Sun, Please Awake!

The sun will peek through the clouds soon.
Taking off the bracelets of life
Opening new joined latches
Filled with scrambled egg-filled gold
Panning through the water
Stale bread and gross peanut butter
Fridge, empty and bare
Family too lazy to
Shop for the food we need.
Concealed by the furious typing frenzy
That I might be doing homework,
Or not.
Sun, sun, where are you?
In the days that follow
Never ending
Always forward
Good, bad, horrible, and grey
Spelling all wrong,
And sweet like sticky honey.
Randomness is my virtue
Is my life
Is my soul.
Never deep enough
To plunge into
The shimmering pool of dried up rainwater
Snipping, snipping away.
The sun in his slumber
Never waning, never rising.
Always beginning, never ending.
Always despising, despising, despising.
Sun, oh gracious sun
I need my word bank now
To shelter me from simple words
So I zoom into the lukewarm quarto.
Disheveled and sparingly imminent.
Foreboding my earthly glassware case
Engulfing me in frivolity.
The night is onerous
On the sun’s gentle face,
So he is too weak to rise
From his grave place
And lighten up the world
Anew
The sun will peek through the clouds soon.

Rainy Morning

As the rain clears,
The darkened morning
Lightens up.
The trees, no longer thirsty.
The clouds, emptying
All their worry.
The branches drip,
With recycled water.
Wet is the world.
Damp, moistened
Fresh, clean air
Filters through.
All lingering despair
Wiped clean, washed away.
Glistening atmosphere.
Raining dewdrops.
Quenching thirst.
Blue morning skies
Fills up the once rainy morning.
Listen to their sighs.
Just take a moment
To feel
The wet silence.
And you will find
A once rainy world
Discovered in times
Like today.

Snowy Day

Waking up to a soft, gray morning.
No emotion, no happiness, blank, sad,
empty, warm, but cold.
Healing, it takes some time,
just as fall turns to winter.
The trees are waiting.
For the world to mend
find itself, fill in the missing colors.
I’m in no hurry,
for the birds to migrate
to some brighter, warmer land.
I’m in no hurry
to see the flowers
their dainty petals
purple, orange, red, and pink.
See them struggling against
The thick layer of snow,
to find the light of day.
Just as a mama bear
rustles awake,
seeing her cubs are still asleep.
The world is dressed in white.
She yawns, steps outside
Just for a moment,
brrrrr!!! It’s too cold.
She steps back into her cave,
snuggles in with her babies.
Feels the tug of warmth around her
and drifts off to sleep…
as the snow softly pounds down
on the pliable earth.

Rainy Day

My body is so warm, warmer than the freezing rain,
the freezing rain outside.
My nose is stuffed up, stuffed up like
a clogged faucet.
My toes, so cold, so cold like
tiny ice cubes under my sneakers.
My voice, so scratchy, like sandpaper,
and an itchy purple sweater.
My eyes, so thin, and filled with tiredness
Just to fall asleep,
to the pitter-patter
of
the
rain.

Gliding, Always Gliding

Always out of reach
My bad day just gets worse
Calling from above
Pouring out like liquid cement
Pretty killers smirk my way
Interested in nothing
But tooth decay.
Form down the hilltops the sirens ring
Falling towards
The mountain king.
Forward rhymes
Just two feet tall
How are the raven’s feet, so small?
Global catastrophe
Calms me, soothes me.
And quiet silence
With the pool of water trickling down
Pricking my finger
Alone in an elevator
Comforts me.
But funny
Songs and movies
Scribe across my being
While
Heart pounding, muscles clenching
I sit in the backseat of the sticky brown car
And forget my past life.
Stiff is my elbow,
Pained is my hair
It hurts inside its thin profile
Screams in agony.
But to no avail
It can never
Evacuate from its viscid dungeon
Grotesque and snide
It lingers
While narrow moth antennas
Tickle the outskirts
Of the seawater’s edge.
Guess what this means
And I will speak of
Candles that whimper
In the dank skunk of night
And flowers that smile
And wilt upon the boxwood table.
Twenty-four hours away
From escape, from death.
How can it melt away and make it turn into dust?
Never to enter
That’s what the future said to me
So many uncertainties
Lingering, formulating, processing.
The outlook can be great
Or just perish in the stagnant wind.
But at the end, it all points to
Who has the biggest pocket.

In the world that I live in

In the world that I live in
The world, itself, balances up and down
Falling ever so slowly
The numb fingers write
Of the speech
Never found
Pencils
Array of
Star- streaked pencils
Stare back at me
As I gaze upon reality
And reality rubs the dust
From it’s eyes
And flings it back into space,
Like a top,
Going full speed
On a table
Arriving
Right
On
Time.

Monster with the Ice-Frozen Heart

Oh how it whistles
Oh how it stomps
Oh how the floorboards
Squeak in distress
Oh how she whimpers
Her small cheeks as white
As white as the snow
That falls from the sky.
Oh how it howls, and chills to the bone
Oh how her life
Gets stopped by a stone.
Oh how the monster
Creeps up behind
And carefully scares her
Shrieks are divine.
Oh how the girl
Frightened to death
Cold body still
Small and delicate
But ice frozen,
Rock hard,
Clear as diamonds,
She lies.
Just a statue
Of a clear, better day.
Oh how it whispers
The monster’s sweet thrill
Oh victorious conjuncture
To burn, and to chill.
Oh, that little girl’s gone now
The floorboards can’t creak
Until another young child
Drifting to sleep
Hears it again, the pure
Bounding stomps
Of the monster that lives
With an ice-frozen heart.

The Dungeon

Oddly out,
bringing forth
new life within.
Scared to show
myself to them
start to hold
onto my soul.
Crimping, slamming,
sticky and warm
hot pie off the griddle
in a time
with no arms.
Bulging veins
across the forehead
of time.
Re-arrange the
paperclips,
slick and silver
that write upon
the fake smell
of discernment.
Intense incense,
slimy and steamy
pouring out molten lava
bright fuchsia pink.
Just silence needs to be heard,
but what do I hear?
Lips licking,
breaths snorting,
heat wafting,
papers fluttering,
eyes blinking,
gum getting chewed.
Rap! Rap! Rap!
The shadow beneath
the pine tree
desert cactus, blue berry
bush.
Black shells stay still,
but then
move and scrape
across the brown, flat
table top.
Oh when will this all end?
Haunting music stealthily plays
as chubby
kids in wheelchairs
circle in a haze.
While bare-breasted birds
speak sweaty fire thoughts
and hush, hush, hush.
Please burn down
the building top,
seven stories high
am I
staring at the drop.
Should I...???
Nah, I'd rather not.

I've Seen It All Before

For every day
there's more
For every space
there's floor
For every flicker
a flower
For every thought
is sour
For every nail stuck in the heel
there is always softness
overpowering what's real.
For every tear
there is a smile
For every person
there is a style
For every noise
there is silence
For every voice
there is reliance
filling up
drowning empty
fields of spastic
happy endings.
For thou shall fight
until thy drop
upon every roof
there is a pot.
Shiny silver light seeps through
for every cause that heaven drew.
There is a strike, a match, a pill
to swallow or to spill
upon the burning windowsill.
For every tree
there is a girl
For everybody that's free
there is a whirl
of quaint control,
holding impulses underground
dug so deep
it can't be found.
For every pen
there is a mate
paper, oh paper
will you create?
A world of fright,
a world of pain
a world where only
insanity is sane?
For every fumble
there is relief
For every sigh
there is cold grief.
For every minute
there comes a time
where peels unravel
and gravel sits
as birds pick and screech
and the winds of fellow power lines shift
to make it seem
that life can bring
the pins and needles
OUT.
For every color
there is black and white
For every lover
there is a knight
For every pencil
lead will come
and thirsty little beans are shunned.
the scarf laid straight
the eraser full of holes
the future of speaking
and reading unfolds.
Where lines hold on
and do not budge
as writing spins and spins
and notes are calmed.
Heed the sirens call of doom
as the souls fill up the room.
From every wall
forms crumple out
longevity and spender
seeping gout.
For every feeling
there is a sound
where bells ring out
and songs are found.
Creeping, sleeping
all in all
a furry little plastic doll.
Fall, fall
before a win
'fore nothing is as delicate
as the fire within
For everything
is all planned out
and never will the hounds of doubt
pull you to the floor.

I've seen it all before.

Pinball World

I am a pinball
puttering through life
like an angry monster
with no feeling
of taste, touch, and fear.
I climb castle walls,
leap over malicious spikes
gleaming in the wind,
stubborn and stray.
A cold marble eyeball
stares back at me
brown and streaked
with grey lead,
stuck inside
its center core.

Frozen in time,
the stiff howls that
center themselves,
crawling along molten tiles
of the soul.
Creeping up,
the pale fingers flickers.
Squiggles of black paint
line the horizon,
as my shiny raw head
numb from all fault,
slips into a comma,
into a world
where bright lights
flicker
into the ashes
of the quaint, tubular
dustpan, vicariously
withering away.

Heed to the call
to the mountain of doubt,
as it falls into
the hole left by the frigid
dormouse.
Entering now, poems stuck
to the roof of vicious deeds,
and letters unwritten.

Empty pinholes
litter the streets,
and my steel-framed
eggshell
of a heart-
it breaks,
oh, it breaks!

Countering melodies,
so thick,
and so stout.
The peeling fish's eye
holds in
all the rings of splinters
that form
within the plastic grid
that holds
my body in.

Robust, oily feathers
stream my thoughts.
As bell towers shriek the call,
the border begins to rot.

The Power Down Below

Underneath
the ocean of crust, a crust so thin,
it breaks over and over and over again.
This crust is orange-peel green,
and lemon red.
It is an aqua pen
so surreal,
I swear its a sin.

Underneath
my land of spit
my heart is so light
it will buzz so bright.

Neon colors
puncture highlighter yellow,
bursting with light
that's too hard to follow.

No action is to behold
of the plastic bands that cover my wrists.
One rainbow,
one yellow,
one green,
one red,
and one pink.

All holding my spirit
inside my chest of gold,
clenching my fist
of fury,
of pleasures untold.

Nothing can unfurl
the bounds that hold me down,
trying to escape.

It bounces
in tight pinks yarn balls.
It flings itself
like in a game in ping-pong.

My poor heart just sits,
for so long, a year,
it fails to forget.
The sweet times I've had
so pure and so clear.
The openness I feel
while standing on top of a Peruvian mountain.

These whispers
so drought,
so vulgar and stingy.
The silver beams that hold my rhythm up
are so damn funky!

Today, not tomorrow
I will have to break free.
Free of this crust,
all tarnished and gray.

My saliva dries up,
my hands start to cramp.
The ends of my hair
climb up
and drop off.
My nails shine milky white in the moon,
as wrinkles appear
not a moment to soon.

The ocean is bubbling, bubbling, soon
it will get so full
it will have to overflow
into buckets of steel
in the power down below.

The Dancing Gentleman

He lingers
as the music sways
           alone,
yet surrounded.
A tune
          inside
rummaging around,
like a full jar
          of marbles.
His face
          of white solitude,
pale as
          the milky white
of an egg
         which sizzles in
the frying pan.

This dancer,
         in the rose red suit
steps daintily, then hard
         slams those shiny dancing shoes
black and white,
         stripes on his zebra tie.
Curly auburn hair
         rips across his skull.
Pointy goatee, smothered in oil.
And lips, so thin
        hardly seen at all.

Eyes still closed,
        the beat thumps
on the dance floor.
He is alone,
        yet further more,
at peace with himself.

The dance floor dims,
       song shuts down.
The dancing gentleman
   still taps
       to the music
ringing in his heart.

Kernels of Pepper, Grains of Salt

Running out of ink,

my pale blue moon

ceases  to exist.

Amongst
the salt grains
                  and
                      pepper kernels

lying in
            glass caskets,

lying all alone

brother and sister

unite,

under one pale,
                        blue moon.

Slippery Thoughts

Painting motifs in the screw of time, blitheness and wooden beads, breathing and Japanese tea lights.


Orange melons scathed with white, smooth, ceramic shearing scissors.

Metal wrought fence line spirally and basked to perfection.

Ripped paper tears and black shiny shells.

Washed, ripped frothy blue jeans, and sharp, zigzag zipper toothed rocker jacket, with the straps pulled tight.

Busting buttons on a striped dinner blouse, and empty plain green napkins, stuffed into a large hidden sweatshirt pocket.

Slippery words, as round as a sunflower’s center, but strewn into scattered bits of cloth, all zebra print, all laying there as rings of sweat appear in the pristine glass of water, pearls of condensation awaiting.

Still waiting.

Finally!

A hand, (made of Birch wood) strikes it, its fingers slipping off the free-lined slope of clear sand and molten heat, smothering it with pearly yellow droplets, comes hissing from a dog, fur like a brown shaggy rug, slobbering on the fine marble-edged floor.

Oh, the vigor!

The Song of Love

Love
a two-beat breathing
                                    Love
intertwined with a being
                                    Love
a wondrous freeing
                                    Love
you feel like fleeing
                                    Love
you need to start seeing
                                    Love
you need to believe in
                                    Love

The White Buddha

The White Buddha sits
like a soft-boiled egg,
shining rusted copper
in the snow.
Covered with
a blend of
powder and tears
the White Buddha
ponders
life's true meaning.
As people come and go
and winter turns to Spring,
the White Buddha
is no longer white,
but
green, green,
                   green.
The Green Buddha sits
a smile stretched
between
two copper cheeks.
The White Buddha
sleeps.
While the Green Buddha dreams...

In A Blink Of Eternity's Eyes

Alone, but well
           buttered down
the path of Hell.
           Warning shots
ring out through
            the peaceful sound
of humming's blue.
            Silky smooth,
my dog's Chalet
            wandering around
the path that frays.
            Speaking openly
like velvet cake
            but our sorrows
bound to date.
            Calling up,
calling down,
            our soft fruit cobbler
is bright and sound.
            Strokes of
heavy lines
            of gray
spiral inwards,
           without a month's delay.
Taking Time,
           feeling no doubt,
the teflon heart beats
           pound, and pound.
Filling up,
           without a sound.
Those knives
           of steel,
a brimming creel,
          the photo-reel
of feelings
          to feel.
Smooth and slippery,
          sliding down your throat.
No thought can vanquish
          the tasty look,
of a future so dandy
          (You'd better not choke).
The skins are peeling off, inside the treasure lays.

Naked.

Exposed.

Unleashed
beyond the well done dying days.
            Days of shame,
lost to time,
            as the sweet belt tightens,
another bird enlightens
            the words,
shot out from the dark,
            we do not part
from the wacky
           ways
              of summer
                         days
of rhymes
           unheard of,
and pheasants slathered
           with oil,
olive oil.
           What a toil!
To bake in the sun,
            and to run
into
           the life you'd never thought you'd have.
Until a blink
          of a chicken feather goes by,
(And you know why)
         when it tumbles all dry
to see the lad,
          in the precious bed
who's sleeping on
         the concrete fence.
Just cast a pence,
         and let it all make sense

in a blink of eternity's eyes.

Cold Eyes

Those cold eyes
staring blankly
through the heads.
Stuck, secure, and uncertain.
Hiding from what's true,
and what's not.
The pen, smooth and undetermined.
Too proud to be
too long to see
the cracks that smile
      between
those stone-cold
blue ice eyes, like a lake
in Alaska.
Between the bannana peels,
and the hand that quivers.
Stuck between
the teeth and jaws
       of time.
Laying, unsuspected
under a white, scruffy shoe.
Never ending,
dragging on and on
      and on.
Dripping sincerity
melting from
purple, green scaled skin.
That long hair,
black as night's star-scattered robe,
flows into a fan.
Spins, and jumps into the awaiting jacuzzi,
      bubbling
pink, blue, and orange puss filled bubbles.

As those cold eyes
     disappear,
they swirl
into a vast vat
of stamped-out
     bottled up
strung within
on a 5-cent line
and gets squished
under millions of
bare, innocent feet.
And then those cold eyes
see those horrid
feelings
        and
           turns
              them
                  into
                    wine.
Those cold eyes smile,
turn to the sky
and ponder life, 
                  for a while.

Surppressed Feelings

The decompression
of air in the sky
I don't know why,
I don't know why.
From within
the press of sin
so thouroghly thin
has bound to win.

The grasp of flair
of pure delight
scratches and stares
upon your withheld fright.

Two fingers crossed,
in steamed leaks
to decompress
and trickle out into the town of morse doubt.
From some, liked
but not green paints
brush upon those white holes of darkness,
those starched, caged feelings.
Physical bodies call me to say
that from inside the unrhymed pages
is mistakes, never made.
Is plays never written,
songs never sung,
malicious weather just biting
at the tip of your tongue.
Skip a line,

no, skip a few.


Once power leaks out, no power comes through.
The rusty wood cracks into lines,
the turntables of time
pick up
      and lick
a dying dime.
Pale freckles pond
across
dimpled chills,
and the plastic heat jumps up to spill
the contents out.
No hunger, no needs,
other than coolness, other than seeds.
Alone, in a room
that's heating up fast
the soul-coned lovers
that try to grasp.
The future of sighting
the future of sound,
what's to become,
of that saddened-wrecked clown?
His stripes
turn to dots.
His hair,
turns to stone.
He calls up his wife,
but nobody's home.
Your stale open book,
that's bound to be read
drowns out
the humble throb
of penny-less lead.
Lead topped of the house
lead topped of the face.
Bristled and brushed
'till hair
stays in place.
Wishing, you now
that this poem
made sense,
so the heat of my head
won't get covered in red,
and die painlessly,
staked on the fence.