Tuesday, March 18, 2014


The cauldrons bubble over
When I think  I’ve got it just at smoldering temperature
The tiny objects that we seek that mean things to us in our lives
Seem to define where we stand with ourselves
Our lives.
And are attested to express what kind of people we are
What kind of people we should be and become
It expresses a lot of ‘Whats’ but not ‘whys’
And im too fucking impatient to waste my time with things that are so remarkably pointless.
The way that things should mean things to people
The don’t ever seem to realize:
Your wow factor has a way of making all of us small
And there is a path through the aether that will force us to lean back
There is a way of modifying probability
There is a way through the dark by taking a step back
There is a way into the dark

Our hands give way to our dreams
Our hearts give way to our mind
And yet, it is not all of our players
And more and more we seek some sort of atonement for things that we had no part in
As though we’re guiltable animals
And owe our masters a great debit that can never be repaid because of its impossibly benevolent nature that we can’t possibly fathom due to our own personal level of self-inflicted smallness
it’s so painfully obvious to those that can see
time is far more precious than you possibly realize, and yet it is somehow also infinite and abstract
it is all things

for my part I find that it is a crusing pace
dialed in; I think your center is like some snowball crushed into perfection
some resonating conviction pressed into  steel and stone and flesh
that grows like a tree through our understanding of the internal
and external worlds
and I am driven to it out of some kind of strange charity
it brings with it adventures
there is a kind of human delight
in seeing

and being seen.   

stolen sands

where the wills and willingness wane
the cracks where it seems grow
on a world that is so plain
in a space where the rivers flow

the kodama do not show
and nor do they retreat,
where zephyrs always blow
where the sun will bear its teeth  

shadows in the moonlight
shifting through the street
running from their own plight
for a place to meet 

and under the cold moon
should they have to tell
“Come away with me child
We’re going straight to hell.

“wanted you to notice
And I wanted you to see
This word is not real, you know.
Nothing is meant to be.”

with the passing of a train
a blaring beam of white 
the shadows disappeared
within a flash of light.

I stumbled long on the night
And out into the day
With a sense that we were right
Despite, what others say

the Djinn hear all the choices
of those wishing to bet
to silence all the voices
collecting on their debit

The sounds of jubilation
shrieks that they might cry
Clouded in desperation
as they struggle and they die

all was meant to happen
all was meant to be
the requiem of the desert
so far adrift from the sea

a song that plays slowly
for the vultures in the air
a resilience that grows
without a thought or care

there is a kind of vibrance
to a world that just forgets
met with so much violence
as a quo that’s never met

it persists without a fungi
exists without a soul
dreaming to be better
wishing to be whole

the airid sands are turning
plucked as if by wire
whipping clouds of dust
alive into a gyre

they shredded up the old ways
into skinny strips that flail 
cataloging all the days
that we cannot set sail

as we sit beached and idle
on dry and gritty plains
not a drop to drink for a mile
while feeling our hunger pains

this crystal used to navigate
makes me feel so blue
my crew has been led astray
and others led askew

some into dimensions
to which they cant be found,
and some into collisions
that lead right into the ground

all have been purposeful
and all was meant to be
a phosphorescent blinding
even those that used to see

the days become the nights
the nights become the days
the wraiths of the desert
rise a thousand different ways

come with me and come away
to the deserts and the sand
in the nights as hot as day
unto this forgotten land