They Bleed for Thoughts

Can you see the heavy weight in my eyes, gravity like planets that keep moons in orbit. Sorrow for the sadness that hangs like pendulums from the corners of my worn cheeks. People are dying for causes, for freedoms, for ideals, because they're fed up with the way things are so they change them with their words, with their fists, with the bricks from their homes, and the flames from their own hearths. They bleed for thoughts, for the way things ought to be and amidst the greatest acts of violent atrocity the greatest acts of brotherhood and of humanity and of love are commited as well. We can see that established order is an illusion, a paradox, a false security put in place by people in power with money and the means to murder and scare. To see people re-wire there brains and their fists to change their reality is the most beautiful thing this world could ever witness, more beautiful than the sun, than the sea, than the moon, than a woman, than all of those things grouped into one thing more beautiful than beauty herself. I shed tears and tear my heart from my chest. I want to rest in the excitement and thrill that gives the masses the power to chill me to my core and uphold an idea that fundamentally alters how human beings live on this planet...

Grow up

We've grown up. I see my friends doing grown up things like getting insurance for their extra vehilce but lying about the mileage to get lower rates. I get phone calls about verification on my period 4 revenue  forecasts. I say things like drive in percentages and transient numbers and occupancy rates.
John fields a call from his girlfriend and similtaneously on his multitasking smartphone calculates his insurance payment per month. We've become like TV, with commercial breaks, always on the clock even when were off. An now a word from my sponser. The coversation continues and we talk about things like yields and suit sizes, we talk about profit and highrises, synthesizers, eyes in eye liner, and our dreams. Future plans and angles are examined, the truth is told about lies and lies are told about truth. I feel old at 24. Knowing however that 80 is the average life span of a caucasion male living in the USA. So I'm a little over a quarter of the way thru the whole thing. I zoom out on my microscope and feel smaller and intimidated. Force focusing my lens I regain some sense of the way the world revolves around me like it did before I thought about my chronological age compared to average life span of a caucasion male living in the USA. A time line stretches out before me like a text book or a National Geographic fold out spread page special. And I realize again that I'm so fully aware of myself and that I've lost my marbles and my molars.  

Valentines

Love is music, a poem of verses.

At times a hard-core circle pit, 

a tornadoe of fist and feet, 

black eyes, 

bloody knuckles 

and broken noses. 

At the same time it is rapturous symphonies, 

1000 pieces strong, 

cadenced and climaxed, 

valley and peak, 

trough and trepid tip,

with ballet dancers, white laced with purple stardust 

and perfume, elegance. 

It is gypsies wielding tambourines and veiled faces,

seductive eyes and mysteries of arsenic thoughts 

that throw burning bottles of Molotov-desires 

at the wooden stick hut that is the heart.

Love is the nth demension.

The last butterfly

Deep down inside I'm a suffering poet. 

Killed little by little by beauty and tormented by passion.

I can't and don't want to get close to it, 

but I want to be inside of it. 

It's like the very last butterfly, 

you can't touch it or attack it
but you couldn't ever let it out of your sight.  

I think that the suffering is my creative engine, 

my molten core of ever gyrating fission and fusion. 

That which drives me, my nuclear reactor, my silver locomotion.

That which I kills me I need to survive.

Heroin heartache. 

I'm a divine pain addict. 

Monozygotic

Slouching for a better vantage point I sift, 

like a pan of dirt and gold

Searching San Franciscan post-Russian rivers.
We recklessly careen through the concrete water ways

And dull colored Victorians.

A monozygotic masterpiece

Mirrors my position; nature’s own likeness.

Oh the things we see when we open our eyes.

Nature in her glowing hands holds a bag, it contents mysterious;

Magic and mirth?

Mystical powders?

Mushrooms and medallions?

She holds the making of reality in her reusable shopping bag.
Nature dawns identical shiny red overcoats

With faux leopard cuffs and circular framed glasses

And sits on the bus in front of me.

Her fury cuffs begin to purr and snarl.

With my thoughts I ask her what she has in her bag of tricks.

In unison nature she replies “groceries.”

Nature is an installation artist.

A magician

We, we are all just collectors of images and experience

THE show
Admission is free,

Curtain call is your birthday,

Bring your own snacks.

Sink in

Drunken light, the yellow of whiskey
sits heavy on my rye and emerald eyes.
soft hallway echos sink in,
resonating like harp chords my 206 bones.
The leather smells of lazy days and amber dust.
Drunken sun rays quietly spill into the room
and circle and sniff before spreading out on the rug
before me.
The dust get restless and flickers like sparks off a match head
each fleck losses its fight and returns to rest again on the rug.
I'm a couch blanket, I warm the cushions beneath me.
I sink into the epidermal molecules of what was once a great plains roamer.
we roam the lands of rooms that live, taking our imprints with us.
This is the hardest I've ever tried to melt.

Pools of Sunshine and Fog

When one makes a mark it is some how violent and in this violence is great beauty. Life is thrusted, in the middles of silence and during moments of trembling roars on to the face of the poor mans canvas. In the right light these fractions of breath, lost moments of inspiration glisten like broken glass in the gutter next to a pool of sunshine and  fog.

like stapling a cloud to the concrete

Putting some words down on paper
can be like stapling a cloud to the concrete.
Foggy eyes and dewy fingers blur my ink,
and in my illegible smudging,
characters melt into amoebic organisms
that swim into the vast distances
behind and between the little blue lines
on my paper pad.

It's hard to stream of consciousness
when boulders fill the bed;
they may be limestone, easily disolved and shaped
into off kiltered monoliths,
but easy is relative to flow and time