Transition

Blinded by these artificial lights,
Vanquished by the finite truth.
Friends are a rescue,
To stop the voyeur
Into the depths of darkness
And struggle.
Yet, internally
Bowels are shaking
As one college female
Balances her life
On a towering pedestal.
There’s a cliff,
A hundred foot tall cliff
Overhanging the world
Of spit and fear.
A jump; one jump is all it takes
To go blinded, circling down into that dank, dark abyss.

This never-ending pinwheel life
Spins on its edge,
As the college female topples
To her death amongst
The dead fishies.
She sees decomposing bones,
Marrow, and whale sinew under there.
Everything’s all chewed up and weathered
By time itself.
Diving deeper she finds rotting bodies on the sandy ocean floor.
It is dark and quiet, after her jump of insanity
Off that monstrous cliff.

Bubbles shoot from her mouth,
And gills sprout on the outskirts of her sensitive neck.
She rubs the glassy new films attached to her eyeballs.
(the eye sockets feel sore and tender to the touch.)
This college female swims through the murky, blue/green water
To find her fingers and toes
Conjoined
Into flippers;
Her belly now as smooth as glass;
Her nose
Wet and small.
She brushes her face with her front flippers,
And feels sharp ling bristles
Rub against her slippery cheek.

Whiskers.

Blinking her eyes,
Blinded by pure confusion
She sees pale ghosts in the water with sterling,
Haunted faces.
Gaunt and old flesh
Disintegrated;
detaching from bone and blood.
Caked with corral,
some look into her eyes
With longing.
“I am a Seal”
The college female thinks,
And flaps her hind flippers
in the thick foggy seawater to got faster.

A Seal indeed.

A simple animal with no act
Or virtues but to be born, eat, sleep, excrement;
Find a male mate for life, have babies, raise those baby seals, then grow old and die.
Either by a fisherman’s accident, or plastic rings
Caught around the throat.
A simple animal
That lives
Just to live.
With no deadlines, rejections, emotions,
bad grades, time management problems,
schedules, school issues, relationships,
or the overwhelming lists that abide inside her soul;
Documents her every move.
No worries
But to
Stay Alive.

Yes, the now female Seal,
The Seal female
Sees spirits circling underwater.
Is she a Seal or a monster?
‘Fore she can’t see herself
Under here.
Maybe she’s not a Seal,
But a slimy, grimy sprite
Mermaid-like creature.

A Selkie.

Cursed Woman-Seal .
Changes into a beast when she touches water’s firm grasp.
Or changes into a Person when she touches land.
(The second is more accurate.)
This Selkie
Dives deeper, skims the depths for answers
But only hears whispers and false lies
That she tells herself.
Only sees shimmers of the dead,
Soaked-through
The epistemological reality
Of black hearted thoughts
With sinking tides
That cast away
Past failure until reason pulls and tugs
Against her slippery, Seal formed body;

Calling her home.

She swims up
Faster and faster
As light filters through,
once again,
and fresh air invades her steel blue lungs.
Blinded by these artificial lights,
Vanquished by the finite truth.
A Transformation;
Complete.

From Woman
To Seal
To Woman
Back again;
The college female awakens.

Melodies of Thine Life

One day hath passed,
This bright and blithe morning
Doth unravel.
Life,
A two-sided wonder
Twists and speaks
of great merriment and grandeur.
To ever thought
A world
Rollercoaster
Down and up
The silver slide ‘till
Death unfurls
Its wispy fingers.
Full and whiplash,
They feathers rot
Upon the horny shores of wrath.
But, awakened, thee from
Dark chambers.
Swallow up past blackness,
Wallop in stirrups set for confusion.
‘fore life doth have a grasp of us all,
Yet we may bend and break its fate
Like cherry blossoms
Breaking spindling tree-limbs
Swaddle their babes.
This morning,
Wrapping up thy hate;
Devouring thy pleasure
At the sin fold gates.
Rapture at its precious beauty.
Upside down
Reality bites at our collar bones
As we twaddle and fiddle
With strings that won’t fit,
And feelings that won’t wander.
But what to make
Of the fawning scrooge,
all delinquent with awakened furver.
Bring thy light
To haste and hot
The slow day away.
Hands reach out to say
What a bumpy ride this is,
What unfinished business
May uplay the gulping
Frights of yesterday.
Nay!
It is not the raven that watches
At home, by thy telephone wire
Nor the chirpily robins and jays
In the green trees outside.
It’s the meddled doves
Watching cue-on-cue
Until better hours
To sit upon the clock face,
And wreak havoc on the leftover space.
Two lips, quieted and resting
Until the time
Is right.
Who’s to say that waiting
Isn’t much more
Than what the devil doth thinks
in his fiery palace;
Or the angel doth thinks
in her clouds and chalice.
Closed minds doth open up
Prime new realities.
Fix the unfixable,
Wring up the unfathomable
Stir the unmixable.
For to let out the fever within
Is to set fire to the body,
And ice to the heart.
Bound by thee and thyself;
I wander.
Contemplating life
And all its woes;
Predesigning pleasures.
Wait until it drifts away…..
To nothingness—

Together, We Are One Unit

Even though I’ve got a lot to do,
I know I’ll make it through.
Friends, good friends
Is what I have.
Believe it not, this isn’t a fad.
Bursting at the seams,
My dreams
Are made into reality.
Cut that fatality
As the pendulum swings
Claiming “who knows what life can bring?”
A new paradigm shift
Lifts me to the star-filled sky.
(I’ll never ask why).
Like a lone die,
I have struggled to find new life;

Until now.

Say bye to “loneliness”
‘fore saints can’t be sinners
As long as they try.
And wishes can come true;
If only I knew,
If only I knew.
Pen, filled with thick, rich black ink.
A crisp soft notebook for poems
To sink, past the brink
Of time keepers and spirits.
A smile invaded my mouth vessels;
Please be gentle
With who I am
Not a “ham”
Filled with strawberry jam.
Friends, good friends
Is what I have.
Believe it or not,
This isn’t a fad.

Treehugger

I love trees,
They are the deepest friends
A girl can have.

I’m a treehugger at heart.

Wrap my arms around your
Bristly brown trunk,
And your mine;
All mine.
I talk to trees,
And they respond
Back to me.

Call me crazy;
I don’t care.

I love trees,
And they love and care
Deeply for me.

Call me crazy;
I don’t care.

The trees and I have a special connection.
It’s fun to talk to trees, hug them as I please.
Realizing, even.

I love trees,
because they are infinitely wise beings
and have a lot of good advice to share.
Give them a chance,
And they’ll listen

And CARE.

I’m a Treehugger at heart.

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.

Memories of the Man

When the world shuts you out
whispering the silence among greater beings
the wind calls from various slumbers,
awaiting.
Growl, you growl,
as the world shrinks,
and expands.
Pushing the parameter,
the gargantuan man
a stranger in this land.
Reminiscing on past grandeur,
and lengthy, finite stones of words
as they fall, vicariously,
in the pitter patter of empty rain, and dry sunlight.
Short, are you
bringing forth new openings
as store fronts, covered with silk
and velvet dark red carpet
swirls into your body,
as it swims into the sea of thoughts and memories.

Passover Woes

No carbs for you,
Deprived little girl.
Still a saint, unsexed by the Lord.
For where do these ideas go?
Do you put them in glass-sealed jars
And wait ‘till the marinating’s done.
Do you starve the princely woman
Fearing death so much she stuffs
Bread on her jacket, clutching a knife?
No carbs for you,
Deprived little girl.
You hunger
For a better journey,
One received, but not open yet.
Words pour out like disease, and taint the milk,
Turning egg to cheese
And bread to sin.
Fuck the lonely heart strings,
Taut in remorse.
Never played by delicate female fingers,
Never sung, shooed, or sharp.
No carbs for you,
Deprived little girl.
So much expansive knowledge
to weep and to curl.
Burnt edges brush
Crusting up merle,
Navigating the mind
To new sights,
“sounds divine.”
But so much is left
For the dogs.
Weaving through traffic; waiting for a miracle.
Angel wings is what you desire;
To stop time in its tracks
To devour the clouds
And spit out dandelion seeds
In the grass, replanting the weeds.
No carbs for you,
Deprived little girl.
Life’s too precious
To throw your intellect
Into the dumpster.

The Minute Hand

The world beats its itchy finger on time,
Striking at the warm heat,
Emitting vocal calls.
Clasp the hands of the golden red clock,
As it ticks through life
One pure sparkling battery.
Dive high to put on the light,
As wet trees sing softly,
whispering through their leaves.
Silent patterns strike,
While fancy bells whistle
Through evaporated rain.
Drying up, yet soaking in.
Huddled, bundled-up in cherry cheese cloth,
Spindled-knitted yarn.
Stripes going zig-zag
With plastic edges,
Blunt band shrill
Warm up the sweat,
Collecting in foreign places
Such as palms;
forehead, and behind the knee.
Keep this structure going,
when bulging glass pink eyes
Wipe away the grime and stare
Up at the sky
All white cloud
And blue patterns.
The churn of shifting voices yell quietly,
Only in one mind.
A quest,
Just started, blinks on reality’s acting cue
As it steps into the limelight (on stage)
And delivers
Its lines.
Processing quick sticker facts,
Slinking those slick black slacks,
Sinking into the abyss.
The clock tells times,
But the heart knows not yet
Of the future.

Who Am I Really?

Who am I really?
A ghost of a child
Cemented in core scrutiny
Until eye socket collapse
And screaming babies curdle.
Who am I really?
A warped black
Plastic cord snaking
From the electrical socket,
Sucking energy dry from the sterile grid.
Who am I really?
A callous hexagonal button,
shaped strange, grey and lifeless.
Just sitting in the dirt
Like a lone beggar,
Dust in my beard;
All tarnished.
Who am I really?
A faulty heart
That spews out nonsense
And freckles the steam cloud
With dangerous pesticides.
Who am I really?
Cold feet, clammy hands, bitten fingernails.
gnarled knuckles, a gashed cheek
multitudes of gruesome grape bruises.
Who am I really?
Chained to the ceiling,
Ducked taped mouth,
Sewn up eyes,
Blind to the world
Of my mind
Inside.
Who am I really?
Not a dark ominous path of dissected trees,
Oozing pink leaves.
Some crinkly old newspapers
Fingers stained with print.
Not a curl of smooth hair
Or a flicker of silver flecks.
Who am I really?
A mirror
Into the future;
A doomsday device.
A pencil empty of lead,
A hollow rubber ducky;
All yellow and quacks
But no final emotion.
Who am I really?
Circling thoughts
Like turkey vultures
Around a dead carcass,
Drowning frogs in salt water
And fuzzy squirrels under tires.

Werewolf

I am a hairy beast
waiting for the kill;
Waiting for the feast.
Thick black follicles
Never shaved, quite deranged.
A clean, but hairy beast
Waiting for the kill;
Waiting for the feast.
Wide mouth open
Metallic black eyes
Stare straight into the depth
Of your demise.
Don’t be “fooled”
By this clever disguise.
I use it as a mask
The hairy beast inside.
Growling
Chomping
Flesh to wisps;
Bone to powder.
Lurching
Smiling
While gnawing through slimy eyeballs and veins.
Licking
Slurping
Blood from my victims.
I am a hairy beast
Waiting for the kill;
Waiting for the feast.
I enlarge my testicles
To swallow the night.
As shiny
Penny-less paupers
Form into light.
Eating through fear,
I devour bad taste
Crumble buildings
To rust,
And mere people that hate.
This creature,
Within me
Can’t be undone.
With one flick of my jawbone;
I’ve already won.
The glint in my teeth,
The layers of gums.
Too late to stop
From what I’ve become.
I am a hairy beast
Waiting for the kill;
Waiting for the feast.

Rise and Shine

Waking up
Is the best thing
a person can do.
Milk and cereal;
Empty-headed thoughts.
crunching,
With swallows.
Humanity
At the beginning.
Scribbles made
By one fine woman
Who knows who she is.
Waking up
Is the best thing
a person can do.

Feeling Quite Small

Holding in

tepid tears.

littering my own path

with salt and grime.

Reaching out, but

grasping air.

Missing the mark,

again and again.

The target

keeps on moving,

changing,

shifting

without

a vocal sound.

Almost Whole

Tonight
was a splendid night.
Poems and stories
shared.
Great friends,
to declare.
Everything right.
simple
and bright.
Another day gone,
no sadness lingers.
Laughter is shared,
grinning as we mingle.
Tonight
was a splendid night.
Weather descriptions,
homesickness inflicted.
Words pour out as heart inside expands.
Friendship is worth
more than money
or gold.
So much richness,
experiences to behold.
Surprisingly delightful, depthful, and sane.
Tonight
was a splendid night.

The Sounds of Life

Birds are chirping
Noodles, slurping
Leaves are rustling
Wind, bustling
Eyes are sparkling
Innards, sparking
Pen is scratching
Love, slapping
Planking is watched
Smiles, taught
Hugs are waiting
Touches, dedicating
Sky is cloudy
Feelings, lousy
Bellies are rumbling
Hearts, stumbling
Knees are wrinkly
Legs, tingly
Words are exciting
Voices, enlightening
Trees are listening
Friends, whistling
Planes are flying
Joyfully, sighing.

On the Cusp of Calmness

On the cusp of calmness,
Seeing what lurks near.
Stress invades
Dear friends’ souls.
Devours and shakes
This steady knoll.
A fickle matter,
Not peaceful, at best.
Swimming in a burst
Sea of cooled-off
Sunlight rays and power.
Sometimes,
Enough is Enough!
On the edge of reality
Happiness fades away.
But glory and thankfulness
Makes its home here.

String Theory

Oh, what on earth
To think
As babies drink and drink.
Chub turns to fear
When dynamite comes near.
Dawn is dusk tonight
Between the urge to fight.
Calm those
Insistent nerves.
This body fights and swerves.
Mistakes cast long
And fitful stares
When wooden words,
sucked in,
Just declare.
Two feet in red
Are better off dead.
Filled with
Briny, oily water
Separates to slaughter
All that’s so precious
Our babies are out to get us.

Purgatory

Stuck in a Purgatory
That will not ever end.
Dropping fly balls;
Swinging at the air .
Missing the catch
And smacking in the face.
Skiing down a mountain
While rushing into trees.
A stolen sweater; found.
Mistake for a double
Salad; yesterday.
A rushed waxing gone astray
As parking chatter
Gives a straight delay.
Stinking up the white sounds of death
And silence.
Less days to progress
And watch it all
Fall
Into its own decrepit shit.
Stick in a Purgatory
That will not ever end.

Luck, no more Fuck!

Luck, no more Fuck!

Love, no more Shove.

Blurt, no more Hurt.

Wide, no more Hide.

Learn, no more Scorn.

Treat, no more Defeat.

Full, no more Lull.

Blush, no more Hush.

Red, no more Dead.

Life, no more Strife.

Joy, no more Ploy.

Luck, no more Fuck!

Last Train Home

The Last living soul
On the night-life
Train
Buzzin’ down the tracks
Is nobody’s gain.
Only one left
Sittin’ in the cold
Sweat,
Hearing the rattle of ticklish wind
High pitched,
Outside the dull blue carpeted floor.
All cusp and wink;
Tried past the brink
Slowly to sink
Into this cold brown pleather chair.
Excitement, beware.
The last stop is me,
Befuddled
Yet full of glee.
Exhausted
Not needing
Anything.
Finally alone;
Finally free.

Industrial Harmony

Steel circumstance
Radio-toxic sounds.
Artificial light bomb
Shined in all faces.
Smile-less blank stares
Emit no emotion.
Skin human bodies
Covered in thin grey
Blue white fabric.
Emitting continuity
And breaking frail
Boundary lines.
Four sets of Four
All lined up.
Robotic humans pli-ay and jump
Landing on bare toes.
Music all on improve.
The whirl of machines
And cogs and wheels
Spinning round. Blinding
And exposed. Grey
Fabric but paper against
The might of the
Sterile, unflattering light.
Empty and grey. No purpose.
All gray and grey and gray
With landing strips neon
Yellow-orange across
The curves and dips of
Living creatures. But all
Humanity has been stripped from their
Clutches. All Humanity is now
A sort of callous
Sad recollection of
What was. In this future,
Depicted by strong muscular
Dancers, no heart is left
But wired strings. No brain
Is left but computer chips.
No soul is left
but it filters into the light.
Escapes into the bleachers.
The dancers still dance,
Treating every step like clockwork.
Treating every drop of sweat
Like it is unnatural. No
Softness or cushion lingers.
All that is left is the harsh reality
That dances across every fixture and
Breath that these robotic dancers take.
No purpose. No touch
Is ever pleasing. It is just a
Choreographed set-up. A
Step-by-step play devoid of
Obsolete unscrupulous
Feelings that negate the edge
Of peril by harboring a more
Streamed-lined approach
To being alive.
These attachments to people
No longer matter in this future world.
Blushing is now a sign of body function.
A hug is merely a routine of
Bodies and arms circling around one another.
There is no heart or song left within Humanity.
No despair either.
If love is confiscated and sucked clear away;
all dried up and gone forever,
then what are these flash vessels really for?
Do they have a purpose, other than
Dancing as a group in distinct
Industrial Harmony?
All at the same exact pace, time, frame, and beat.
But no divergence can, in fact, be a bad thing.
If passion is avoided or ignored or discarded
Then all that’s left is a cold,
Frozen humanoid face,
No better than a robot.
an unquestioning entity that only
repeats what is said and never dives deeper
into the internal depths below,
only skimming the surface of knowledge.

The Cobra Dance

I am a cobra,
Spiraling upwards.
Curling and slinking.
I am a cobra;
Dangerous.
Fangs dripping,
Head dipping
Lower
And lower
And lower.
Until I break up
And tilt
Forward.
Forked tongue
Slips out.
I hiss away
All my doubt.
Folding my lanky, tall body
To fit my lengthy personality.
I am a cobra,
And I do a sultry dance.
I will not shake or dodge or prance.
I linger after every thought,
Slip my way into the cold spongy grey tiled dance floor
Until you cannot see me anymore.
I am a cobra,
You’d better watch out.
Sparlking brown/white scales,
They shimmer softly in the moonlight.
A young
Destroyer of worlds,
I take over the floor
and curl inwards,
Then up,
Then lift my flappy head
Gristled all about.
I smile and sway,
Then lick up the blood.
I am a cobra,
(so you’d better watch out).

On Edge-------

Queasy
Sick to my stomach
Unnerved, uneven, unsettled.
Any sudden movement
Is a hyper-aware
Stare-on Stare.
Any jostle or footsteps
Makes me quiver
And snap my head back
Like a complete maniac.
Empty, like an uneaten light socket,
Or vibrant green goo.
Acting like a paranoid Troll
Stuck in Act Five.
My orange/yellow horns
Curved and short.
My skin
Grey as ash.
What would my name be?
nothing sinister or brash.
Scared beyond belief.
The ghost of “Jack Noir”
Followed me in my dreams,
He invaded my precious sleep.
Poked and prodded
‘till my yellow eyes
Bled red.
Frightened and cabulted,
Shaking from
The impact of a recent nightmare-----Nothing can compare-----
Black shadows
Dissipate into the
8am sunlight.
Five hours of being awake.
Calming down, but not quite sane yet…
Was this body, this spirit, this soul ever sane to begin with?
I’m afraid not.

My Troll name would be:
Fiona Watter
And my pesterchum name would be: (SS)
SoothsayerScribe

Stuck on Homestuck

Stuck on Homestuck
Is there any way
Not to obsess?
Impress?
Digress?
Can’t stop
Every night
Laughter and light.
Distracts from the pain inside
This here broken heart.
No longer at the start.
Twelve Trolls;
Eight Humans.
Twenty Souls
To keep track of.
It’s like nurturing children,
Hear their made-up stories and interactions.
Giggle, cry, weep.
Shake heads and sigh.
Grin ear-to-ear
Without quite knowing why.
These vigorous beings
Characters a-plenty.
Yet, each capture life;
Its aches, groans
Confusion, and strife.
So unrealistic
A fantasy world.
No words can describe it,
This web comic keeps on going,
Urging, sparking, expanding, growing.
Keep it all inside,
Though some dear friends have lead me to it.
It’s a one-person adventure;
Just please don’t overdo it!
Can’t get enough,
At least my mind is elsewhere.
Hidden, those blue blue eyes.
Hidden deep deep inside.
(For safekeeping…..)
Stuck on Homestuck,
Is there any way to
progress?
Guess?
Compress?
It all in one sitting…..

NO

This Heat------

Boiling in this skin.
Peeling off layers and layers
Of dead cells
As it pours
Pours
Pours
Down sweat.
Sweat spiked with whiskey,
Sweat spiked with pain.

A hot mess box
To remember,
As spillage veers near,
And rattling records
Bind the mind
In sharp guitar-stringed solos.
Boiling in this life.
A thick cover of strife
And bubbling bumpy callouses.
So much left to do.
So much to let through.
A whole day; wasted.
T.V. screen is playing with my mind
To become
Toxic, methitropic mush.
How can it re-hash and re-create
Into a blooming unique of grey matter?
Boiling in this room,
Basking in the disappeared hot-headed sun.
This heat,
Inside and out,
Swims in its own
stinky sour green vomit.
Neon green,
Alive and pulsing.

How to Catch the Crazy

To catch the crazy
You have to slice me open,
To the core
And watch me bumble, stumble, and squirm.
You have to slap me
Back to normal.
To catch the crazy
You have to burn me alive;
Soul and all.
Watch the trembles
Persistently fall.
To catch the crazy
You have to trick and prick my finger;
Twist me upside down
And spin me ‘till I hurl,
Barf, throw up
Into the open air.
To catch the crazy
You have to
Shake me
Flail me
Poke me
Choke me
Scare me
Flare me
Slap me
Pat me
Then

Center me back into
Reality.
To catch the crazy
You have to ignore me and treat me with disgust.
To catch the crazy within;
You have to think I’m nuts.

Strife

I feel tested,
Warm and congested.
Utterly pestered
By life’s
Contests of strife.
After pinching out
A highlighted soap drama follows me,
I just want to be free.
People are busy
As much as
I am lazy.
Is once enough?
Push and shove
Until the yellow light turns “red”
Dead ahead.
Bumps and gashes cover these slashes.
Not happy or grateful or sane.
Trying hard to refrain
From jumping in the open salt water,
And drown in the sea.
Loving and Hating what is;
What will be.
A two-double sign,
Clipped doves wings
And severed paws.
How far can this old dog go on?
I’m covered in fleas, ticks, and a sneeze.
Loving, yet the world seems to throw my shriveled carcass down
High ‘cross the town.
Disappointed and disgruntled.
Grumpy and trumpled.
Barely awake in hot pink clothing.
Rolling on by the hot, dry,
Crematorium.
Where all my inner hopes and dreams
Go
Bye Bye.
Fuck this dripping lube tube.
I am the stupidest woob dufus to ever be rude
And complain,
‘fore I gain
Absolutely nothing.
Is my presence
A being of billowing hair and neglect?
Why can’t I fully wreck this life/
All it does is pile with loads of
Strife
And more Strife.
Battling my weak senses,
But my nose is pretty good.
I can smell from miles away,
Zoom in on my prey
And devour alive any lug, zip, or pride
Hidden deeply inside.

For You Homestuck Lovers...

Oh, Homestuck!
How I've missed you so.
Your strange looking arrows
guide my way to happiness.
And all the characters make me laugh.
Pesterlog, I want to dash
and complete all the chapters.
But, alas, I'm still
in Act Three
When oh when will those
grey trolls appear,
When oh when will I be able to flee
from this here colorful
computer screen?
I wonder...

Reality’s Glimmers

Spigots and spots
Lined with
Rings and dots.
Patterns galore
Slip, slop, snore.
Paw onto the ship of lore,
And wait while pounding
This gate
To equate
The score.
Blew on by, blow on by
The store,
Filled to the brim
Gained by a whim
And soar.
Past the valleys of brick and gold,
Black concrete
That’s already sold.
Walk down the silver pathway,
Until copper eyes
Stare straight
Into your soul
Not a moment too late
Not a moment too bold.
Laying, thumped
While chumped
And humped
By the slow-passing days.
Land in a haze
Slather some glaze
And unhash Reality’s Glimmers.

Fed, But Not Sane

Whizzed and funneled
Past the brink
Of extinction.
Too much power
Sucked from
Dry lubed tubes
Stuck on something stronger
Than tree fragments.
Gleeful and joyful
For the state of being
“alive.”
Don’t want to dive
Into it too soon.
Breaking backs
And open flowing pantaloons.
Cracked, whipped
Parched throat just whimpers
To get fed and cleaned.
Shaking fingered globes
Of para-normality
Come searching
For a new way out.
Looking for a home
Winking feelers pulse
Their stretched, taut strings.
Try to hold onto
One more day,
But fate
Is slipping
Slipping
Slowly,
Slowly
away.

(Big Black Hole)

Twiddling thumbs
wanting the world
to align, emerge
from its prison, its shell, its jail, its cell
jumping, uneasy on edge.
Any noise, snap, or twitch
and it all falls off
the steep ledge.
Shaking fingers, heart buzzing, palms pounding, adrenaline surging, soaring, leaping
twist it all to hell,
let it fumble and fail
at the very last minute.
Climb up the slick walls;
now slide down.
Strut through two
needles in arms and veins sticking out.
Brain pulsing, flickering, no doubt
about to explode.
Just a little push
and all of life’s
longings/aches/wants
fall down the mysterious chasm
into the dark sinister depths below.
(In the Big Black Hole)

A Resting Place

Look over there on the other side of the street,
See that shopping cart
Sleep.

Laying on his side
No worries or laws
To abide.

He lies, still and calm
While the pesky plastic bags
Circle ‘round and ‘round.
Content with his life,
Never making a sound.
Sleepy the Shopping Cart
Has finally found
A safe place to rest
Lay his weary head
And dream about
His home,
The supermarket.

Dancing Bags

Dancing Bags
They dance heartily
Floating through
The bright blue sky.
Plastic grocery bags
Let loose
To move and flow
On the edge of the wind
As it pushes them gently
Higher and higher.
A white bag
Flips and turns
Flaps its shiny white wings.
Tries to leap off the ground
Dodges cars,
Almost gets sucked and smooshed
Under a black Truck tire.
But then the wind’s sweet breath
Grasps the bag up,
Lifts it’s weary, crinkly body,
And it swiftly flies
Around the corner Traveling fast
Onto another
Adventure.

(There are many more streets to explore).

The Bag Shuffle

Shimmy black bag,
Shuffle down that sidewalk!
Skim the concrete
Swallow up the street
Gobble up the silent music
Spit it out in streaks
Hide behind the wall,
Then peek—while giggling—at me.

Grammar-Speak

Tap, tap, fizzle
Slap down and drizzle
Those lax FANBOYS
For, And, Nor, But, Or, Yet, So)
Which conjunction are you?
Through and through?
A preposition nears
With so much fear
Accountability
Washes over me.
To figure out
Those stubborn adjectives;
They still live.
Quickly and quietly
Some adverbs whiz by
Just happily to say, hi!
And these verbs
Jump, turn, and swerve.
Nouns, pesky nouns
Those hounds,
They belt and sing
While the full moon brings
The grammar words
Alive.

OPEN

Not the greatest expectations,
the earthy goodness reeks from below,
heating strong thighs and whisking
solemn words away from sheer fingertips.
Learning not to trip,
as green flowy skirts sway in the dancing breeze,
and yellow whispers slip inside dark red clipped fingernails.
Stones of orange reflection mirrors the dangling heat;
muted and calm,
admiration is at its greatest form.
Keep scribbling in cursive
bent clenched fingers dribbling down
the empty lined page, blossoming into the greatest art piece.
Shiny brown shells rest on the spotted table,
as energy arrives
in fresh small bursts
smelling of strawberry cheesecake and freshly cut grass.

[Untitled]

Here it is,
Everything once calm
Shooting down
Flames of fixtures that sit and split
Into two separate beings.
Non-human, this body of ridged cotton feelings
Keeps on flopping on the structures of music and rhymes.
Forward, always, scooping up fragrant sparkles
And looping fingers through
Stretchy springs.
Collapsing and tugging
At the depth of high morality.
Scribbles of happiness falls
On heavy wet leaves, green, crisp
From the sun’s warm rays,
Touching the face of something great.
Two plus pages to let out
all this special, marvelous calling.
The calling to just
be
me.
Open up those shut, starched eyes,
Open them wide.
Plastic and stride.
No rhymes, because
Running out of time.
Struggling to finish
This diminished
Plushy perspective.
Fritz the anxiety
That melts into continuality.
Don’t judge these precious calls.
The calling to just
be
me.
Whap, then slap
Parched throats,
and soak all that marinating pleasure.
Funny noise from outside,
Exasperating giggles
Swell up in this
Four-walled-room
Into a great balloon
To fly straight up
Into that winking blue sky.
Shadows face sun kisses
And beat up all fly-ball misses.
Womping, arting, solfling.
Made-up words to carry through
Loads and
loads and
loads
of phew!
Thank goodness!
One exclamation mark!
Then two emerge!!
Give in three, so they can flee!!!
Now, four, before they escape!!!!
Finally five, so weakness can learn to look alive!!!!!
Fear swishing down that futile
Well of hell.
Keep it going,
Keep it flowing,
Keep it growing.
Distraction of the white mist
Shirt
That alerts what the sun dial
Has to say.
Leaning on tree posts,
Bed-throws,
And salt toes.
Taste the space
Between
Teeth that graze
Sparks bomb this world of spit and song.
Random red
Spripes ahead.
Look out so life won’t wed
The pills and thrills
Of tomorrow.
The calling to just
be
me.
To be free
From burdening fails.
Flapping shiny wings
Float on the width of the clouds.
So damn proud!
Like what is willed,
From the flutter of exciting frills.
Covering up life in pink, brown, and orange
Patterned flowers.
Everything situated,
Yet shifting
FORWARD.

[Untitled]

A mixed message
Of many julebelies
Coming together.
A time to sing
Your heart out.
A life, unraveling
At one touch.
A piece of work
Not yet finished.
But it’s started, at least.
A brain, uncluttered,
Partially sane.
Needing ju-ju powers
And depthful cleansings.
A heart, washed clean in the shower.
Those strings, connecting
To a variety of new people.
Branching out; connecting worth
And strong virtue
In its path.
A world cracked open
To let all that
Wimplewander juice pour out,
And escape past that stubborn drain.
A shelter,
Re-evaluating harmony
With just a memory.
A flavor of spittle,
Tasteless; however, awaiting the universe.
A wheel, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.
Churning faligaments,
Yearning for more funny moments.
A color of the cheeks
After awakened.
Breathing tough,
The bird gets up.
Unclips its weak wings,
And dives (head first)
Into the blank chasm;
awaiting its destiny.

Balanced Reciprocity

Balanced Reciprocity
The bad
goes with the good,
as despairingly as
it should.
light of morrow
silt and sorrow
melt into subtle melody.
Winds shift,
Derangement uplift
This petty fault
Better salt
Those perfect picture frames.
Both sadness and laughter,
Find a path
To devour the last-gate way
Slide through
That slippery barrier,
Merrier than yesterday.
Wimboozled, and tired;
Don’t be a liar
Until end of days
Break
Into the morning’s wake.
Just take a stick,
Snuff a wick
And lick the soft, fresh air outside.
Don’t hide
From past extremities.
Just breeze on by,
Breathing high.
Maybe catch a draft or drift

And fly.

The bad
Goes with the good,
As despairingly as
It should.

The Gourmet Gulch 2

Salty Sweet
Tart Fragrance
Recycled Loot
Lights Shine
Chinese Lanterns
Mustard Kick
Hidden Within
Slap on the Wrist
Slurp Tomatoes
Fry Red
Crusty French Baguettes
Lemon Sour
Taste Enhances
Everything Eye
Opening Amazed
Creamy Goodness
Blue Cheese
Lovers Unite!

The Gourmet Gulch

Open for all occurrences.
Never closed
To cheeses
Of all sizes.
Bitter.
Salty fresh.
Ginger chocolate
Balls
Coffee beans
70%.
Never disappoints.
Always ready
For a new adventure.
Goat cheese, Blue cheese, Sheep cheese, Ginger, Coffee, Dark Chocolate
Nibs,
So delicious.
Taste so fine.
Buds singing on
Multiple tongues.

Let Silence Sleep

Other side is far more daunting than it seems.
One touch of heart beats; silenced, muffled, and muted.
Can’t help this precious world-view from calming insides which rumble.
Stale orange crackers crunch under teeth.
Just keep on slowly breathing…
under plushy spongy light bluish-green lungs.
Everything will get better, and that careful headache will go away…
No one can read these scribbles and scratches
as soft silence bears down on us all
and rests its weary head over this room; hands flopping on the floor,
giant torso limp,
legs stiff as wooden marionettes,
feet slumped on the ground,
just resting.
Silence sits here,
lying down
heaving quiet, invisible snores.
Only the sharp tap of computer keys,
gurgling of one upset belly, breaths, yawns, and shuffles are heard.
And the quick sound of a mechanical pencil writing on white, blue-lined paper.
Why are the lines “blue” anyways? why not purple or green or red or black?
Why can’t the side-line be a nice turquoise color instead of pink?
No answers evolve, as one more sentence emerges.
Leave the last line for Silence; Leave it be.

Tom Sturgis Artisan “Thins” Since 1861: Pretzels

The start is near,
the end is finished past all time and space.
Intrepid inglorious music whizzes past all eardrums
and falls gently on the strange red- brown carpeted floor.
Two sock-clad feet stare up at me,
as I take into account the vocals and worth of the universe.
Flagrant melodies saunter and spit globs of sticky white pus,
which leak out of the windows.
Glass starts fogging up,
and a friend in pain needs comfort from a peace-patterned snuggie.
On this blessed star-filled night,
my stomach rumbles from angry pinto beans and an overload of pretzels.
Study hard, or do no pain as reality shifts from doppelgänger fetches to obscene, but surprisingly helpful aliens.
What is seen through the brain of overloaded thoughts.
One blank page,
getting devoured by pencil- one word at a time.
Flying through secret songs as positions are shifted,
and spark fissions within my heart.
Never looked outside of life,
this far it settles on nothing and changes everything
to make a new perspective.
Making it through the night in uber hipster style.

Powerful Woman

Powerful woman, queen gold and shining.
She has fighting colors, as strong as a sunburst
She opened her heart, and now it swims in liquid nitrogen and hot fizzling fire.
Slice that pen-marked cheek and rally for insanity as this woman
inside me) bubbles out.
Never fuse, just light the end and watch it burn delightfully.
Crazy guitar strings are plucked and intensity unfolds.

True Power!

This Sienna, yes, the one with the “S”
She is dualistic in her pure Gemini form.
In order to get through spoken words in abnormal positions.
She is a ruler of all things, dominates the gold and orange.

Too much to handle, she thinks not.
Hand her reign over to the women goddesses.
Spiritually here and alarming, sneaking poetry between hidden blank sheets.
Only the sun can know her indestructible musings.

In the back of the room,
particles align and are ready to explode into thousands of yellow-red-orange orbs.
Levels of nourishment.

A mark is made.

Nature is this woman’s mind.
She feels moutainloads and ships cargobanks to pull that might up.
Made up of inconceivable parts of being.
Yes, she has fizzy silver bones, palpated sinking hearts,
a neon-green liver, steel-wool lungs, meaty palms, and a pure golden bladder.
She is an entity, fully in love,
exerting her power on the world to bend its reality.
Maybe look at the meat-machine,
sluice open her head, and you will find a Sienna-colored brain.
Not grey, or gray, or bulbous matter.
This woman has a soul, like a clock that tells the wrong time,
but it is always correct.
A complete unit, never ill or malfunctioning.
She powers on through the bad stuff and minute perils.
She powers on through the doubt and skepticism.
This woman eats the universe; swallows it whole.
A composite unity,
which smirks and bellows fiercely into empty, dark caves.
She brings light to resistance and fury to stagnant brain cells.
This solid woman of power sparkles when she feels like it.
She smiles, all the time, because of her shallow happiness.

My Love is the Rain

The rain, it keeps on falling, falling down
in buckets, liters, whirlpools, collecting in vast puddles.
Cannot stop pouring, reaching,
washing away what was once lost and abandoned.
A full page, wet with raindrops,
spatters and trickles down soft cheeks.
The water swims as it filters down;
mixed with teardrops, so salty.
Dirt collides with the rain,
creating a rich brown mud
in which to cover the sidewalk and pavement.
The absorbent earth sucks up the clouds gifts;
the leaves glisten green, bright, as they eat the water up.
The rain, it sprinkles across every windowpane, glass
misting up with its hot breath and gentle touch.
It smells, so crisp and fresh.
Nostrils heave in the stormy clouds overhead,
grey and pulsing. Rolls of fluff in the sky,
like thick plushy cotton-balls.
They cover the normal blue with no color.
A blank canvas.
Like all the color was sucked out, slurped up. Gone.
What remains is a cold, wet, damp nothingness.
The need to write this all down speaks wonders.
A small, but sure writing practice with the scent of rain,
and the breath of assurance.
Spelling doesn’t matter.
It never did.
The bending time frames see all that was lost.
These words engulf the page, white and slender,
with the same voraciousness as the rain
as it washes away the dust on boots and soaks subtle cotton.
Just let it all out,
seek virtue in the dim morning light
as slivers of silver strings steam through the combustible door-frame.
Just write, write, write.
Do not stop to think or pause.
Let it make sense in what is confusing or muddled.
Erase mistakes,
and keep on going, moving, learning, living, breathing, hurting, smiling.
No, no more wimpy thoughts of wallowed shivers and bumpy skin.
No, no more stalling; just break down the barriers of life,
as it silently calls from beneath the quiet, peaceful trees.
The need to write is quite amazing; for it trickles out of hands and fingertips, and doesn’t wait to find the brain waves to take it all the way home.
Follow those mute thoughts,
like a sick old blind man.
Only a few stacks of lines remain
for vigor and spoken water rushes out the metal, bronze, wood, and silt.
Feel the beauty of nature and thank the rain,
as it cleanses every stem, leaf, and flower.
The rain keeps on falling, falling down.

We are all modes of God

Two different, but related senses combined.
The substance of this heat beats slowly, quickly everywhere at once.
Clashes because of intrinsic reality.
Only God can differentiate between everything and see the clarity.

I am God.

I will write smaller, smaller still to try to capture the love that is enclosed within my being.
So much is held between organ and skin.
Breath and sight.
My heart is as big as this page.
It widens and shrinks as time will let it.

Dissolve

Riddle, come fiddle
Deep inside this realm.
Fast laugh past
The dying song
That lasts and hums
To all that’s sung.
Seep the road, the road of fate.
Until the siren calls a name.
Puzzle gone missing
Deep inside this space.
The planets override
Each person’s dying grace.
Fuzzy as the soft twang
Beats its drum to all.
Coming towards the cave of lore.
Birthing out the polka-dotted world encased in fault.
A tingle shouts to say its doubts
And trouble melts away.
How kind of it to stray!

Last Saturday at the Hair-dyeing Party

Blooming brighter than the sun,
the war’s been won
beyond the vanquished lot
of world’s long gone.
Swimming in the sea
of vibrant hair dye,
the smell of water pours down
the silt-lined peril,
brined in green lyme.
Pencil, going numb,
within the sum
of vast squishing past
time thoughts prime,
full to the brim
of sights unsigned.
Let us begin,
on the ride past all sin.
The white fright frozen sight
of everything new and open.
Crack open the periwinkle light,
begin to see the freedom of sight.
Slam these words down hard
on this invisible table of shards.
Written and scripted,
with the wit of plaster and spit.
Rhymes come down
to smite the lines
on this blank feral apathy.
Keep scratching on the outskirts,
flirt with the sky.
Up there, where sound is silent,
and music riots across the ear canal,
swathed in fallacies
within this palace of deeds.
Is this true?
Fire and Ice hair
seeps into blank switchboards
of falling power.
Lazy fingers twitch
and skim and scum
up the ground with pounding rhythm.