To Be Struck, the Branch Marred by Lightning

A day tips the scales,
is the fat baby in the hand of the doctor
who says to the pressed white sheet mother
"The little one is certainly big
for his age, now is he not?"
when pockets are empty and those long stares
are gone and its as if the mirror
has been shattered to leave a beautiful
scattered scene across waning
numbers on the calendar, clock,
receipt, computer,
dream.
Yet off in the world,
some pin point dot
far from the torn flesh
and blood tipped glass
a young man laughs with his hands
raised in the naked, liberated air.
His days are the sum of only
a present push in the brain,
some sudden sense or passion that pushes
one along from one memory to the next ,
to a pleasant forgetfulness.

When the lights turn off
(closing time is coming soon,
always approaching!)
and the crowd has gone home
(they must have homes,
surely they must!)
when the bottles are dry
(the mouths are vacuums,
heated slimy vacuums!)
he will know this
better than before;
but no need to tap him on the shoulder
as he stands on his stool.
No need to let him fall while
he stands so tall and glorious,
for it is a sight to see
even while on the
glass covered pavement.

Stained Night Sound

Hey long shot-gone to shit- green pools
come take me to swoon,
dance in swaying melodies
the constant sting of beat
bouncing between my toes.
"Bite my nails and look in the eyes
close that mouth and hold the
heart back in your chest!"
My,
how the sidewalk's cracks have grown
to calls and sighs that
pass by me like
a gentle zephyr's promise;
all bathed in the other Greek fire
of lines and staffs
perched against strings and
gently pressed lips.

Wondrous Nothing

Branching veins stretching under elastic skin
to fit the external cause
that the blood sees best
for the cold months ahead.
Fluttering into the wind and across
the canvas all paint onto
is the hair that yearns to
lie between warm sheets
amongst two firm and delicate hands.
Outstretched legs lead further to
a path unseen.
No, it is not an uncertainty marred road
rather a beautiful nothing
that may find itself
crossing across
a love tinged sound
in November-stung ears.

World's End

Shaken by minute minutes
counting concrete blocks on town sidwalks,
words melting out the mouth
passing through ears like
the fraction of sight
carrying a nameless face.
Dirt once was alive too
and for those seeds to grow
a log must rot
and for these foot to move further
my words must die
as my footsteps tread on fall blanketed
paths to a view
of sublimity where the rough rock edges
smooth over the cracks left
by sharp respite of thoughts
that always fell short.
No need to speak;
the river babbles below
telling me a gentle story
where I need not know
any proper noun.
To dark green pines and sun drenched fields,
you give me your grace
and I will give you
what love never was received
by flesh and mind.

Into the Shining Sky

Walking in search for no voice in particular,
staring at brick pavement and observing
how my feet lift alongside my legs.
Steam drifts from the cup on the bench,
as the book drapes its covers
alongside sun crisp hands.
I look into the shining sky
even though the clouds are gone.
Though my two eyes squint as I gaze upward,
I find it all the more jubilant
to see through golden light.
Fumbling through crumpled papers
to have a laugh at how lines and stanzas
faces, falls, seasons, sounds and lost thoughts
all blur into a single sentiment
which carries itself on my back
whether I dare to turn around or not.

Imbibing the Relativity

Yelling at the face of the moon;
seeing clarity in the beauty of
a thick haze that backs up against the wall.
Frigid night is all the more reason to be warm,
the jacket against arms gives pleasure
to set the hard cotton over the sofa.
The moon yells back as feet fall against carpet
and a nod gives affirmation
that we are all sharing the night sky.
From a bear's grasp,
drinking from the same glowing cup
spilling our senses onto ourselves.

On the Moon, the World Saw Its Shadow

Wash the sorrow stained eyes
with a glimmer of light in a gaze;
the messages of long thought lost bottles
have landed on sparkling shores
and the reader knows
that a lingering voice
gazes at the stars,
listening for an answer in the twilight.
May the message of bottled up burdens
ring true into the night
and fall onto ears
as a beautiful howl for hope.

Still Tongue

Shaken by minute minutes
counting concrete blocks on town sidwalks,
words melting out the mouth
passing through ears like
the fraction of sight
carrying a nameless face.
Dirt once was alive too
and for those seeds to grow
a log must rot
and for these foot to move further
my words must die
as my footsteps tread on fall blanketed
paths to a view
of sublimity where the rough rock edges
smooth over the cracks left
by sharp respite of thoughts
that always fell short.
No need to speak;
the river babbles below
telling me a gentle story
where I need not know
any proper noun.
To dark green pines and sun drenched fields,
you give me your grace
and I will give you
what love never was received
by flesh and mind.

Autumn Notes

To try and push back the autumn air is no goal of mine. Summer air always is thick with revelry and a madness that sticks to the sweat; now that the days are cooling and the wind swirls through crackling leaves, a haze of familiarity and passion bathes in a cool river of melancholy that aims to calm the burgeoning senses that run through a young body and mind. Again, this becoming sense of romantic intrigue covers my thoughts over with warmth and delight. I wrestle with my romance though, fiddling with delicate fingers and tinkering with my own predictions for tomorrow. Nevertheless, I still smile knowing that my head will lay on fair shoulders soon again. Down the town streets I'm found, watching the clouds as I consciously catch the feeling of my feet hitting the pavement.

She holds open the door,
both walk up past the convenience store
minding the four swaying hands
feeding off of passion's demands.
Town street lights
glowing fuzz of those nights
now with a body pressed against hips
ever nearing desire and gentle lips.
Hear comes youth swelling
conscious taking all thoughts, buying and selling.
Leaving with a touch and fulfilled sentiment,
time has been youthfully spent
under the glory of dark clouds
and without cover of charcoal shrouds.

Swelling Breaths

Minding the time on a deep wind
into the thick haze of a sombre cicada call;
the end days of the season beckon
bridges to be crossed over the
crawling river I have drank in deep.
Let me kneel down by the cool banks
a few more times so I remember the taste
of the nourishing waters that fed me
all through the heat and sweat.
Let me lay under the green leaves
before they fall onto my face,
and before I bring myself to my feet
I will curl my lips onto the dirt
to get a taste of the delightful eyes
that looked into mine but a few times
under the branches.
The sun will be bright
when I come to the muddy ripples
at the end of the water's line,
but do not block the light
as I am basking in its embrace.
I know where the bridge spans
so no need to show me where to walk,
let me sit simply and breathe in the thick air
before it leaves my lungs.
There goes the grass,
swaying in the wind
like dancing hips crooning
to the sound of the time.
Overhead pass the clouds,
somehow always looking
a little like the ones in my memory.

Let me bide my moments,
as I will cross that creaking bridge
when my thoughts no longer
hold my head up to bathe in the sun.

Body's Manifesto

Speaking heavy words of strength,
dropping small change as I smile
to think of where the pennies lay.
Take this photo as I walk
down the sun baked street
on the best of July's golden days.

Talking of clouds
with an unfurled tongue
that stumbles as it learns-
words always fell a little short
as they reached thin air anyway.
I stare at a beast called angst,
it whimpers and coils itself into the corner
biting my hand
as I reach to feed the spoiled pet.
Never mind the rotten animal living 'round the bend;
there are plenty squares in the pavement
to be danced in.
Outside the window
inside some white walls
time is pregnant with its suckling
children of experience.

My muscles have been burning hoisting
a sun baked body from a crowded shore
to a pastoral clearing,
waiting for the right green grass
to rest the limp explorer,
though I rest my creaking shoulders sometimes
to let my skin breathe.
Two feet to hold one mind
and the weight after each
handshake or smile,
but those joints
remain steady still under the weight.

Dawn, always in sight
even in the dead of 3 P.M.
The clock judges too much for my taste.
Night crawls along the ground,
making sure that the morning will not
see its shameless shape shifting on the dirt.

I wish to see the man on the street
with vastness and wonder
even as I age
- but promises cannot be made
than these young jittery hands can hold.
So to tomorrow,
I can only trust
that I will rise from my bedside
and look at the sun
like the old friend it is.

Memory

From a jumbled thought, inscribed in pen.

Not too long ago (or at least as much as my mind can put the pieces of the weeks back together) I could see the side of the mountain ridge from my windowsill. Out past the wood and glass framed box, trees strung themselves in my vision as the mountainside crept into the forefront of my vision. From what I can remember, it was about late May. I could feel the haze of summer growing on the little hairs on my knuckles, while my fingernails gathered dirt from days spent under sunbaked skies. Youth collected itself and set out onto a journey of its own. Careful to live by some principles which I sill hold close (closer maybe); I followed. Springtime, though beginning to paint daylight green, left the branches bare enough so I could manage to see the thick belly and stout neck of the earthen giant sleeping outside the town. July is coming close, everything is still flowing! Without trace but with doubt the branches have filled in the gaps where the mountain could be seen. A wall of exploding verts trembles against my vision and instills vigor in my blood. Passion boils and yells like a tea kettle inside the season. Long walks, pond gazes, and the conversations that sleep beneath the folds in my brain come to mind as I crane my neck to try and get a glimpse of the mountain. All I can see are the low hanging electric lines, the usual cast of oaks, pines, and maples, and a few songbirds that dance to their own music. June is almost over, no matter that the mountain cannot be seen. Let the green make me weightless so I can float amidst the midsummer night.

Birthday Wish

Sweet golden field of my youth
(the only life I have known)!
Today the flowers are brimming with
insects' grace and travelers' leather feet;
both are walking into the day without a thought to drop.
Never have I chained myself to time but occasional that devil
has liked to lock me in a cell.
But a year has passed to see
another regeneration rising from
the cool waters beneath the spring leaves of passion.
I am thirsty, a bit undernourished,
and often times I turn my back on joy.
To be young is to be walking in a thicket of thorns
while searching for a single rose.
To realize la jeunesse is to run
into the forest with open arms as if
to embrace a lover.
Meditation draws on me this morning.
Fresh air of a new dawn
crawls out from the bedside clock.
The calendar blushes with the date;
it is unfortunate how it must tell my age.
On a night raft as the moon will rise,
my smile will rival that big glowing rock.
And for at least one "day",
a thousand hands will grab my arms
to run through the warmest fields I can find.

Humid Dive

Arms, fingers and eyes!
To you I call to awake
from your earthbound sties
to give solace to this life which the thunder did shake.
Storms hold us together flesh tied friends,
this rain treads lightly on our window sill
as each drop meets its own grounded ends,
yet the wind still beats on my head as all words begin to spill.

Dark and humid is the taste of Eris' thrill.
"Why" these eyes ask "must you look to your feet?"
To this I turn my head up and see how the clouds always do move,
all outstretched like the river past many imprisoned street;
the trio too much for these feet to behoove.
Wonder passes through periodic walls,
a dawn for every dusk does prevail
like the sparrows rainy calls
which from all twitters do stories entail.

Young and silhouette eyed though one day frail.
This mirror knows only of portraits in its sight,
but the horizon always is between these tethered hands,
while the looking glass rests in human despair or delight,
in its sight I nonetheless drink in joy knowing this body makes no demands.
The sun peers out now over heat kissed shoulders,
in its pensive light I do not stop to cry
for all the moments that in its light will smoulder;
nor need I dare to ask why.

Reflection melds into the star hewn night and ferns will soon curl out to dry.
Friends of this torso and damned conscience,
they now run out of my front door,
out of the garden's fence
and need they not another reason or moment more.

Into Endless Reach

Days I have sought before;
where dirt would pour between young fingers
to take delight in what will come to ruin.

Now no longer do I seek
rather gain, gather, and always look
beyond what the dirty words of 'good' 'bad', 'strong' 'weak'.

A Sunday sun once called my name as
its heavy hand carved Aztec faces into rock walls in front of my face.
I sat to watch and when fixing my gaze at once my mind fled;
left only with the world before me.

The mountainside where all I knew rested
was breathing heavily and its mane
showed signs of the Robbins-egg sky.
Past the branches which have bent before wind and snow,
hazy light flickered between valleys where no body
could be made seen by towering beauty.

Too much to see for a young mind just yet,
I then turned to the ground.
Yet again was the mountain too much with me.
Ferns and rocks all cried of their tales and
danced in their natural sublime delights.
What had taken place amongst the dirt
showed me as many of my own wondrous tears
as the view over one hundred forests.

After many hours spent with my feet against rocks,
it was time to descend the mountain
(the sun blushed with purple and took the clouds with it).
Emerging from the earthen towers I took a look over my shoulder
to see what I was to leave behind.

No more days will I spend eyes closed.
No to only touching the ground.
Only listening to the birds will leave one wanting.
Only speaking will never leave one satisfied.
So with the mountain in mind,
I will walk with my self open and flowing like a river.

Into the woods of joy, hermitage of present experience I go,
holding the hand of all that is my world and the one
I have yet to know.

Drinking from the Blue Sky (Written on a Walk, Among Friends)

Words all but too soon depart onto
the sea of misconception from the
harbor of bright vision.
Only as much as masts can be raised
does the tongue turn towards lands unknown to latitude.
The wind blows freely today
(fortunate for those looking
to move across the water).
Smiling spring air carries youth with
its world of spiraling truths and rejection,
the sun perches itself on its daydream throne
staring at us as all else breathe the orb in.
As all ships pass through such kingdoms,
as zephyrs sealed a flowing present;
the day held me within its arms and said
“Look, look at the sights before you!
It will always be 'too late' if you only where
to choose to indifferently wait;
those who balance on their heads too long will oft declare
'Too late! Too late'”
I listened close to the sun's rise and fall,
in its blushing orange light I found the voices of those whose words
take their visages' shape.
Moments past became shards of looking glass
as my body became smaller as night grew on its thorn laden vine.
For a moment,
my reflection was cool and clear in the waters of the sky.

Farewell Clouds

Desire in the blue sky
covers whole the tracks of the day.
Raining down comes the sun
reminding me that the world is
only the shape of how it is seen.
Stone carved hills come to mind
when notes of poems and the river
are breathed into a tree-shrouded head.
At both ends of the day burn a present
that at once embodies all the dreams of
a future and past once thought to be no more
than time.
The river below beloved friends' faces
flows at once beginning to end,
like the life amidst the spring air and smiles.
Birds and falling water fill the air,
singing softly the notes of forgotten beauty.
When the footprints of the day no longer linger
the wind will still blow sweetly through new leaves.
Yet, as long as a life remains in the hands of nature
time is but a river;
beyond the burdening walls of time.
At once it begins and ends,
with new life flowing at all times;
remaining all the same to the eye that never looked deep enough
and to the mind that never held the truth close.

By the River

Desire in the blue sky
covers whole the tracks of the day.
Raining down comes the sun
reminding me that the world is
only the shape of how it is seen.
Stone carved hills come to mind
when notes of poems and the river
are breathed into a tree-shrouded head.
At both ends of the day burn a present
that at once embodies all the dreams of
a future and past once thought to be no more
than unbending rocks.
The river below beloved friends' faces
flows at once beginning to end,
like the life amidst the spring air and smiles.
Birds and falling water fill the air,
singing softly the notes of forgotten beauty.
When the footprints of the day no longer linger
the wind will still blow sweetly through new leaves.
Yet, as long as a life remains in the hands of nature
time is but a river.
They dance beyond the burdening walls of time.
At once all days begin and end
with new life flowing at all times;
appearing the the same to the eyes that never looked deep enough.

Splendor of Hills

Past the highway
over the gravel
into the blue.
To the splendors of pensive youth
the fruits of spring have left lain.

Idol love stands still in growing trees
as some soft faced girl stares forward in her car.
She drives nowhere you would like to visit anyways.
For you, onto the green hills
that hold steady with flooded grasses at their feet.

You set down your bike to watch
all the clouds go by over the hills.
The grass feasts upon your eyes,
clouds watch as you are drawn in
onto the point of infinite shut-eyed young dreams.

It is nearing evening but the afternoon
never seems to have peaked.
So the bike falls over while your own body
tumbles onto the grass along with it.
The sunshine feels sweet, there is no reason to move.

Forget your age,
feel it inside your bones instead.
Cars pass by with speechless faces
who all have their own anguishes and joys today.
Biding the time, you spend what sighs you have left
on the passing clouds that are fed into the sun's mouth.

Skin is turning from sallow winter to
the refreshed brown that those by your side
came down to kiss.
You have been lying on the grass for nearly two hours,
not knowing what you are waiting for.
It strikes you then,
there really is not anything to be waiting for.

So under the comfort of the freedom of angst
you throw yourself some questions that you would
never actually ask her.
Nevertheless, you think the feelings will all pass.

It is nearing seven in the evening as the sky
begins to explode with deep blue.
You are wondering if she thought about the way you walked today.

Hopping onto your bike to climb into your room again.
The ride home is hard, you are choking on a breath full of hanging words.

You cannot fool yourself, you know why.

Body and Storm

Passing heat rises from black earth
yet soon the day will die in its own visions;
as night will soon give birth
to all window-sill thinkers' sunlit inhibitions.

Laying softly to shut heavy eyes
the rain still knocks on the front door.
When waking from harmonious sleep, nature truly reveals what it implies.
Though the mind takes place all but once
the wind will still blow after all flesh has dissolved from the core.

All is changing in a constant realm,
even when the eye only can guess what it sees.
Be it not body nor soul that is tonight's pensive helm
for the clouds' wrath will illuminate how they please.

Song from Alongside the River

Beneath ambition lies a bone ridden corpse
tossing around in its cell.

On the tree of empathy there are
the parched roots below it,
reaching further into the soil for its
share of the earth.

And inside the windows of these hundred houses
are faces I may never see.
Comforting like the warm moments called “spring”;
I know that I may never see the whites of their eyes
or know the first letter of their last name.
It is not that we all have forgotten,
rather we have never known.

Tomorrow the sun will rise.
Clouds pass through and go above
the town's rooftops and low lying visages.
Luminous glows and untouchable words
will turn our heads even more the day after.

When footprints are washed away
more will wander on the same path
as it has done for the thousands of human summers.
The prospect of lost steps does not vex me.
I walk now for my own way forward,
knowing that those who walk after will
know their way back.

The Breeze Feels Just Right

The day rose and the skin on my arms
was beginning to boil as the magnolia trees
opened themselves to the gracious morning.
Distances and words are busy
being shoved into my head,
but the burning inside my chest
is screaming with a sown mouth.
Stumbling into the sunlight,
thinking that she is right around the corner.
No,
it is only my shadow that
had caught the side of my eye.
Riverside bike rides are making nests in my bone
as midnight paces in my mind leave vacant space.
Full again with patience,
waiting for a day that will not be seem.
Merely dancing to a song that
nobody can here.
Still riding my bike
trying not to look out of the
corner of my eye.
Walking out the door on the brick patio
means more than a breath of air.
Among warm days is the laughter
that makes me open my window.
Birds fly above
flowers grow below
and the river flows beside me.
My eyes never gaze into vacant space;
there never is truly any to be seen.

Bird

Outside a rainy day window
is a bird perched on a power line.
Pinkish hue on slick feathers
while rain drops cut fall upon its beak.
Staring straight into my room,
it wonders who is inside these warm white walls.
The window gazer sings his songs about the human,
asking why he sits on a chair inside.
It turns its head left to right,
and back around to look at the orange sky.
Amidst conifers, phone calls
water and temperate breezes
it turns again to look at the same tree
I always turn to on days of worn weather and
dead thoughts.
It could fly anywhere it pleases,
come and go alone or
with another song singer.
It could stare through any window,
feast its black eyes upon all the trees it could reach.
Long neck, bright beak, flushed feathers;
it chose the view in front of me.

On the Way Down

Falling down face first into the dirt
while the wind brings the fog into an early spring heart.
Brought deep below the surface from
wishes held too high above a head,
he only wishes to hold his dreams
in between sun-kissed and sweat soaked arms.
Impounded by thought and long sought stares,
his eyes never met the light at the end of the
snow storms and blank gazes.
He forgot how to forgoe forgetting,
knowing that it is never really possible.
Falling off the cliff and
the rain was coming down slowly.
Out of the gray fog came a reaching arm,
only to pull the broken son from the rocks and
canyon cliffs of tomorrow.
She too knew,
it was all too much.
And knowing this, she knew what strength it took
to lift a heavy soul up from the depths
of the emptiest riffs in a life.
Staring into the words he gave a soft soul,
both arms and voices pulled each other up from
the past's ashes as the young man
was falling through the cracks.
“Just do not let go,
remember what you said.”
Recalling plain and well that
he still never learned to forget,
both walked away from the ruins and canyons.
The sun began to rise,
tomorrow will be coming soon.

Worn Away Veils (Through the Water)

Waiting besides brick walls
has finally set into brimstone.
Watching her eyes fall into herself
as she smiled with the sun shining upon her,
on a cloud freckled spring day.
With laughter she revealed what is behind
the faint painted morning veil that I myself
carried with me.
Breathing in flames and bleeding green leaves
I pass her voice over my tongue to taste
the words that cannot reach my throat.
She laughs somewhere;
in her sneakers buried into the dirt
eyes submerged in what holds to herself.
If only I could see out of the decrepit old veils
and into her eyes.
This old mask in front of my face only
turns my eyes back into my head.
Time has come to lift so I can see
what she has been gazing at while I have been
staring too long into the cool waters of
warm days to come.
A mask will be too much to bear as escaping heat
will again crawl from my skin.
Hot blood is rising slowly
my pockets are being emptied
and all that is to gain are
visions clear like long awaited water.

"What Are You Doing Tomorrow?"

I saw the picture of us all in the sunlight. It was faint, but a remainding reminder of what was once everyday life. The warmth of summer air was a gift, and as I would wake up with the sun shining on me I was always reminded of great moments to come. It is getting close to a new spring again. I wonder where all the old phone calls have gone, where all the heat stricken roads have finally led to, and to where endless nights have found themselves. I looked back down at the picture on my phone. It was hard to swallow all the nostalgia as it tried to shove itself down my throat. Sighing was no good, and all that came out instead was a mute breath. My head ended up in my hands as I thought about everyone I spent a night with, all the places seen, everything that has been left unsaid. All the smiles inside me lit up the 8 P.M. dusk. I closed the picture, and my eyes followed suit. My window was open, and my room was warm as sweet notes were reaching into my ears. Beautiful days were in the back of my mind. For a moment, I was timeless.

And the Walls All Fell

Sleepwalking for too many hours.
Shaking hands in a tremble of scarcity.
Only walking to be lifted above by
familiar faces.
Small rooms, large laughs for a night.
Wind for another day I guess.
To think of a summer spent like so,
it would be too much to look out the
window.
Hope is a boundary.
Merely a boundary that should be broken.
We will wake up soon.
Or maybe,
it is just me.

Two Days of Wind

Word have wrought weight
off your teeth and into the center of
one year and multiple mess.
Early spring,
and the mud breaks free from
traps set by ice.
Vestiges of blank stared days
send messages in the night.
“Come down up the stairs,
do not fall,
your thoughts carry anchors.”
I never find the time to say
anything in reply.
Fingernails are still down to the skin.
All the pens on the dusty desk are lined up in neat lines.
Sleeping still when clouds come to
sweep the day away.
Amidst ruins and broken trails
a smile lifts my head off the floor.
Having a head in the clouds only
ever makes one blind.
Wandering makes for the merrier
with a beautiful face holding up
a map for me.

Taking Back Time

Through my window have seemed to have
found their ways again.
Like trails of strings of an instrument of six,
a morning unbeknown to me sings for the
flowers that it births.
Counting colors on white walls will do no good
as menageries beyond melancholy branch beyond
old snows and dead leaves.
Maps tell of shores in mind while
bare legs tell of stories of familiar trails.
In voices and night time whispers
the sun again becomes familiar with skin
while the soil begins to take shape underneath the feet.
Beds have become to warm to lay in.
Nevertheless, the earth is perfect to stand upon.
Delivered from wishes;
the warm air is now a gift for choking thought.

Past the Sky

The sun was too hot
to let the snow stay on the ground today.
As long sought footsteps made their way
through my door,
I found that it was
warm in January.
The blue sky would not allow
shadows to pass me by.
Subtlty, the light found its way into my
gliding body.
Hand in mine,
I found my way towards the sky.
Though warm on our backs,
the sun was not hot enough
for us to keep from reaching
past the sky.

Pour Ceux qui Se Coucheraient sous les Étoiles

I love to speak and write in French, and today was no exception. Here is a short piece of prose en français I wrote today. Help with grammar, syntax, etc. is greatly appreciated, and I hope that those who are familiar with the French language can enjoy this.

C'est le jour finale d'un long mois. Je peux entendre l'hiver mourait comme le printemps frappais sur du mon tête. En voyant un jeux du hockey sur le télévision, il commence a pleuvoir mais la neige commence aussi tomber avec la pluie. Les États-Unis et le Canada s'essayent pour gagner la médaille d'or, a la fois je m'essaye voir la scène dehors ma fenêtre. Quand je tourne aux face du mon télévision je vois que le Canada marque un deuxième but, et la pluie s'arrête au même moment. Quelquefois, je me sens comme ni langue ni personne peut rendre raison aux moments comme ca. Les petits moments qu'on peut souvent oublier; quand on se sens que tous les choses dans la vie son complet. Pour une seconde ou une demi-seconde comme je vois le printemps entre un nouveau mois et quelques milliers de personnes sourient, tous les jours et mois d'hiver se sent complets. Demain je m'imposera aux visages des murs qui sont blancs et stériles, mais celui ne sera pas grave car je m'en vais souvenir d'aujourd'hui. Les jours comme ca, ils sont les jours qui embrassent mon sourire et me fait un plus fort.

Flocks

Ruins have since wrought creation.
Snow knows no more than mist,
as dark windows
fill black bile veins and clouds
cover a head bursting with ice.
In the interest of selves
words have been raised but with no further thought
than justice that skews itself.
Relics now lain upon perverted dogma
have rusted under deep sheets of sleet.
Now clouds will wait to cook souls
as screams now only sigh as
courage scampers to mere survival.
No hope is the sturdiest backbone of hours
spent to self,
though it is seldom seen that a visitor is not only
those who knock at a door.
In the dark night there is little to see but colors
that only exist in memory,
so let a candle burn until the day
that memory no longer knows itself and thought
is but a page in a book.

Langues des Tetes

Pulling back the blue sky on some Sunday
while bouncing black ideas of of withered white walls.
How a Saturday can fall reminds of me of how fast
I burn.
Can tongues paint a heart whole or is it merely
the spasms of muscles that make a home
true to its name?
Often times a word can comfort but for a night.
Daylight or clouds for better measure call for stronger action,
for the blood that pumps in veins and the thought
in movement.
To know where two feet walk require one to walk,
not just to know where the sun sets and lines on a map.
Skylines will one day be destroyed though for now
spires will climb to the moon and streets will stretch until
they drown in rivers.
My own walks always end in where I find the air feels best.
Dancing comes best when bare-feet bleed on beautified ground.
Truth is the ultimate flower, though mirrors may say that
ugliness is no more than a dark spot in the eyes,
it really is just another piece of the world to look
further into.
Walking into the ground,
walking into the sky,
walking into the sun.
I am here and so it seems where I want to be
is still beneath my feet in some distant dream.
In the back of my voice I sometimes find
where I have breathed deep and swallow the breaths
that I still have yet to exhale,
that is my home for the night and where
words still speak fresh from our throats.

Meditation 1

Have I not written words
sung of fires and stars?
I would like to think so.
The world brings smite to shallow slumber
each time I begin to close my eyes.
Yet it is only in my sleep,
that a quiet night can
finally come to rest.
Dreams cannot run from a nightmare though.
A light somewhere in my doze has sparked embers
in the midst of snow.
Poems have gone past,
well into all my nights
and wood burning breaths.
Until the calm of an embracing
orange glow set into my pen,
did I know the strength of a breath against sparks.
The the shrouded gaze I finally hold close to my eyes;
the burnings of hopes and desire
were only for the days where trees were scarce.
Dessicated spectacles have shaded old growth.
Plenty to burn,
more light to see the shadows
that engulf the ground.
The very dead branches I once let rot,
have come to illuminate
all the dark nights.

Where Feet Walk

Floorboards beneath my feet never seem to rot,
rather find themselves growing roots as if
they were still the trees they once were.
And on them I have believed my feet to be dust.
But no;
my own roots are the soil for what is beneath me.

Told from Time

Spitting back the heavy hearted
faces floating in my mind;
I have turned to the stars.
I felt my own eyes in her arms,
swallowing into pieces of a body
that used to just be a mirrored dream.
The smell of my pillow brings me to
the sunset where I at last met the eyes of joy in mine.
Looking from afar may feel good,
but only burns with the pains of a
lost tomorrow.
Being in the open arms,
with a weary head on a
strong shoulder
are more than enough to hold me
to truisms in time.
The floorboards are still warm
with the thoughts of an endless afternoon.
The glowing gaze that I see myself in
and a voice that
I have called for,
is finally by my side.
Alone at last,
hand in mine.
The sun sets a little later each day,
maybe because it is now mindful of
its own time.
By January I figured that old light would have
figured how to find itself in the night,
as I have myself.
In the endless days there is a sprawling night.
Swimming feelings in bright stars through
curtains drawn.
The triumph of joy has came to see forth the gorgeous
mind that has found mine.
I could never lose the beauty found in this room,
in the bliss of bodies and exaltations colliding.
No one can never let go of themselves
as long as there is
another morning to wake up to.

Avec des Nuages Gris

Melting into my own anger,
with frustration that I never felt
on a back porch.
Inside it all multiplies;
the subtle feelings of impatience
and finite hope.
Stars dim and the rain
never stops but only continues
each night;
it falls into my face
while I take in deep the feeling of each cold catharsis.
I know these drops are real,
the cold awakens the restless
senses inside of me.
With water onto the scribbled lines;
these papers can grow into the trees that they are.
With the cold feeling of exalting assurance;
I can sleep just a little easier tonight
knowing that these bits and pieces
of me are falling somewhere
into the world.
I am rain today.

Free with Embrace

Young and free
with the world spinning around.
Arms open into the glorious twirl of the smiles
that have been embracing me and shaping me
into the young man I smile back at in the mirror.
The night was pregnant with laughter.
Two days past,
and in the morning we woke
with but one regret;
that time did not stay longer.
For a moment in between the moon
and ground;
it felt warm.
I could have sworn it was...

Orange Days

Humidity has long since died down ma cherie
but still crawling about in our shut eyed theaters and chained bodies.
Our bones are beginning to bend
as the orange days begin to
creep in.
The air filling my lungs
is heavy with the burning of memories
that dig deeper holes with each gaze
into thoughts past.
But, the weight of my own thought
will not wear me down just yet.
With a mute tongue that bleeds as it begins to speak,
I plead into the bleeding sunsets of our screams
to lift me unto dead leaves upon her eyes,
and into sun soaked dreams.
I cannot yet see.