Celestial, heavenly queen
Beauty unrivalled
Oh vanity! ‘Tis quicksand of reason
And angry Gods speak

Purity and innocence
Surrendered
Shackled to crystalline quartz
And blamelessness the sacrificial quarry

Retribution is costly --
Though beauty shines brightly
With vanity
Comes lonely truth

Who owns the sunset?
Who is mistress of the stars?
Do the navigators of fortune
Sit at a table and boast?
Are the humours four fine sisters?

Can it be that I am
Master of all these things?
Do I  hold the yet untwined
Ball of string of the future in my hands?
My hands. My hands of no strength,
My hands of no extraordinary skill,
My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.

These fingers that are whole
In spite of broken spirits
Are treated as the fingers
Of perfection.
Of blamelessness.
Of forgiveness.

The threads of time
Are dusty in my fingers.
A fine mist of sediment
Crumbles at my touch.
Delicate stars are loosened
And burn out in my sight.

Reaching up I return
This future to the hands
In which It belongs.  
Stars and light dance down
Into my eyes, and I know
Who owns the sunset.

What do you see beyond the line
Is what I want to see right here
The waterfall of heady wine
Where lies almighty bier

Where omnipotent is a clown
And modest lady is charming queen
Where beggar proudly wears a crown
Where blamelessness is really clean

Where everyone is blessed with chaos
Flawless spark of holy ones
Where prophecy of mighty Amos
Will plant a seed in heads of sons

Through a velvet curtains
I see a whole new world
Shall I be ****** in furnace
If all those words are bald

“Walk right up to you,
To the root of your throne
And stare, expectant

Cup in hand, thirst in soul
Ready to drink, and just demand:
I yell and raise the cup to you –

‘Forgive me!’

I am a hypocrite child, a mockery to your blamelessness
Please grant me eyes true,
And a tongue that knows honesty unimpaired -

‘I’m Sorry, My God.’

Who owns the sunset?
Who is mistress of the stars?
Do the navigators of fortune
Sit at a table and boast?
Are the humours four fine sisters?

Can it be that I am
Master of all these things?
Do I  hold the yet untwined
Ball of string of the future in my hands?
My hands. My hands of no strength,
My hands of no extraordinary skill,
My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.

These fingers that are whole
In spite of broken spirits
Are treated as the fingers
Of perfection.
Of blamelessness.
Of forgiveness.

The threads of time
Are dusty in my fingers.
A fine mist of sediment
Crumbles at my touch.
Delicate stars are loosened
And burn out in my sight.

Reaching up I return
This future to the hands
In which It belongs.  
Stars and light dance down
Into my eyes, and I know
Who owns the sunset.

Well of life, oh well of life!!! Spring me thy vibrant blamelessness,
For am I amyss? Wishful to Pius beliefs? That theres a queen, not a thief?
Staring at her screen as me!!!
Consternation in unbelief?

Gathering her end day fears!!!

Shall she pike near?
And hitchike mine hazy distortion?
With our love would be proportion,
No distortionary tyrant to ourn view!!!
Sleeping silently in our room,
Being as just small wombs!!!

Acquisitive and itchy to our next step!!!!

For tis this I have wept,
Thinking over and over,

For wheres thine four leaf clover,
For mine good Irish luck?

Trapped in the ducts of civilation lost?

For what's thy cost old globed ball see'r?

A pound or a ruby?
A million in cash?
Or cheap movie?

For I'd give you mine all to basque in ones appearance,

A PRI maddona I strive in all
Contrivance.....

"Lessen the exposure"
Living under pressure, I'm a child inside
And with playground advice
The battery acid ran into my veins
It bled out in a fit
And I'm bending beneath all the weight of it
I questioned the wiring
And became the monster from the myths
I am a polar opposite
Destructive in the face of blamelessness
Thorough with an exit wound that was never planned
Guilt is in the medicine bottles
Nature is a fickle thing
I am a wild thing
It was all a wild scheme
To pit us all against our instincts
An arena built on etched old bones
And Gorgon's limestone

It was all a straight line up ahead
A straight play I had just misread
I bludgeoned it upon head
And now it's in the backyard, dead.

I am a crooked silhouette
Never arc of the covenant
Sorry for my generator mind
And then a hundred thousand times.

victimize
with those eyes.
the ones I saw staring back at me.


                                           you transform my distress
into your guilt.
I'm not a scapegoat
for the way you feel towards yourself.

                                                you're blamelessness
                                                reminds me of my shamefulness.

i'm convicted of crimes against humanity
convicted of crying over you and me.

                        you saw it didn't you?
                        that I couldn't make eye-contact with you.
                        because i'm no good.
                        but good at being bad.

disappointed in me,
myself -
because my best never seems to make it into your realm of goodness.
hiding
bleeding gums from when your words are pointed at me
i'm still finding the tiny glass shards you kept beneath the sheets.

I am listening for
the sky to open up and some divine message
to be whispered in my ear
And I am listening for
the TV to tell me I’m living my 17-year-old life wrong
And I’m listening for
the Truth to finally be spit into the sludge of the city.
I am listening for
the mother holding her son by the shoulders
telling him, “They shoot first, ask questions later”
And I’m listening for
the gunshots to finally get inside my head
And I’m listening for
the sounds of sirens that will not come.
I am listening for
the hopeless screams, in fact they’re all I can hear
And I am listening for
the disenfranchised revolution
And I am listening for
America to stop planting flowers
over the graves of the oppressed.

I am listening for
America to say she’s sorry
And I am listening for
the eulogy of discovery
And I am listening for
Bukowski to meet his teary-eyed love.
I am listening for
Dean to find me in the alley
And I am listening for
the day I become the instrument
And I’m listening for
the Cambodian Cassette Archives to finally make it big.
I am listening for
the lost chord that will revive us all
And I am listening for
the blues to make me drunk
And I am listening for
you to shut up and let me write.


I am listening for
America to sob
And I am listening for
the path to blamelessness
And I am listening for
the Indian man at the gas station
to finally say “hello” back to me.
I am listening for
the easier way
And I am listening for
the day I remember being excited.  
I am listening for
the man who is always the sacrifice
And I am listening for
the false adoration
And I am listening for
America to choke on her own ash.
I am listening for
America to get down on her knees
And I am listening for
my mom to tell me what to say
And I am constantly listening for
the day when I can stare at a person
And not be disappointed when I realize
there is no comfort or familiarity.

I am listening for
God to be pure
And I am listening for God to be real
And I am listening for
God to finally show us his blood-stained hands.

It was that we were so right
That we were wronged
That ruined us—

That we clawed absolution
From innocence presumed,
Which, pursued,
Saw us to this end:

That we did not know
And never knew
The cruelties
Of blamelessness.

In all that searching
For whom 'the bell tolls',
We thrash about, threadbare
In plaintivity,
In hopes
That each admits
What each denies—

Forgetting
That failure to forgive
Itself occurs
Before the wrong.

Since there's not help, come let us kiss and part;

Nay, I am done, you get no a greater amount of me;

Furthermore, I am happy, yea, happy with my entire being,

That along these lines neatly I myself can free;

Shake hands for ever, drop every one of our pledges,

Also, when we meet whenever once more,

Be it not seen in both of our temples

That we, one scribble of previous love hold.

Presently, at the last heave of affection's most recent breath,

At the point when his heartbeat coming up short, energy stunned falsehoods,

At the point when confidence is bowing by his bed of death,

What's more, blamelessness is quitting for the day eyes,

Presently, if thou woulds't, when all have given him over,

From death to life Thou might'st him yet recuperate

dream catcher
dream eater
stuck spot of a distended home
dream seeder
   space render
meat reader
   blamelessness
head like the innocence of road-trip paraphernalia
all the little things that bring you comfort
and
direction

follow the love - not the sorrow.