Forward this recluse to the front lines of society a pen is his only weapon karma is the only escape. Wielding it in blinded fear a new wilderness lies before him. I feel gift for I am this a weapon against self. I choose in reason karma hide when need me karma I fasten this pain to finger you crawl out exposing my true self tearing flesh from bone creating a portal to see, to be. I will fight on the inside **** I will cry and lie to myself judging you for you for me. I will throw glass throat this Glass House and expect nothing to break, blending you when it does. In introverted crown my masks impenetrable karma my God heavily-armed poised for attack when you blink throwing questions at question. Tears stain my cheek as you walk by. I use my weapon when I'm alone karma I sit with myself nice off couch what a comfortable Stone karma Caesar's grass bring oceanic scented insights into an oil stained mill City. I'm asking myself questions taking notes and watching. I bask in the bountiful harvest of knowledge display before before us all each and every day weather it's the body floating down the canal the soft Moon blooming Jasmine in the springing months my eyes water yeah my flow is uncontrolled.

So baseball starts soon and pitchers and catchers reported today. This is the most excited i've been since the Kansas City Chiefs won the Superbowl. I know that's not long but baseball is just amazing and an awesome display. Baseball is that sport that you can't run the clock out and don't have total control. Anything can happen in baseball. It's amazing to see the comebacks that can happen. If your the Astros you'll just want to forestall. Baseball is always somebody's passion. Some people say is boring. Others say it is a smart person's game. How can it be boring and lame if all those fans are roaring. Baseball every season relights the same flame.

I swear a good deal more when in the city
my wife observes as we two wend our way
along the street. The towers are kind of pretty:
walls of glass, yet blocking out the day
so down here on the sidewalk dreary shadows
are damp reminders of how far we've come
from towering trees, from open mossy meadows,
from ravens swishing by. Look, here's a slum
a block or two from banking towers and glamour.
I should not fault the place. Variety
is the spice, they say. But such a clamor
of humans challenged by sobriety!
Life here was once quite good to me, but now
I'm just a rustic, pining for his plow.

Oil
Exhaust
Handstand theatre
In the back of a van
Underground avenue
Has the scent of
Stale black licorice
Melted into the sidewalk
The familiar odor of traffic
Is a pedestrian substitute
For the Old World charm
This renovated place
Paved over
Long
Ago

Far beyond the gable ends of dark suburban streets
Riding past the furthest flats where paths give way to fields

Where giant cranes with groaning frames are elevators into space
Looming over dark estates, unoccupied and halfway built
A regiment of vacant digs

Set out just like theatre props; a sort of play not yet begun
The porches laid with welcome rugs for when the future tenants come

And when they take up residence and get their keys and pay their rent
They'll surely never think of me as I have thought of them
The countless nights I've seen to spend, exploring every lamplit bend

Or how I'd trekked those distant places, before they'd laid the first foundations
Beyond the reach of tired feet, where fauns or fairies surely meet

The dark and curing plains are real and stretch for starry miles around
The rustle and din of windblown things, the rush of moonlit clouds

And soon from now when strangers come and pick the perfect house to live
And make it theirs and settle in and pick a room to put the crib
I'll stop the squeak of spinning wheels upon some distant mound or cliff
And moving closer to the lip; Dublin twinkles past the tip

In Georgia, it is 82 degrees.
Sweltering sticky heat and air so thick with humidity
It’s like you’re swimming through syrup
Weigh me down.
Sweat slips down my spine like living water, a reminder that
I am here— uncomfortable, yes, but not quite hurting.
People smile. I smile back.

In New York, it’s 39 degrees.
Wind whips at my face, rendering my cheeks rosy and stinging my eyes with tears.
My teeth chatter, rattling my whole jaw with them.
The subtle pain reminds me I’m alive.
I’m not quite sure when I decided pain and existence were synonymous
But I did
And today is another reminder.
I smile. No one smiles back.

At least they’re alive. At least I am.