Let me whisper you a world spread in open-palm
   and lay you wide-pictures etched in cobble-stone
   till your feet find their way in the wake of alt-time

Let me grow you orchards on margins of probabilities
   and capture breezy-smiles to place upon your sleeve
   till illumined-steps of afternoon crumble before angels

Let me turn the planets on fingertip high upon wheel-rim
   and show you matte mirror-lakes of superb-chances
   till the evening-sky feels the shy-tiptoe of moon-kiss


please… let me….?


S T -  4 dec 13

dots riddle my face
for what looks like a game in a child's activity book
hiding from the world
feeling scarred and broke

these blemishes make up me
some are physical and most our mental
but still every one is so judgmental

they say society is ugly
then I must be society

i feel them stare as walk past
not wanting any moment to last

for every battle i win, a war awaits me
i see the beauty of the sun
just to watch the darkness of the night take over

confidence is key
but where's the lock

these blemishes make up me
some are physical and most our mental
but still every one is so judgmental

i wake up every morning to to rest again
dreading the hours to past
locked up in my own chain

getting called cute or hot
only lasts a moment
while i remember the ugly within

fat
with crocodile tears
for the alien
dead
your stomach
rings
a private
bell

welcome to light-city
where a dead-****** is on the back of a golden goose
head thrown back in rigor-mortis, days old

1.
the plaza is on fire
one man walks out his delirium into a derelict-town
with so many glittering-lights on
an unhealthy-sheen to his face.. some melted skin
   he seeks the looted-gold the long-plaited one assured was his
   he can't hear the dark-whispers right behind him
   his shoulder-blade itches with a fury no typical-scratch can relieve
nor can he sense the violent-energy half-crackling in the air
hovering in the wings of that dry-wind.. in sullen hiss-spits


2.
elsewhere, many give thanks on the prairie
where daffodils fly free in love
            a motorcade of bikers with a moon's view
            bespectacled-waiter can ask for help
            one child holds in hand.. so many open-answers that adults just fail to see
and dreamers dream *the same dream
in a broken, incredulous world
(you can't hide away in your dreams
   they over-foam your running-legs)
                                      yes.. scamper..!
beware those pretty-wigs who tug at firm-minds
                                              who force you to skirt the true-issue
you plain-refuse to see what you're tripping over
in case it resembles that.. stuff inside


3.
there's a hue of bright-orange in the distance and you can't deny it
it is there
      you can't see it yet
      but you can smell it
within an arc of heightened-paranoia
it has started burning inside the back of your afrighted-eyes
drying out any recollection of estranged-promise
             in a hopeless land of artifice
be not perturbed by fumes which rise in choking-plumes
the workmanship of assiduous imps, dutifully-bound
beset to task all goodness and beleaguer any hope
that only the blind-man can feel in bones-vibrated


(bring forth your legs
tarry not
sing with fully) heartened to glory of light
there be a breaking in the pattern
not everybody made it
so less power to the battle


                                                        ­               the circle is not done..



static.. static.. static.. // static.. static.. static.. // static.. static.. static.. // static.. stat.stat.stat....... //




with a half-smile of patience (she says) -
within your dream.. I'm there
I call you forth
into real-light
here..




S T - 30 nov 13

bear with me, a man was going house to house.  a big handed hunch of a man.  he was wanting to know if anyone in the immediate area had seen the bird he was talking about.  his enthusiasm was off-putting and in the back of my mind downright scary.  the look on a face when a door is opened is often the look of one to whom the lord has reappeared.  I don’t think the man knew he was ruining the rareness of the day’s clarity.  the bird itself was not his fault and the bird sighting could’ve happened to another.  on a normal day a suspended woman sings above us.  there is a before and an after and a bit of mystery to the meal obsessed.

my son helps me open my fist.
he rolls up my sleeves.

Christ is still dead.
my mom doesn’t smoke.

she lives alone.  from this, one can gather the things she owns.  1970s ****.  she is pregnant.  a week ago she went into town to pick up some new phrases.  while there, she slipped into a house and beat a sleeping child.  our deeds are weary not of a dog barking or of a cat hissing but of the overfed fish.  my belly button is how the marksmen touch me.  she thinks the child’s father followed her home.  she’s about to watch the videotape.