Here Speaks a Waking Dream.

I stopped to write a poem and the page left itself blank. No metaphors rang out from my skull, my jaw did not open, and my eyes did not swell with tears. In white flashes of foggy laughter, running amok in sunshine, and in touches of longing did I stop in a lucid moment to bask in the sweetness of such fleeting presents. The paper did not cry for my pen, I did not yell for words, but I did ache to lay down on my side and let my memories hold me close. On the floor I fell, and surely my longing was met by the comfort of knowing that it has been these arms, these legs, this torso, and this cranium which have been the receiver of my photographic visions. Each glowing vision flows like a hushed river but also yells like a vulture; it encircles the living thinking that it has found the dead upon which it would rightly feast. The delay of sense quells a restless notion in each passing of blinding time I recall. Then in a rush of hours but in a mere burst of gracious seconds, my senses gripped my neck and chafe me till I bled dry and am but bare bones. I fell into silence, and kissed the forehead of what I saw was myself sitting deep into my own past eyes. Moments captured by a present self, bathing in the dripping thoughts of the past! Oh, how I come to curl in my bedsheets and the stone between me and prose has been moved!

Bright Flash of Years

How we speak in limbo languages!
Dumbstruck and watchful glances
raise the body's sticky heat
in midst of a tanned blind spot.
A weighted set of limbs grows ripe
upon the blisters of humming pensive gestures.
Friends born in the twinnkling eye of
finger-crossed days and head-back laughter,
the mountains in flames
are telling you to come watch the fields burn too
and let the smoke of corn
cradle the last drops
of sunlight we will taste
while our hands are not bound by blessed geography.
Leave the motor still
to let your twirling legs
twist around tree limbs
so that we may
pick the fruits of grand-girthed giants
and pull out the roots of faulty saplings
in order to plant new seeds
culled by bountiful earthen remembrance.

Blurred Lights

A burning warning
scrapes my veins
begetting inaudible tones
echoing in screaming fog
that rolls heavily along
empty corn-fields.
Our eyes fill with deep humming,
which in steaming tracks
crack in the May nocturnal reflections.
Hold tight onto this elbow
to keep watch on my flowing blood,
in the occasion that it is paralysed
by what may be a
material breach in comfort,
or
a two-tone folded cut-out
projected onto empty windows by a feeling.

Spiritual

My eyes shut themselves, and a hissing beam of white light came over me in a distinct instant. The sound of glass shattering, then waves crashing, pulsed throughout my ears. I found a rolling wheel of soft stone running on the ground. As it made its way in a dizzying circle, I caught it as it neared towards me. I picked it up for a moment, it was light and carried little density as I rested it upon my shoulders in great pride. In a dark moment, the wheel fattened itself on its own stone and grew in weight. My shoulders gave out, and the wheel did not crack as it fell to the ground but rather kept dancing as it had previously. I watched it pass as I felt the burning of my broken shoulders. I opened my eyes, then plugged my ears with my fingers and proceeded to again shut my sight-caverns. A sigh pushed through me, then a smile.

I escaped the light,
rested my head on the foaming haze
to weep for the sounds
that will never be so deeply residual.
The glow drank from my hands,
birthing its wonder from the sky.
I stopped my mouth in fear of desecrating
a flash so fragile.
How holy blood is,
when it runs throughout
a sensory touched remembrance.
A fondness so deep
ascends over my head
beyond every last inconceivable quark.
This breath
gives me a cushion,
as my weary shoulders
grow tired of stone-hewn roads
trying to pose as marvelous paths.
Shh,
treasure the gentle whir
alongside a whispering excersize in living
(I hope to be fit).

Shaking black and white photo
perfect photo portrait past mannerism
promising embrace
earth trembling shake
boundless silence;
crushing intent extant exhale
all was never met,
mercilessly
ending in mediation.

Honestly,
I cannot build a house
but I can construct great ruins
because all is borrowed
within the place of space-time
Give me a place within this fabric-
any point will do,
I shall intersect you and I
as I tear through photons
hoping to reach a fond place
by the grace of this endless circle!

If only for a hovering moment
permeating my closed eyes
I would tell the spectacle of poesy
how my bedroom appears tonight,
but that would simply
catch itself in a misunderstanding.

Liberating walk back through gravel alleyways,
wave rushing memories
quelling the loud hush
roaring at the sands of sense
illuminating the day
burying the present
touching the past
breathing back the now
timely gaze (never see)
Oh, how now
I breath deeply!

A Static Plea for a Dreamful Receiver

The clamour of rainfall befell
each mystic silence
hovering over the confounding cranium
lodged between myself and the mystical.
Now I watch from the window
the flood crawling up the darkened road
where I wholeheartedly
let my dry thoughts die
at the tip of my glimmering tongue.
Sincerity,
so sincere,
has never reached receiving ears.
If only for the sake of joy
intentions could be met
without a word
even while sitting stunned.

My dreams perplex me
beat me into the pillow,
suffocating the slightest morsel of certainty
which could cast bright boundaries within
walking day illusions of longing.

Weary of sickening notions of time,
a friend once told me
the simple days are rare.
All I replied was this;
no fell-swoop sees itself
pave golden our grand wantings.
Surly the darkened pavement
knows its own weight
only by the day,
and we only know loss
when a void burdens our sights
leaving us motionless.
It is a shame when neither
can find a word to interpret
or action to mimic.
Thus,
I am on the ground
with my cheeks puffed out
holding my breath
for a delightful receiver
if but for a moment of their doings.

A Two-Doored Edifice Hanging Over the Clouds

Subside,
you shelves of clouds
burning at your rough-hewn corners
behind the guise of milky orange glows.
Stormy vision plague the skin
like boils of an Eastern flea,
how these concrete hours
cling to the bed in rough concourse
only is striking when the day paces around
for lack of better task
or night explodes
in order to carry itself
twice around the Earth.
With a bruised neck,
poet cranks his bones to shift
towards the shore-rock sky formation
that dances in evening dance halls.
As a few thoughts gather
to play the limber weather waltz,
passive sights sit in comfortable wooden seats
fixing their shoelaces
untying the knots in their ties.
Ah, this exhale of the eyes and tongue
begins to resent itself
as the image of the ball dissolves behind time
and all the dancers grab their coats
hurling themselves out of the stores
in fear of fright.
The great sky sculptures
standing outside the hall
are so telling of these days;
quiet stone watching all them run
and letting their weary sculpted eyes tear
at the first sight of dying beloved dark.
Hollow holes in the cyclical moonlit roof
push themselves out of the rain
past immortal sunshine
into the mouths of the dead
who grab at the ankles
of the last man dancing
to a slow accordion
choking on the last notes of the riot.

As the hanging greys and blacks
heavily drifted
deep back to bursting blue and egg-yolk orange,
as it all collided with the poet's veil,
a hand lets off the last dancer's collar
and those trampled in the rush out the door
are smiling in lieu of atonement.
The dreamland ache of melancholy
has found itself captured in the
walking manifestation
in the ballroom of the reasonably absurd.

Whirling Hope

Waking up to a thirsty blue sky,
crawling with juices out the clouds
all the world rises for a call
shrouded in tone of whimpering certainty.
Many deaths mark the screen,
children shout the songs of sickness
and the poets pace back and forth
around the dirty outskirt busstops.
The stop watch on the flashing hand
is halting in its ticking steps,
the artists limp
in the city center
out of confused madness
for the forgotten murkiness
brought about by the dearly departed
dark night.

In secession of successive seconds,
the poets kiss the painters
both hoping to hold the seasons
close to their tongues
as blanketing smoke clogs the dawn
and breaks the moon into
springtime shards.

New Springtime Hum

There is no shivering
during the subtle return
marked by brushed-green fallow fields.
Prose stirs no call
as my hand breaks line
each time I try to turn
a sentence over onto
its thin lyrical belly.
On days where I utter no phrase
and my voice trembles at thoughts so lofty
an echo wakes me
into wide-arm greetings
marked by the muteness
wrought by bedside musings,
and the huming drone of bees.
My pastoral sights
do no fall or fail
even when I touch the rust
dwelling,
drowning at the bottom of the fairest local stream.
When diving into shimmering passions,
each press of flesh sinks into my forehead
as I close my eyes to dance in a painting
possibly to sing in a chorus
of notated bedsheets.
"Poet!
You speak loudly
about these passions and memory
the reoccuring absurdity of life
which our makings of matter
surely have done away with!
It all howls undoubtedly
a cry of a primitive age!"
So I have heard say
the men and women of dear contrasts and selection.
No mind to them,
for rumour has it
that they have forgotten how to dance;
the machines move for them

Rummaging betweens the lines of nostalgia and longing,
these quiet times
met by shortfalls
press my lips upward
in a seizure of remembrance
to mark the march of feet
pitter-pattering in a luscious circle.

Garden Muse

I danced the wonders of the lawn
sun inspired by
the trembling blades
leaning on all sides of me.
Through wandering heather-hung hills
gray-greased castle walls
two story buses and all,
I let my tongue and head wander
only allowing them to speak by way of
the caves crawling into my eyes.
While quietly scribbling their sights
by the callousness of hill-climbing feet,
I reside from the hardened translators
to press my fork into fried tomatoes chips and pavement
to taste the touch of a sunny day
where my back hangs alongside a willow tree.
Sticking to the follicles leaping
from the cracks in my browning skin
the city writes its rhythmic spell before me
to conger cast and curse
a belly never satisfied
with neither hunger nor feast.
While mademoiselle memory holds
her black hair back
at the edge of the road,
on a spiked iron fence
my fresh reflections reside.
I wish to climb and greet them
but the bus is leaving soon
and the young physique of the madame
will surely captivate me
taking most of the remaining minutes.
In the coffee cup bubbles below,
I can see
my own ripening face;
no need for a mirror
when I can always look there
or over to the hazy sea.
Maybe I could even gaze
at the lush lawn
in tiny Nicholson Gardens
or the royal works of botany
steps from my door.
Hang on to the bucking bull
that is greasy American life my dear!
Whether you turn your head or not,
I assure you I will soon be there
to sop up the fat
with a spire-laden Scottish sponge.
I do hope-
between cobbled alley-ways-
that along the long stretch of screaming roads
mademoiselles joy and memory
are sharing a cab
to visit my underfoot under-stairs room,
where I bide my golden time
by way of the Firth of Forth.