breath.
But you moved away,
suddenly without word or gesture,
left me standing on the floor
in your house, now mine.
You took my place and I yours.
This was supposed to be simple, clean.
And so you became air,
sound, memory, nothing at all.
Eternal.

Nearer to the edge
                             I see.
Crawling through
          eternity.
Searching for the master key.
This is our reality.

Communication has de-
                                         volved.
None of our real problems solved.
  We have become      uninvolved
while the whole world revolves.

Spinning further from cont
                                          ro
                                            l.
Turn 'round and view it as a whole.
  Mother Nature's gifts we        stole.
This is how our story goes.

Once black and white.
Once dark and light.
To complicate.
Bring on our fate.

Our halos tilt.
Intentions wilt.
Ambitions great.
Never too late.

Turn 'round to see the sum of things.
Counting on the dead tree's rings.
Refering to ourselves as kings.
Soaring on the deathbird's wing.

In my dreams
you run to me wildy, laughing
amid sunflowers tall as the sky.

In my dreams
we talk for hours letting the night
crawl past the window.

In my dreams
we are never uncertain and
all we have been is lovers.

In my dreams
your love didn't die.

"America I've given you all and now I'm nothing."

Nothing.
An empty chair in town hall.
A piano with no white keys.
An asterisk in the legislation, if I'm lucky.
I ate your bread,
attended your circuses,
burned my bridges for promises you made.
I remember I saved four-thousand dollars
after college and believed I had foresight.
You burned it all before me
and then pierced my eye with your sword of justice,
placed me on the scales and found that
all your wealth weighs more than I do.
The American Dream!
Yet, how am I to dream if I cannot see?
And do you feel heavy?
No, I don't believe you do.
You have your patriots to prop you up when you begin to slouch.
And good on them for being more blind than I am,
or good on them for otherwise.
But that is not the American dream, is it?
I think not, but then again, who am I?

Take your time
getting home tonight.
For me, be in no hurry.
My love's the kind
that waits for you.
If you rush, I'll have to worry.

The light just
by the window's on.
The door is unlocked, too.
I'm in our bed,
now go ahead.
I'll wait here for you.

"It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again."
- Allen Ginsberg

What does it mean to be an American?
Does it mean I can say the
Pledge of Allegiance
When I'm told?
Does it means that I can vote for
My president,
Governor, and
County clerk
Even when every choice is a Condemnation?
Does it mean that I must be
Proud of the military?
Does it mean that I am
Entitled to the world's oil reserves?
Is being an American a liberty or
A constraint?
Why are America's trails full of tears?
If I am cold will the
Flag serve to warm me?
Will that be enough?
Is it ever enough?
Does "one nation under God" refer to
My god, too?
Does America's god practice
The golden rule?
When will America keep its nose
Out of the Middle East?
If America loses its nose
In the Middle East, will a new nose
Be elected - this one twice as nosey?
Does being an American mean that
We can only dream in
Red or white or blue?
Does the American dream seem like a
Nightmare to anyone else?
Is it America's bad conscience
That keeps it up at night?
Does America ever get the blues?
Does America ever open a dictionary?
Does America know the
Difference between "democracy" and
"Oligarchy?"
Is America aware that I do?
Can America survive on
Minimum wage?
Does America pay its taxes on time?
Does America go to work every day
With a smile?
Does America punch out and feel Proud?
Does America really blow smoke
Up our *****?
Is six dollars and seventy-seven cents
Enough to get me through the week?
Does America only have one life?
Is one life enough to satisfy her?
What about three-hundred million?
What about me?

I used to want to be an
archaeologist.
I thought digging things up
looked like fun.
I thought that I wanted to
touch history.
I don't get paid for it,
but I guess
I sort of am an archaeologist.
I dig things up.
I run my fingers through years
of history.
It just isn't as fun as I'd always
thought it'd be.

The beauty of two hearts
beating in warm synchronicity,
     a pair of hands clasped,
prayer-like, electric
between them.
     Two heads touching
at the temples,
thoughts filtered like
sand through fingers.
     Two eyes meeting
like spark and kindling,
     two flames climbing
under a blue-dark sky.
     Two stars shining like
the smile she wore
when you first met.

She had this thing about her,
made me weak in my knees.
She had this other thing, too:
the ***** had fleas.

We used to go out for walks
and climb apple trees.
But my friends, they all warned me
'bout the ***** with the fleas.

She was polite over dinner,
always "thank you" and "please,"
but I just couldn't excuse that
the ***** had fleas.

So last night at her place
I went looking for my keys.
When I found 'em, I bailed on
the ***** with the fleas.

Today I watched an eagle fly into the sun,
swallowed by a sea of yellow and red.
It's feathers caught light and burned and
fell from the sky above my head.

Down they drifted to my feet,
twisting like a lovely flaming helix.
And when, through the smoke, I squinted my eyes,
I thought I saw a phoenix.

Memorizing times and dates,
trying to get a jump on fate.
Good things come
to those who wait,
but that just isn't me.

The moon, a dagger, hangs over all.
I watch to make sure it won't fall and
walk away, my shadow tall
to see that it's still hanging.

In anxious sleep, symbols of blood
haunt my dreams, the coming flood
when I'll be left lost in the mud
and revising what I'd thought I'd known.

Here I am,
writing poems in a rainstorm
like I'm Poe or something.
I'd honestly rather be asleep,
now and most of the time.
Don't get me wrong,
I love poetry,
and I love rain,
and also I'm not depressed, I swear.
It's just I can't really
**** anything up
when I'm asleep.
But as soon as my eyes are open
(though not really open),
I start waging war on love
like it hurt me or something.
No,
when I'm asleep
I can only dream of it.

As sun sets over the mountain,
crowning this miraculous country,
wreathing it in purest gold,
visions of absent glory
cleave to the luster hanging,
suspended above the contours
of this majestic empire,

and by the light of that brilliant corona,
enduring the blameless and bitter dusts of time,
a delicate mirage emerges,
chronicling the last vestiges
of the valorous heroes who came before,
who influence our proud and dignified march.

And where a ceremony awaits -
beyond the scope of that western realm,
beyond the reach of that bleeding sun
into which silhouettes now fade -
to laurel today's new hero with a crown
of golden light,
so too awaits the ecstatic promise
of a brand-new, untamed world.

We periscoped through the flowers,
eyes white and wide with
childish wonder,
the color of our petals painted gold,
flashing wildly under beams of sunlight flaring through the leaves,
threatening to fall only too soon.
     Aye, but not us, not then,
for we were in bloom
and it was summer,
and the season proclaimed our love,
and our love the season.
But to look upon that sweet scene,
as would a ****** in the valley,
would be to recognize at once
the folly of a boy
in the presence of the flora.
For what was I to give
when all you wanted was before you?

No deception in his yellow eyes -
I admire the hawk, I do -
as talons seize the shrew.

Forthright in his motions,
he takes that which he needs,
to sentiments pays no heed.

For nature is indifferent,
not blind to love or hate.
A course narrow and straight.

You can call it being a Christian,
I'll call it fiction,
tradition
in need of revision.
You get your scripture on your television
and at night on your knees
in the fetal position,
praying to a god who you tell me is jealous.
The whole premise,
the practice,
the promise is selfish.
And a wafer and wine
is the flesh and the blood?
What?
The grail to me sounds like
a diamond **** cup.
On your knees for the prodigal son,
altar boy walks by and now your
tunic's undone?
Let my verse be
the nail in your wrist
and truths I speak
the coin in your dish.

Machines are only as beautiful
as the nature of their function.
Consider a grandfather clock --
a handsome combination
of practicality and playfulness,
symmetry and simplicity
(though quite complex within) --
wood and steel joined perfectly
to inform, entertain, and intrigue.
     Conversely, a television lacks
such subtlety, making it
almost malicious in its capacity.
In its nature is the intention
to render nature, itself, obsolete.
Where a television aims to
make us forget,
a clock, for instance, serves to
remind us that it is time to
start living -- and what could be
more noble or more beautiful
     than that?

Put down the book and draw the shades,
don't carry on and make me wait.
Tomorrow's coming might seal our fate.
Let's love and nothing else.

A cold wind from my future blew
across the room, you felt it too,
so let's just do what lovers do
and hope it lasts forever.

Put down the broom and draw the shades,
don't carry on and make me wait.
Tomorrow's coming might seal our fate.
Let's love while we've got time.

The television shows the news -
bombs and banks, conflicting views.
And hateful words are overused,
let's make new ones together.

Shut off the news and draw the shades,
don't carry on and make me wait.
Tomorrow's in a sad old state,
let's make it great with love.

The past is dead, just let it be.
Why bother it when you've got me?
I feel like I have been set free,
free to love you fully.

Put on a smile and shut the shades,
there's nothing standing in our way,
let's join the march, the Great Parade,
and flood the streets with love.

The poor are kept poor,
the rich, elevated
to positions of office,
pushing beliefs, outdated,
down Liberty's throat
while Justice, sedated,
sits in the corner
beneath a flag, now faded.

Moon alive.
Curtains dancing.
There is no one
at the side of the bed.
Peel ***** sheets away,
get up and walk
down the hall.
There is no one
at the side of the bed.
Movement in the mirror,
but it's just you and
there is no one
at the side of the bed.
Check the loveseat
for something left behind.
There is no one.
It's just you.

Countless fired and flaming rows
of foot-worn streets I walked,
watching faces grow and become the things
of the evils that they talked.

I shot a sidelong sharpened glance
at these foes whose names are lost,
only to fall in line with them,
standing crooked, callow, crossed.

I donned a suit and played the part.
I spoke their words and sneered
at lonely men with drooping hearts
as mine did disappear.

I lived like this for centuries,
at least that’s how it seemed,
all the while grasping at air
and forgetting what I’d dreamed.

Until one day I heard a voice
come wafting through my door.
It said "Temptation is a ghost,
you’re meant for something more."

Stricken by this phantom noise,
I thought that I’d been called
upon by gods or angels then,
and so to them I crawled.

I crawled, I crawled, I lived like dust,
blowing this way and that,
atoning for what I had become,
and on my face fell flat.

I must have died a thousand times
if only in my thoughts.
My head grew weary, sight grew dim,
my heart ******* in knots,

When out of darkness came a hand
reaching out to mine,
and pulled me up. I stood again,
though much more straight this time.

To see the beauty of a life
is to stand with Death,
looking back at the whole −
the sum of joy and pain.
     From there, the face in the moonlight,
     the warmth in the glance of an eye,
     the untraceable laughter in the hall
take on more meaning,
bear new slight symbols,
conjure new beliefs.
     But do not wait for Death.
After all, these words were written
in the midst of a beautiful life.

I watched you breathing,
your chest rise and fall.
These moments I'll cherish,
but I can't live them all.

We made a life of
both laughter and tears.
But the sun's finally shining,
the rain's starting to clear.

Bridges we once danced on
over waters we thought would drown us.

Photographs of friends
who have since become ghosts.

Candles that remind us
of our sweetest memories.

Oh, and toast.

A bell screams through your mind.
You know now to keep quiet
when the passion is at his tongue.
When his cheeks are trembling
like the hand at your side,
you know to lower your eyes
and speak kind and care.

You know what to expect
and you mark it in your mind.
When dusk makes mirrors out of windows,
you know not to look long at what's behind.
You know to walk right by.

You know it like you know yourself.
You smile like you do,
falling in line to the purpose he’s drawn for you.
He brings you to your feet,
your eyes fixed on the floor.
You know what love endures.

It ain't nothin to see that there's
so many dead no more.
It ain't nothin to see that there's
so many dead.
And if that don't tell you somethin
then there ain't nothin in yer head.

It ain't nothin to look up
to see the fire fallin.
It ain't nothin to look up
and see the fire.
If you tell me it ain't there
then I'll tell you yer a liar.

And it ain't nothin to look out
and see no one lookin in.
No, it ain't nothin to look out
to see there's no one lookin in.
Make no mistake about it,
the ones that's there ain't yer friends.

It ain't nothin just to find that
you got no place to stand.
It ain't nothin to look 'round, see there's no place for you to stand.
No, you can't even go outside
or yer on someone else's land.

I been listenin for the voice
that'll say "come get yer lovin."
Lord, I been listenin for yer voice
to say "please come get yer lovin."
That there's somethin special, man.
Oh yes, it sure is somethin.

It is a wheel
rolling over you,
slowly,
letting you feel
it all, leaving you
lowly.
You'll be begging
it to stop,
dollars flying
from the top.
Those who turn the wheel
consider themselves holy.

When
she drove away
(her freedom, at last)
I let out a sigh.

Her
angry displays -
(it all happened so fast) -
my heart was defied.

I sat on the edge of our bed
and I hummed a soft tune.
I woke myself up on the floor
where our pictures were strewn.

She
must be alright
(she hasn't called yet).
I'm living alone.

And me?
I'm doing fine
(but it's hard to forget
that this bird has flown).

Your experience will always be less
than that of those for whom you write.
Therefore, don't write for anyone but
yourself.
If others wish to know you, let them ask.
If you wish to answer, read them your poems.

**** all you gun-toting hillbilly blowhards.
**** Mr. President - the First Lady, too.
**** your little pseudo-democracy circus.
All of you animals belong in a zoo.

**** your religions, I pay no penance.
**** what you've written and passed on as God.
******* for shoving it all down my throat.
I know better than to listen to frauds.

I'm tired of people waving their fingers.
I'm tired of giving, I want to take.
I'm tired of ignorance fed to the masses.
My eyes are open, I am awake.

to love a poet
is to admit the world
is tragic

06:50:57 UTC

You don't know
how good you have it
there in the window,
mouth sealed shut,
eyes shut, too,
never looking any
better or any worse
than the next guy.
Or, at least never knowing.

I'm too young to be thinking
the good days are gone,
to feel lost in a crowd
of people my age.
I'm too young to want nothing
but a moment alone,
or to skip through the book,
not minding each page.

I'm too old to ask help
from kind souls who offer,
to crawl on all fours,
or to cry in my sleep.
I'm too old to be dreaming
of peace in my mind.
But no matter our age,
dreams are all we can keep.

Well now your tears
they don't bother me.
I said your tears
they don't bother me at all.
You know your tears
they don't bother me.
Your tears, now,
they dont bother me at all.
But I'd hate to see you leaving.
Leave me with my back
against the wall.

I saw your train pull in the station.
I heard the whistle start to blow.
Yeah, as your train got to the station
I could hear that lonesome whistle start to blow.
Well, I could meet you down the line,
but where you're headed
I just dont know.

As those wheels got to turning,
so did my heart, girl, ya know it did.
When them wheels started turning,
so did my heart, girl, yes it did.
And I could see you in the window
laughin' like some little kid.

I guess my tears didnt bother you
and you know that's such a shame.
I guess my tears didn't bother you
and ain't it such a shame.
'Cause the reason they were falling
is 'cause you're gone and I'm to blame.

All your false securities
will not protect you in any degree
when the Man descends from the sky to see
if he or she or them or we
will surrender to him finally
and gather all most nobly
beneath the sun, the Eden tree
and bid that man must bend the knee.
Will we cast aside our crowns, our pride
and recognize that what we idolize -
the dollar bill, the satyrized
faked-out phoney false franchise
that man has made as a disguise
to keep distracted the hungry eyes -
will not serve to get us by
but to keep us down and cold and empty?

contradictions
are what make
us human

It is in the nature of all things
to be formful and good.
All that moves is miraculous.
All that does not is deathless.
Regardless, these roles are fulfilled.

Another new year.
Whoop-de-do!
If I could, I'd blow
a big kazoo.
Yes, this year is over,
celebrate with your lover.
For me, it's just deja vu.

I'd like to get God and George Soros
in the same room for a while
and figure out what went wrong.

I feel like September most of the time.
Not too warm or cool,
not more of one thing than another,
barely discernable between
the hot haze of August
and October's sobering chill.

There is a certain dexterity needed
to balance the life with the death,
to be a ghost in time and place
and memory, together.
And if you look into the morning fog
and squint your eyes to see me,
then you are trying harder than you need.