21/100

The blue hour

beginning so suddenly

that it could hardly be said that it happened at all

the fireflies  with their persistent

hallucintationesque sex ritual

parodying something that I have been so shy to say

the kodama came out

as children looking for players in a kickball game.

it made me smile through my being

I had to graciously decline

“I am too heavy to play in your dimension”

But I will be coursing through the green for the rest of the night

I will proliferate with you.

In you.

As you.

In the very least; I can see you.

I can feel you.

And while I would desperately love to play.

The mosquitos drink my human flesh.

The ticks transmit diseases to me in this reality.

But I will join you soon enough

Share in this night with me

As we wander through the dark

into other dimensions
slipping from this one  

bell-symbol

Under the raincross

The tears that fail to fall

we share a cough

in the pollution that never ceases

the roaring freight breaking up an otherwise still night

with horns that fracture the loyalties of this

forgotten realm

how have I come here?

What am I fighting- in this tragedy

Am I another player

Some bounding knight, some marching pawn

As we are all plainswalkers in this desert of queens

none are as useful as the hoof and talon

nothing is easy in the hot desert wind

chapping your face and hands into a submissive blue-collar slave.

Under the raincross

Oranges are crushed by vacant warehouses

Tweakers grift lawnmowers, bicycles and stereos

traffic asphyxiates all the dreams

nonexistent money strangles children of their futures

as if they had some other option to enlightenment

beyond the sale of their flesh

but I am not one to talk

 I cannot afford to shed water in this way

And we worship it,

Here; the bell and the glyph,

That never make any rain

Though we pray to them as if they could

As if all the deference in the world would save us

Begging for water in the name of some misplaced loyalty

The sound and the symbol cast their shadow

Fetishizing everything the burning heat touches

We don’t pray for water as much as we pray for cathartic tears

Remove us from the hurt that we bring upon each other.

20/100

Such survivors, troopers

“bro, I’m glad you’re here.”

In this small sandbox

With all these posers

I needed someone that knew how to separate the

Men from the boys

In this realm

Where coyotes reign and wolves starve

Deer explode on the freeways under trucks

That ship plastic

Tattooed and lazy

You fuckers sleep for days at a time

Hibernate right through summer

through fall and most of winter

constantly sleeping

…but sleeping less than those around here

rising early in this perverse spectacle

like a twelve-year-old with morning wood

in the way that infants fondle themselves  

you sick fucks.

With the trapping of the scarabs

In that big satellite-dish pussy

With its adjoining semen ball-pit

Because your intersexed

Interspecies debacle,

With that 23” gigantic-ass genital… thing.

that smells like, Ass.

  No matter what the cause or the case

we will all do what it takes for release

not all of us will know it

and to those, I am sorry

to seek it

on our own terms

to win our own battles

to live and die by the terms we see as necessary

and to love in the way that we choose

I have no valid judgments in this world

only the will to contribute.         

the dream

Under the black flag

We listen.

 In the thunder of the early morning

The verses unfold

Deeply through the various layers of this

Psychic universe

I heard them

In a tongue so foreign

Beyond this realm, beyond these vanities

Striking a chord that

reverberated within

driving all this cheap thoughtless crap

retroactively into itself

as a mirror that cannot withhold

the deluge that inhabits  

all the spaces between us

the rising tide, the waxing and waning crescent

dictating all that this world was ever meant to be

slipping away into the minutia

that would later define an existence  

    

i don't think you know

 between our two lives

there is also the life of

the cherry blossom

    -Basho

Where the mushrooms grow

on the thought of your voice

in the yearning hours of the morning

where I want nothing more than a taste

of your heart

in my ancient, dank parts where the rafters collapsed eons ago

I offer you the same freely

with no presupposition

in the way that I say “tiger”

I mean…

There was only ever you.

With every minute of life that slips away

The only thing killing me

Is the way our two lives unfold

Between us, dividing us,

this world quartering and refracting you from me

I cannot deny it; that lasting ache,

My yearning heart through so many dimensions

So many words -text messages –photos

of your life that I am not a part of

of my life that you are not a part of

sakura fade and rise and fall

upon an ocean of what I feel for you

in the depth of my water

there is a voice that cannot be heard

shrieking out into a world

asphyxiating under its own smog

the samara flutter into the darkness

in such an uncertain future

nothing astonishes

save for
how amazing I think you are

  

where angels shed their wings

Behind this screen

Beyond this imposing appeal

Something that makes its point

Something that is real

maybe making sense is overrated

Maybe alotta things

Where the red skies burn

Where angels shed their wings

Proliferate this play  

like any of it mattered

this world where scars come easy

hearts get shattered

like knots that are binding

like a voice that never sings

sustaining a sphere of nothing

in a land of toppled kings

withheld as the treasure

to make the rich feel flattered

in this land without voice

as if any of it mattered

Where angels shed their wings

Hearts get shattered

in a land of toppled kings

as if any of it mattered

more than the words

more than the verse

beyond this realm

it feels less like a curse 

ghetto ballet

They dance like paper dolls

each locked in a waltz that cannot be undone

shouting comments about heroin, jail, and the various profanities that rule their lives

of powerful ego they have been made

forged in violence, made strong through the decades

by any number of needles and lines

or smoke and chemicals that have framed their existence

pit bulls that wander the streets in search of idealized freedom

seeking some kind of solace in their self-reliance

as they sleep curbside just outside of their fence

strays that have nowhere else to go

find refuge behind the tarpaulin-coated gate

street dogs find refuge here

when their owners vanish into the back of a squad car, never to be heard from again

as that same gestapo crawls down the street religiously

worshiping their paper god with an assault rifle at the ready, as if superior

to a god on paper, with an assault rifle at the ready 

in this twisted joke where the trains never stop for an instant

where sirens and noise rule the land and air

out at the edge the burros call out

crying in the darkness to a land that is

barren but filled with definite life

as the memories of what once was, vanish

into the sound of a helicopter   

under the light-polluted sky