In the Middle of My Way

No look in this direction of less more.  Shake the head –
the cocktail of thoughts for preview of a future yet unfolded.
Don't draw away from the flinching fingers, wobbling to the wind –
your feathers in flight for record height.  What you press, what you say.
Multiply them by the path they will take, the wires distribute the cycles,
the circuits race with light alongside the lead, penetrating dark bored
cavities of which pockets fueled with what many crave.  Craving etched
morality decreed through dictated authority, underneath the foot of lightning,
the rod dispensing PEZ.  Sweet and easy, an unchanging rule fading behind
the least perceptible fingerprints, the fossils of our old ways' youth.

Merrily

Space contortion loosely dense with human particles so arranged to imitate
that impression of familiar face.  Lost without the gravity of television,
man of men makes madness of the frivolous.  Feelings, thrown out to the bottom
line around a thick contour of paper stacks and stocks loaded to the brim to burn.
The joke is laughter itself and together we bring down the concrete worship of blocks.
Square with right angles and light that travels transparently through all the bodies –
my heaven alike, your first time awake.  Good morning,
dear friends of mine.

Who Waits

Sing along.
The witches wail with the wolves and invite you every evening with a look.
Burning pit of bones keeps you warm, and this is how things were since before you were born.
I know.  I know.  You talk to yourself repeating only this.  The words' meanings unknown to you.
Let things break.  All hands pulled in, back into our sleeves and cloaks, we share handshakes
with ourselves.  The wishful hungry, happy simply wishing more.

I met you underneath a tent when the morning was cold and the grass wet.
You left me with an empty cup of tea cupped in both my hands.  I waited for you
to return from the kitchen.  I wished I checked the kitchen before I awoke.
Underneath the sunlight, all your animals returned to sleep.

Tires Loose

The track runs silent.  Time is kept, numbers count nothing
and nothing persisting.
Foot steady on a pedal I'm forgetting, only feeling this color
seen night blue.
Horizons black and rolling
along this road, a highway clear of cars but mine.
Mountains rugged and jutting jagged tree lines
break the thoughts
of lost things long since trivial.  As life elongates
its brevity smiles.  Now I see the infinite pass like wind recycled
around me, the tired breath of the breathing.

Dazed yellow stream of asphalt – waterfall beneath me.

Stick

It was glue stuck between two things I didn't mean to be together.

When I said you, I meant I.  When you said you, you meant yourself.

So the hands all separate and alone couldn't clap.  The fingers clumsily

couldn't snap.  And the tongue in the mouth couldn't round out the sound.

I love you, we repeated just like they do.  On the LCD screens and at the center

of a 3D sound system, sitting obediently under the hanging curtains parted,

entering the myth of reality departed, every fantasy facsimile projected from just another

reel.

Continue? 10

We are the continuing creation of its initial reaction
but nothing lasts forever so the time comes to sit at the dinner table with the wick already exhausted and the negotiation with death initiated – immediately terminated.  The hearts' beatings stop.  Not a whisper of hope left in the ashes fertilizing reconfigured growth.
Nevertheless without –
it appears.

Love Past This

Did not love the love I had.  Slipped it on in mornings
and walked sleepy-eyed into the bathtub that collects my bathwater.
Daily soaking, scrubbing, and watching my self drain
down behind the floor.  Imagine identity invented under simulated rain,
simulated stimulation, a simulation of cleansing, renewing.  Still the same.
Disappointed.  Cold.  Shivering replacing shame and a standing upset, dragging a towel over goosebumps, I cannot command.  The lump of existence, the thought of existing
genuinely among and to the animated corpses of the acting corps, chilled to the marrow
I run for the blood.  As if running itself will be energy enough to boil the toxic in me
if only to purify partly.

Soul Skin

I enter the darkness.  It's not uniform.  Colors float in tangled mists

wading in uncertain directions.  They mix, the blue, the green, everything in between.

Separate and merging, blending behind each other, disappearing without warning.

Here, I have no limbs;  I cannot reach out;  I cannot call out.  I am here to witness

my own experience heightened awareness diminishing all the same, this time - stretching.

I can feel.  These sensations I fail to describe.  The attenuation of consciousness, losing

itself felt.  Textured fabric and cool hard surfaces, the touch without the physical exclamation.

Purely in the mind recalled, snippets replayed, looped for undecided periods.  Pleasure

dissipating into sleep.  Black canvass becoming less opaque, filled with play so free

I musn't disturb it with my silly intentions to be happy.

Hammer

Pop pop pop pop fun
gunfire goes off pop-pop-pop! Click!
click click click.  But that's not the end of it.
Reload.

We don't fight to stay alive.
We fight to be alive.

So comrades, brothers in arms, philosopher kings,
know your place and realize how far it is from where you are.
If a distance is seen, it must be travelled.  Prepare before your
adventure takes you into itself and writes your actions into its telling
of victories in counting.

Warm Shade

The world emerges without a presentable beginning, just a sudden awakening.
Body found in familiar and novel contortions.  The aches, sores, and parts that feel good to feel
stretched out and enjoyed for its stretching feelings.  We moan along with the passing pleasure.
A pause for a thought arising, a piece of a dream fading, a pause to that.  A silent empty peace
perhaps even unnoticed, shaken off with the habitual thought of having something to do.  Walk out
and the light from eight minutes dawns upon the freshly unwashed face.  The grandeur of clouds catching colors of morning light transfers itself imprinted glory upon the bloods responsible for passion in your heart.  This subliminal worship of the morning sun happens for years before any public announcement of its acknowledgement.  Most days begin with breakfast.