If passion is to truth, as love is to youth

Then the head of the gift horse is severed

Released from the pressure,

Of a sense of offense,

Since truth needs only one to be loved. 

But the closer I navigate to these facts in our fiction,

These

Gravitating blackholes of thoughts densely hiding in skulls,

They are destructive,

mind-numbingly f*cked and, 

I hate that I know I don’t know. 

If reality is made or perceived. 

This can’t be news. 

These Grubble tales from the bottom of the barrel.

The passion, or fire, extinguished in many. 

Who are we to say what am I to be?

In pursuit of strength in the form perfection,

tailing trails of bloody prose ripped right from the souls

Of those

that speak to me (in secret codes) like constellations.

Art is just language

Until my brain can french kiss

And get its tongue inside of your mind

If I want to create,

communicate

Am I to steal and collage 

until some skill is bought 

from the devil who trades talent for time? 

Or to relinquish my soul, 

to the deep and unknown, 

and make art that will try to

consume me.

Endothermic reaction

Light rail screeches past him

Cold zephyrs bless

Jacket, scarf, deciduous

Her, that dark forest

Sweater wove with greens

Pines, fir, Juniper, and yew!

Indigenous to this type of weather

My generation struggles to soak in solitude. 

That overwhelming presence in the back of our minds 

like that strange burly beast beneath our beds, 

leviathan sized. 

Thrown into the deep end and assumed, 

we'd try surviving, I never thought of 

drowning, 

or to say in other words, 

to learn to live in water.

The four piece fundamental;

Life and Ground and Sky and Sea

(human, Earth, and other biotic systems)

The obligation to harmony 

or to sustain the Human Habitat

Not mutually beneficial.

Understand and respect 

Ecological means ALL

Social systems of cells and order.

Continuously die and find alive

Replicate, not to debate

Minimize the time to find the meaning

Cascade backwards into

Cisterns full of honey

Located in the building’s timbers

Atrium or vivarium or house or city hell

Exposed piping a minor annoyance

Depending on the scale. 

Sediment of plastic rubble

Trouble filter water gargle

Toilet-flushing a once used tissue.

Glass partition between

The entire system 

Harvesting

• Late in the night, when the mind deconstructs the body’s higher functions releases the notions of form. 

• a type of interior monologue resides at this secret time slipped in before midnight or maybe after 2 am

• as one becomes aware of the denouement of the moment, so arises the issue of human data recovery.

• these hours align like Orion's buckle which reveals how often amnesia plagues thoughts of a clock ago. 

• so now I know that before I sleep, a conversation to be delete, is had between my brows. 

• I can think and graze so freely since this hour will not matter as it feels like hours until the body slows like frogs in frozen lakes.

• a beating race to skip the rest and arrive where the want is reversed.

• my body starts to feel the slumber creeping up my spine, like a kaleidoscope is sliding my perceptions of touch rotating around my skin and through my bones and between those filaments of muscles tendons torn from exercise.  

• a terrifying chill to start to feel. Your body is untied from the marionette strings held by your mind and released from the idea of me starts to wander up and down the covers.

• most relaxing when you feel the deepness of your soul, like bags of bowling balls, heavy fill you up and down tied to the bed. A heavy feeling you will remember from waking up when rooster crows and you’d rather hide under covers then touch that morning air.

I have done it!

I have killed the soul inside of me.

That orchestra in my brain has ceased their play

As the conductor is strangled by my calm demeanor.

The self in the self has ceased all his being. 

I am nothing but spirit;

An observer of the ladybugs gossip, whispers from the willow trees. 

The man in the mirror and I have dissevered our ties. 

Taking turns on either side.

The ol’ mud bog ghoul 

is up to his no-good dance and 

Slag Pile Annie jumps 

into tango with the Nosferatu.

My fear and paranoia proclaim 

“we ought to run and scream”

But my heart and soul don't recoil 

from the face-less face of shoulder-full horsemen.

Frankenstein's’ maker, Mary, may marry myself

if time could slice and stitch itself back together.

Oh to be the monster’s-father’s-mother’s husband, 

till death do we meet. 

The who-wolf howls at owls who hoot back on nights of pearly milky white light 

Blood and lips bloom like magnolias in early spring’s eerie late autumn. 

The trees, having decided not on a color, 

decide on nothing at all

Better for the shade cast to be as slim

as diets may allow.

I actually don't care.

Where you had been going,

Or the music in 

those blown out speakers.

Who or what was running, 

Sprinting through your meditation. 

Disrupting leaves with gentle breeze

Leaving minds’ to hearts’ control.

Souls tire and old tires,

may have either egged the cause.

“Speed was a factor” say 

those fucking bastards

As I callously laugh 

at holes in drywall. 

The passing of pastures,

With aspens grasping soil 

Gasping for air like

lone dragon teeth soldiers

We the trees 

with roots together

Stairs descending 

Down Infinite

Holes In 

Hills and

Lost or

Searching for

Hands to hold and lives to feel bold.