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