howzit?

north shore oahu. summer break came early this year.

there and back (here and back?) back again.

last pick in gym class.

the way it is.

woods of waste make oxygen for all consuming children.

saints and sinners.

love lives beneath these sheets.
soft and sharp where
flowers take up arms
ive jumped and fell;
so long.

summer.

sun rises on salt city summer
as people all around me smile.
try harder; ive found the center.

april showers.

early april sun shrouds itself in clouds.
together they dance across sky giving
rain to nutrient starved soil.

prose (look up prosaic)

there we were and here i was quite ready to put down all of the best things that were said tonight. things about how middle class kids could never relate to black angst. things about the worst part was i actually respected your opinion. things about childlike wonder and punctuation and old big dogs. it was going to be amazing and prolific. it was, and then the other half hit.

the truth.

light through blinds in mornings
look through orange colored lenses.
live to laugh yet laugh at life.
space and time and time through space.

mine. yours. ours. theirs.

i write but never anonymously
my secret little life is very simple:
i pine and pine and pine for the woman
whos name i etched in my chest.

home.

yesterday i was there where pelicans taunt tops of waves as children play.
i was home.
today i am here and empty beercans send smokesignals
to sky with sun that makes me sweat. my things are here.
am i home?

sometimes i feel like i am you.
is this true?

look

a young sailor lost in a sea of shallow smiles
takes a vow of silence, hoping the hands
dropping rocks making waves and capsizing
ships will become the arms outstretched to
guide him home.

dear myles:

please make it public again.
remember transmit your data?
this is the new babylon.
what can our children do
with what we have left them?

untitled.

untamed emotion shrouded in steve mqueen cool.
how can anyone penetrate that...
more importantly why should anyone even try?
its too late to help me help you.
you say i should publish what i think. what i feel.
why put a price on the moment?
numbers and data just turn truth into shadows
cast on cracked pavement and tired eyes.

two nights ago i was a passenger through another friends purgatory.
what my friend didnt know was that their in between was my hell.

the monotones of prosperity.
the wide roads that come with it.

empty cacoons of consumerism,
sentient beings standing watch
with all seeing centers that so
arrogantly claim to connect us all.
tall walls thin halls protect
us from them.

rome is burning. and all i can do is
ask if you want cream and sugar with
your coffee.

the muse.

the well gives water to pump to faucet
content being and not knowing that it is the one
with the most important purpose: bringing the water
that is pumping to faucets that pour to vessels that hold the water
that has the power of creating and destroying life.
doing not needing. holding not hoarding. never envious
of where the water goes, just being, and in so creating
a circular union of beauty love and life.

the words i promised from fingers more nimble than animated upper lips.

i cant help but love you even
if i am sisyphus and you the boulder
doomed to push and pull
forever until we both sleep beneath
dirt and earth.

what is more romantic than an up
perfectly coupled with a downstroke?
one cannot be without the other
complete.

do you remember meeting me there?

look back on pages that read more like five stages than poetry. a beautiful reminder of a life worth living and
growing. i had a dream that we met under the most magical of circumstances. i was hiking down a trail covered in
bushes of blackberries on the columbia river, a place i often visited growing up. as the thickets cleared i could hear
the roar of summer run off and came to a flat rock that plunged down some sixty feet into a pool formed by three walls in front of a waterfall. i saw you, long hair swirling in the wind you looked up and giggled because my lips were stained with blackberries. i was speechless struck dumb seeing a saint, a sinner, a siren and a muse radiating from a body i wanted to know. time stood still as you beckoned with the smallest of gestures, stood up and lept. i heard the splash but couldnt follow, as my legs were weary from the journey that brought me to you and me.

what felt like moments later i too lept and felt the wind in my hair and my stomach in my chest. as i hit the water and sunk from the warm shallows to the deep beneath,i broke the surface in time to see you scrambling back up the rock to the ledge where we first met. you made it all look so easy. i made my way to the rocks and started the climb. i was tired and shivering and my fingers were slippery and i tried with blood starved limbs to catch you but you dissapeared over the top and from my perspective you were too far away. gone.

halfway up and hugging worn handholds my mind started questioning why i couldnt jump when you did...perhaps the timing was wrong or somwhere deep inside i was just scared. i felt the push of my legs and the pull of gravity and time forever grinding forward and timing laughing at me knowing it owed me one from the times before.

a three minute climb seemed to take three months and as i pulled myself over the crux back to the ledge where we had met you were still there...waiting in the sun, with beauty eminating from seagreenblue eyes. you had been there the whole time, i just couldnt see you from thirty below my face buried in stone. i sat down next to you and you giggled sending shivers through my wet, but sunwarmed body. no words were spoken but a thousand things were said as we sat together in the sun. whats next? we seemed to be saying in feelings neither of could muster up in words. will we be content drying off in the sun until i am strong enough to climb the path back to the life i knew before you? you just kept smiling as you grabbed my hand and inched closer and closer to the edge...

notebooks from may found in june #10

loveclouds and rainy days.
move to portland; chase away.

notebooks from may found in june #9

changing subjects like fixing broken shoes;
as easy as dropping them off at the shoemaker.
you in there behind screendoors and beneath
hand woven dreams.
you in a dark corner
of a small room you have painted yourself into.
us sleeping like stonefaced angels
blocks away but worlds apart.

notebooks from may found in june #8

beets.
always three.
a self-destruct complex
leaves us(me) terrified of
even numbers.

oversaturated greens hang
themselves so carelessly in
overexposed yet underdeveloped
chiaroscuro nights.

even this scar will eventually
fade to black.

notebooks from may found in june #7

one two three me.
four five new you.
five six zero seven.
two seventeen am
and stil our pinata is.
if things would
just reverse
i could save us all (tm)

notebooks from may found in june #6

they know too!
skin softer and
fathers who loved
them
and masks
left
at doors between
self absorption
and self.
vagina penis union
confusion
because acceptance is
the new golden calf.

notebooks from may found in june #5

drum rolls and machine gun shots;
rooftops.
gray skys spent lives, dive bars.
hydro-nic-affiene sativa nasal spray benders;
broken hands and healing hearts.

she is her mothers mother.
she is her fathers mother.

notebooks from may found in june #4

this is the pedistal i put you on.
the score stands: three yous to
every one me.

hang while rain falls from ground
to sky.

notebooks from may found in june #3

i look up.
if only you could (would)
we would see the
same crescent moon.

sun murders moon
murders sun and
we call it a day.

yet
with all this blood
on their hands the
light still brings
change and life.
death is life and life
brings death and the phoenix
rises from its ashes.

pronouns.

summer feathers flaunt as words taunt
bent and broken a thousand different ways.
gemini moon rising over lion sky
is truth read between lines?

near a corner beneath a sign
where your street meets my street
lies a locked box
shorn of secrets, the fullfilment
of past promise and agreement.

it is for you so you will know
where to find it..

notebooks from may found in june #2

your history books are dead;
solely the expression and confessions
of bourgeois dynasty.

notebooks from may found in june #1

tick tock clock ticks
seconds then mintues then halves then hours.
ours.
i know. you know. we know.
we know.

this is an excuse to keep going there
seven letters at a time.
i wish that we could use other excuses as
the same ones become so transparent
when used over and over and over again.
over.
over again.

hot shots and bike rides. gold charms
because you are charming and dont
like silver.

tick tock clock ticks.
i wait and you dont even care.
or you do and are better at keeping
the mask on without the makeup ever
smearing when you sweat.
dont let your guard down.

old friends. old wounds.
the sutures becoming my
future and reopen
on my sleeve where i used to
wear my heart.

tick tock clock ticks and
i twist a green tea al green
mix tape as music helps
ease the mind and bring on
sleep where some find peace
and others perversions which
very well might be peace for those
who breathe deep and sensual in those
seconds before a slumber that lasts hours
but seems to last days.

perceive. grieve for dead relatives
when all is relative and our playoff
dreams are crushed with two silly
mistakes in the last minutes of
a well fought match.

matches with their sulfur smell
seduce my dulled senses and make
me want to feel what you feel.

tick tock clocks tick..

meanings with no words for meaning.

mouths bind us as
hearts speak truth
in silence.

its work now!
but it works now!

in gardens we grow.

sit in circles, straight lines through them.
rotations left divide and lessen.

lost boys grow minds of men in astroturf gardens.

as different as we see the color green
it is these moments i feel connected.
zen lunatics court hopeless romantics
and stoned imaculates
in matters of truth and perception
at the same time finding and surpassing
intimate connection.

in times of need an old friend brought this life
to my driveway with wine stained teeth and every moment
spent on this patio strengthens belief in waiting for the
good things to find you being you.

come again...

sex is loves manifest.
making love is love.
or is it?
wendy sewed my
shadow to me
so i never lose it.

caution...

dont pee on cement:
you will only get your shins wet.

about a park and a rainy day but not a park on a rainy day.

wait in the same place. you are late.
there is something strangly comforting
about all of this. its like you said:
its like last summer only we know eachother
better. still waiting, breath like boones farm;
breathe.

surrounded by friends and family and lovers
but none are my own. still waiting,
does it feel like home?

a hundred hands and a hundred hearts
march to sunday evening. i sit.
i pick what i hear, what i see because
these eyes are my own.

grounded in reality,
scribbled words become overwrought
confessionals turning lives into the movies
real life could never be.

you see life as you choose,
as do i, and really is there
any room to be us?

sometimes right is right.
other times it just feels that way,
the same as night to day.
the half heart half drunk luck
of what was.

remember when what we didnt know but wondered
kept us together?

at some point what is and what was
met head on and slowly became now,
and i wouldnt have it any other way.

about a boy.

he sits and watches clouds go by. the intellectuals have their words, and the businessmen their cars, but he has something no one else does: he has learned to fly. high above citys and streets he moves; watching, listening, learning. silently judging only because no one could hear him anyway. his life is that of a hedonist. when he is hungry, he eats. when he is tired, he sleeps. when he is horny he fucks and so forth. living a life that is worth living.

occasionally he stops by the life he left for this. the life full of feeling and growing. he saw the girl he left behind grow to be a woman and love a man and a life he could never relate to. she welcomes him with open arms when he does see her, but more with the pitying curiousity of someone who knew him then and now. at what point did she melt into the distance of growing up?

at night it almost feels like he is there. back in that room looking and feeling the light that has since left him.
he is afraid of nothing except his nightmares, and that is the riddle to his existence.

when i see too i see clearly...

the most prolific realizations come years after
they present themselves.
the best mixtape ive ever had covered massive attack,
and hot coals are only hot in the mind.
come firewalk with me.

revolutions mingle with gear ratios and grace
and the beauty of grease and proper chain tension.
the tension both realized and imagined...created in
the mind and collective longings of hallmark greeting
cards and corporate holidays.

holidays. days. weeks. months years.
where will we be in ten days weeks months years?
together? any rational thought i have left says no.
stream of consciousness hiding in stanzas as
poetry...is that what this is?

is that what we have become?

the lines i walked and the humble brush strokes
of unemployment passed with manana jams.

thankyou for work when i was broke and
love when i was heartbroken.
i could never hate you for that.

how do you know things before they happen?

cloudy day confession. (thank you.)

thankyou for being, doing,
thinking.
for listening to self rightous
rightside rants under roof under rain under
clouds above us.

for coffee brewing while i smoke handrolled cigarettes
not by my own.

for believing in me being more
than i am now because we are.

past ever present
in words worth more in twos and threes
than their actual meanings.

no phone rings.
self exile or self preservation?

thankyou for helping me survive outside
this digital world we have imprisoned
ourselves in.

the man behind the boy behind the mask.

seven letters at a time you strip me of the armour i so
carefully put on each morning when i wake up.

to jean michel basquiat

a perfectly planned escape
finds its soulmate
in the execution.

an effortless downward spiral;
a beautiful disaster of self induced
self abuse. of self.
chaos as art as life.
cut short at its peak only
in the minds of those not living.

march twenty-first
two thousand seven:
the beginning of
august twelfth
nineteen-eightyeight

secretly pining for the
drugs money was spent
rehabilitating.

money as art as life.
not the money itself
but the existences we
all create with an ideal.

hours spent dying for
something just as easily
spent living for.

living as art as dying.
because living is dying
even in the philosophy
of the optimist.

time is a name we give
a concept which is working
towards an end we all are
forced to agree on.

we labeled the radiant child
an addict and a tragedy.
a perpetuation of money and
greed caught up in what others
wanted and self needed,
failing to see light following
a perfect illuminated path.

we hung him so carelessly, washing our hands
of consequence borne of lofty goals;
a martyr for pop culture.
a mere side effect for those
wearing green tinted glasses.
he died that we may all be made whole.
dont cry for his journey was your salvation

notes on walking.

he sits. he listens.
his is and isnt.
his being long ago lost in a storm
heading west on I-80, a young boy
with seven days stubble only seen
up close in the sunlight.


half breath; tight chest; telephone poles
disappear and forshorten into the blues of atmospheric
perspective.
one foot in front of the other.
this foot that foot, his feet hurt.

beneath hunched shoulders
and tired eyes and feet
there are puddles
reflecting an emaciated
frame, a judging reminder
of the morning rainfall.

he walks and sometimes jogs
through alleys and doors,
locked safely behind transparent
walls.

at what point will he give up
too close to stop; undernourished
and scarred by the son.

if i put these tired feet back into the worn souls
of these three dollar shoes
can we stop talking and meet halfway?

brown bagged confessions.

everyone is waiting
for he to become we:
our dreams and projections.
a universal hope that
fails because of odds
and authority issues.

what about he and his?
dreams
hopes
morals
codes
woes
quarells
of self
and those
that help.

walking, crossing
lines and time
of silent cabbage patch
ramblings...scribblings.

crosses borne
of self preservation
and halos drawn of
oil sticks and redtoothed
bliss.

let you and me be we.
for now is what i wish yesterday
could have been.

explanations and and expectaions and proclamations of sticking it out.

within me lies a nameless number
whos ten digits hold secrets
that bring me to me and you.
rock god. rock on.

i cause you pain by only choice.
a sinner and savior and pepertuator of
hexagonal cells for validation of self.
(read:experience)

all emotion lost in digitizing the human
conditon.
mistakes made. not made.
conversation steralization.

if you could see your death would seeing
mean believing or questioning and changing?

halves of ceramic cigarettes
and half drunk half hearted
half living giving.

lets take our clothes off
and masks off and brains off
and same socks that sun blocks
from one thing we
both need light shed on.

waiting for eli.

late night long wait
circles and oneupsmanship.

peekaboo nothing good comes

i
me
you
we
us
we
you
me
i

bigspace bigsky montana
twin packed assault on
addict with heart of gold.

left hands and counter-clockwise
education.
sheep in wolves clothing
cloning life with
sight smell taste touch
sound.

stinky feet beneath window covered by mexican blanket.

learn in books and bags.
pay latefees and tuition:
total control of institution.

intellectual
prostitution
pays the bills
thursday thru sunday.

rip off and busted egos not face but kind of wrist.

this is how it starts.
six maybe seven tracks and neosporin,
nasal spray and cigarettes.
i sing to you like no one is watching
and in that moment i love myself for it
even though the windows are down and
i am out there in the sense that the scensters
and flairwolves and bros and pros can hear me
as they walk by on their way to whatever it is they
are looking for.

i like car talks and the present
because its a gift and the future
because i like weeks and weaks
and friends and not friends and
flavors and finals but not taking them.

enter the past:
dangerous and dark and grey.
a place that takes the wind out of
sails in dreams and pulls ankles down
when i knew i could fly.

ankles that are too thin and worn
and need five thousand calories a day to keep
up with the weight that can so easily
be lost when the brain moves like my
forty seven-seventeen legs.


nothing poetic about battling.
mustache versus flairwolf
versus you and me and us
and them and prius and prithem.

words that i want to say cant be
put on paper because i dont know
how to say them, or worse, begin
spell them.

ego battles eggos and legos and
robots that i used to build when
wearing a mask wasnt even an
issue let alone an option.

nothing rhymes and im okay with that.
do you hear me? im okay with everything.
im okay with my roomates meeting soulmates
and im more than okay with all night dance parties
and pretending not to laugh because if i didnt pretend
my face would hurt from smiling so much as of late.
because of you.

my shoulders are as narrow as most of your world views
but who am i to judge as i cant even draw iraq from memory.
i am destined to be peter pan the lion tamer but wendy loved
him and he had a much better time than men in suits and suits
and men and men in general. give me my narrow shoulders;
it just gives me an excuse to be a boy.

this is how it is: somewhere along the way i fell...
im not sure how or why or for what reasons but
when i did you came to rescue me. and even if i turned
down the ride i just might love you someday for that.

redcloud-ed

I've heard that there are
two sides to every story.
is this the good side?

haiku (i,you,we know.)

paul schmid disappeared.
in alaska bears eat fish
yey faced eagles fly.



paws for hands he growls
i am the lion tamer.
home safe angels sleep.



warm ponds. trees grow tall.
one block up and five blocks over.
floating loving summer.



desireless. real.
no handed trackstands and such
redcloud wordsmiths skid.



boones for the bike kids.
big bugs do drugs (the bad kind)
dance-off pants-off dawn.



no brakes plastic face.
nice jeans form to lanky frame
live love laugh love more.


in tents at times broke.
a real zen lunatic lives
two down five over.



delicious. cluttered.
reincarnate peter pan.
beautiful chaos.



half moon on its side.
adventure awaits my friend.
finds himself alone.

look behind and see o.

potsmoking proletariat playing on paternal
passions and pixilated parallels; paradigms of
preposterous proportions.

basic entomology: a guide to mondays in the city.

teastick twists.
she incysts, you have a one in three chance
and would never even know it.

i make no apologies for not making apologies.
im sorry.

big bugs do drugs.
red clouds and full moon nights.
i love everyone.
inside jokes. outside vietnam vet
bums cigarette, an unlikely member
of carpool eight.

ride glide slip slide
wine with
a european twist appearing from behind
a pink and yellow and blue zippered door.
head cocked flip flop nintendo dance moves.

they look at me wild eyed with bloodstained
fangs and howl at the moon.

religion as it relates to geometry:regifting the past as an unsoud investment.

small white lights hover in front of big bright lights
at acute angles to the ideal trajectories of
peace and understanding.

hope and bikespokes spill from heartshaped hells of
tomorrow is yesterday and everything means more
than even those who say it.

you have painted yourself into a
room in the wall with a small size door.
two hundred fifteen days become the
two flashing lights half a block ahead
that i will never catch up to.

universal insecurities are little white lies
and a knot beneath your right shoulderblade
and words in paintings and pictures in poetry
and the fears of failures that not trying never made.

universal truth can be found in the innocent ramblings
of corner drunks
and the spraypainted mattresses
and the back alleys
and unnoticed freckles beneath
the lips of obtuse angels sent at odd hours
to save us all.

small white lights hover and
i throw away everything not bad
for me. throw away, delete
everything good.

children hide behind men in tom selleck masks
and flairwolves howl at the moon and the sun and the son
and the father and the holyghost.

change comes from within.
that is to say there is two dollars
and fifteen sense in dimes and nickels and quarters
stuck deep
inside deeper pockets of shallow pants
that these fingers could
not possibly begin to reach.

small white lights hover at acute angles
in a cacophonous comatose dream
spanning the pain of euclidian plains.
this has been a weird weak.

its easier to breathe up here (shallow poem)

zip! zow! love! yow!
hotdog handjob blackrob
you are to he as she is to me.
just be.

glib glug wine jug.
big bugs do drugs.
the bad kind.
words are fun.
fun is done.
the word is mum.

three word. it rains pain
and brains and clogs lanes
with lame kids and nasal congestion.
you really let yourself go.

the fear of intimate connection
and contamination.
not living. living. loving not loving.

dirty air the smell of springbreak.
it will all be over soon.

notes on the lunar cycle (save me a slow dance)

farmers fill gray silos with handmade grains.
count days and days and waves and waves
with gibbous waxing and waning gibberish.

i am a farmer. we all are.
reaping and sowing and growing.
selling the fruit of our labor that we like
and throwing away or forgetting that which we don’t
with clichés like “ive had better days” and the
saturated grays and endless expanses of the same.
screen doors hanging above my head
and your head
and our heads
and so forth.

i am a poet. we all are.
spinning words and existence
with precision and persistence.
the only difference is the medium.
words are pictures are stories are fashion is music
and so forth

i am a lover. we all are.
charmed tales of princes with smelly feet
and dirtyhaired girls hiding in forts made
of metaphors and stale sheets.
dancing like no one is watching.

i am. we all are.
wailing crooning laughing crying
living dying.
opposites attract and refract forming
waves and waves for days and days.
i am. we are.
somewhere you are us.
that is we are everything
and we are the same
and so forth.

breakfast and bedridden beauty.

he was a workout warrior,
loved in the locker room.

a jc melody jogs as
ivy in cotton blankets collapse
beneath your warm embrace.

sensitivity is sold in
two shot increments
and early morning balcony seats.

tin can hobo solos;
im catching the next bus home.

two timed with coffee and cigarettes.
crispy.
sourdough toast.

still smells,
coffee top sailboats navigate rainbow waves.

bodies of bodies

kaleidoscope impulses fire.
desire manifests itself as three dollar thriftstore shoes.
a stranger in my own city
(stranger than the city)
is visiting the past.

i was there. i am here.
so i am there.
if perception is reality how is this different?
walk around impenetrable gates
walls built by man but imposed by self.
it isn’t the gate that keeps one out
but rather the idea.

drunk on selfrighteous and simultaneous
finding and losing.
breathe. sink. streets stink of burnt rubber; my pride becoming
my shoes melting to circles melting to asphalt and concrete.
i see you seeing a neon ocean.

i see you, that is i see your body.
in your body i see everyone.
in your costumes i see you.
i think about thinking about you.

lights change and i notice.
how do lights change for you?
do we share anything but the desire to share something?

sink. vision is perception is reality.
sight smell sound taste touch.
rush through electric arteries as time stands still.
these deserted streets sing and speak
i see houses and cars
and love and struggle and survival
and style and piles upon piles of
manufactured security.
lights change and i notice.

where i am. i am alone.

perception versus reality: a peter pan story.

at long last i am
too far to turn back.

this was a bad idea.

i sit, picking through piles of what is real
and what i say is real. sitting on the potential
of differential magnitudes.

dressing up helps you play the part.
i am not wearing shoes.

it is early. it is late. it is nothing and cars become
neon under cardiffornia nights.

this noise is silencing and i hear the earth breath.
lights flash flash flash the metronome of universal lungs.

fears manifest themselves as old friends from college
showing up unannounced. talking politics and how to
save the world over beer and swinging everymen.

randys' rizla zigzag juicebar prescriptions.
running wild as the night we are running wild in.
watch the wind seduce terrycloth desire cultivate neoprene dreams.

it all ends soon. foreshadowing shadows and ghosts
that guide us through our dreams.

she sings to me but what?

neon ;nosespray not wandering, buried beneath this junegloom july.
she sings and wades through this centuries-old collective breath.

the earth is round! i see it in the distance!
wading, waiting, stairs staring holes in the backs of heads.
look listen learn yearn burn one down in the name of rehashing passed.



then i had a lot to learn.
brain waves abade for days cathcing the real butch cassidy quesioning
self after reading a camus essay

affected effects change this fitler perspectively as i turn around
and walk home knowing i must one day write down what i know.

such is.

bohemia fingers mtv brain.


wayward velcro soles wander
not lost.

raglan backpack vagabonds
rainbows explode
beneath the cuff.

shortskirt; handmade.
bed ridden lovehandle
lollipops handgrenade.

screaming skeleton
chest plate, smiles.
i am dying slowly.

kellygreen oh-
seven heaven;
save me a soft spot on a a cloud
ill be along soon.

doppelgaenger: a letter to bill viola

beware of trickery.
no truth can be that without
the necessary eye contact.
alone at night i cry for nameless
savants; us. the invisible is all
around and we share it.

this iv is inside me
beating my conscience.
what are borrowed words
if we all share them anyway?

my chest hurts.

i am connected to the person directly
in front of me to the left. i miss her.
i am connected to the person next to me
is you are us and we are everywhere.

i miss everyone because they are me,
and in me i see you.
in you, you see me
because i am you and we are.

this moment is what came between
BREATHLESS and
ME AND YOU (AND EVERYONE WE KNOW)
a year or so in the future.


this is a three part question:
has the past passed?, is this the future?
is the standard still dvd?

thoughts are the circles that hold together
what some call the push and pull of things.
somehow i already knew all of this.

one eyed grins

from this tree where i sit i see everything.

so high, no one can hear me and no one is waving me down.

i see you.




the local drunk is a sage in disguise.
a hedonist who preaches peace and understanding.



no need for shoulders with a good alibi. 



i always miss you in the afternoon of the spring,
whos long hours bring too much time for learning.



bow legged beggars conspire; pushed out by a room full
of one eyed grins.
snowflakes fall like seagulls hovering in the wind.



i see you.
come down from there.
for now im staying.

.

come down from there.

thanks, but for now im staying.



sleeping bags zipped together. the points and planes are interchangable but the theorem remains true.


up here things are smaller.



blue eyed bookies make wagers with wandering sailors as a breeze rustles the leaves and my branch bows. 

behind the curtain is a woman with a one eyed grin,

and she controls everything.

the sound of sprinklers (summer)

chk chk chk chk…
running swinging swaying saying funny things.
saved by crazies pedal pedal pedal s k i d stop.
hide your bike inside, laugh hug love winemug.


chk chk chk…
summer sun shortpants sundecks speedos cannonballs
walls and walls socerballs. this will kill me someday.

cheap wine cheap time.

i know a cat who is the mother of a dog
that does what she wants.

pastel nights, angry children hate fathers they never had.



tapdance telephone improvise styrofoam.
books looks cooks wine time dine mine.
selfdoubt selfabsorb selfdestruct overlord.
sandiego cheap champagne Amtrak coaster train.

i move.

when i move you move.

blue replaces teal when the rain falls.
stored in this garage with everything else
tarnished by feeling.

golden waterfalls cascade from slender arms
raised to the sounds of lifes busy cadence.

my legs like my brain rarely stop moving
a delicate course orchestrated
with trumpets and red lights.

when i move you move.

shiny black robots

in the future things appear from pictures.

topangas life granting waters evaporate
through my pores as i breathe in the city.

in between santuaries of rubbish there are
highways and reststops.

uptight apollos charm aristocrats
daughters and shiny black robots
scurry about, as fruitless nector
awakens willing minds.

in the future things appear from pictures and i am.

leaving sayulita

dancing with mia podemos jugar.
balancing with mia learning spanish.

chest high glass off gauntlet racey noseride tent tribe.

shit river misty jungle mountain boat ride
spending my twenties like this.

not needing needing loving my parents.

thanksgiving after.

thanksgiving after

wait in line to buy
more shoes.

bred to bleed the
working man dry.