Sunday, May 27, 2012


Why am I searching
for the puzzle piece
that fits me

when I know
I am complete?

Knowing that does not eliminate the longing of true companionship.

Because if I am whole
and I find another piece,
we expand-
creating something made of cosmos,
blossoms of
the joyous sensations
of experiencing
love outside of the self
for another self,

so completely whole
and wholly complete.  

Monday, May 21, 2012

Death of a Faun

Crying Wolf.

On top of a city, slumber is disturbed-
when warning howls sing the songs of a fresh kill.
As the body stiffens, turns raised hair
in the opposite direction,
searching for answers...

Silently, deep
the reassuring side responds
gently between sharp teeth
the Spider to unwind and give
into another,
allowing for this sacred exchange.

Wolf devouring.

The Spider watches
while her offering is
intertwining with
the connectivity,
trusting this
shadowy transport between
giving death in hopes of rebirth.

She opens
her delicate, sticky web in confidence.
Beads of clear sentiments decorate her portal
as its ancient wisdom echoes
through the faun
as it is taken.

Wolf lying.

Above the city
he sleeps with shrouded stains
           of other faun,
breaking Spider's webs.
As clarity falls
and its beads splinter,
Wolf eludes-

hidden in his caves
where nothing can enter
an nothing can return.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Coming into Me

Went out today,
came home, and realized I-
Change happens fast.
After chemicals in formulas are
mixed, they cannot be separated by science.
They become something else.
In this vibrating matter,
where there are no rules or boundaries,
only expansion and multiplication,
creations of new are merely transformations of lost,
old, destroyed or forgotten.

Naïve hope lingers,
whispering empty promises
of reinforcing walls collapsing
and time warping
to be ready for this,
to complete unfinished reactions
of prior attachments.

But I swallowed
and choked on knowing
wise hope moves forward.
No color
no sound
suspended here
in this space,
the destruction of what became something else.
I am the artist
who will paint the changes
new equations
and unfold to this new experience.
-came into you
and went out as a dream. 

Thursday, May 17, 2012



outside of yourself
in all the other
creates conflicts
propagate seeds of


A spectrum of plants
exist in this jungle.

Seeds mutating-

Weeded, brown
rotten and hollowed
poisonous, seething
plants taking
and consuming.

Seeds transforming-

Green, vibrant,
bursting with color
food feeding,
fruit bearing
plants living,
giving life.

One can argue,
how a seed grows
is affected by the elements
and conditions it was
cultivated in...

even if it is,
as we all inevitably are,

it doesn't negate

In being,
it has a choice-

The free will to act
and grow to be
the seed,
the plant becoming,
in it's fated life.

Without searching
it does not expand.
Without growing
it does not transform.
Without the idea,
the external conflict,
the choice of life,

it remains a dormant shell,
not existing outside of itself.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012


Feigned compassion
for selfish intentions

Empty sorries
prefaced with clauses
whose subtle cues
clue into the inevitable shadow
of disappointment that leaves traces
from the corner of a well rehearse smile
to the lost sparkle of a promise once broken but
never forgotten, that lived so shortly in eye.

Once cannot be angry at this storm for embarking across the face.
It was whispering stories of its coming.
Once can only bask in the sun
of reluctant denial
and wait until the rains wash
every good feeling out with
disenchanted doubt.

Distance well rehearsed
are the words that hail from the mouth,
carrying with them
no spirit or response
only the shallow recourse which
does not offer shelter
from the shattering frozen

Monday, May 7, 2012



You trick my words
and twist their meanings,
until they drip sticky pieces
of letters

jumbled up
in sounds of coo and
goo and ahh,
until my sentences
are bittersweet songs,
that pour out of yesterday's longing

with their yellow banners silently
goodbye to that 'naive' definition.

You're against my stance.
And you take that uncertainty
in my spaces and use their hollow
vowels to howl back
beautiful, black, smokey lines I have
been wanting to
Waiting to

Oh, the words
that tremble with excitement
I have yet to announce
I am filled with



An artist of words is never clarifying.
They only reveal enough skin
to give a personal image of the territory,
because every body,
every freckle,
every scar
has transformative meaning.

But if I have to
justify my meaning in progression
and fight for no clues to
wisdom in lesson,

tell me what is the point,
the punctuation mark,
in continuing this conversation?

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Am I?

How do you start
an explanation of something
you have never seen or really
experienced before, but you have
the sensation that it is something that
may come to affect how each second of
your life will unfold. Like removing an object

from its package and taking it out so that it is
exposed in the world, seeing it this way for the
first time through this lense of clarity and wondering
why it had never know or had wanted knowledge about
this mode before. Because this fresh sensitivity has so many

excited nerves shouting and electrons jumping, carrying with them
new information about this unexplained territory that they take back
to their dimention and tell to their children before bed. It becomes, inevitably,
considered just a fantasy, or an idea that can only exist in the mind. And
once it leaves the vessel, the real air of the reality that we perceive to

be depletes it of its life force. But the children have not forgotten and
allow the ideas to breathe in their sleep and be in their sleep even when waking
because to them there is no difference between dreaming and being. They too visit
the sensational realities that exist with new skin feeling, clean eyes seeing, tentacle tongues
touching tasting, speaking, spitting the iridescence of the evanescence of the layers touching
edges only perceived in the fourth, the fifth dimensions... How do you start to explain this?

I woke up on the bus today after nodding off while reading George Orwell's 1984 to two men
sitting across from me. One asked me how I liked the book. After responding to him that it was interesting so far, he continued back to his conversation which seemed more like an interrogation but of the purest nature.

The man sitting next to him asked,
"If this is all a dream within a dream, how do we know we are real? How do we know that those trees are real? Because we can see them? Because we perceive them? Can  you prove language exists? Just because you hear it doesn't mean it's real.

What about that age- old question about the tree falling in the forest, and no one is there to hear it. Does it make a sound? Well there are a multitude of answers... and that multitude are four. One, the tree is perceived but not known. Two, the tree is known but not perceived. Three, the tree is neither perceived nor known and- four, the tree is both known and perceived. "

They exit the bus.

Now, after watching "Waking Life" a few days before, my mind is fresh with many of these ideas and cameos... and I am writing that feeling down, the feeling that begs me to ask, can we know and perceive simultaneously? Does that prove anything? Do I exist, or am I just a detail of someone's dream? Who is doing the dreaming? Are we collectively creating it and experiencing it?

My brain hurts. At least I think it's my brain...