@ 3 AM

my hand ─ in this moment ─

is a reptilian-thing,

foreign.

holding a pen.

Seeking Altered States

I've been nursing a beer,

and longing to feel different,

than I am ─ indescribably other ─

knowing full well: drunk ain't what I'm after.

Contemplating the highs I've known,

and longing for a sympathetic ear,

or the simpatico warmth of breasts,

upon which my head could rest.

This song's too slow, it's making me itch ─

I don't if it was the haircut,

or the change in weather,

that landed me in this existential ditch.

Roles Played

[...] upon a time i've been,
a zero or the hero─

[...] upon who tells my tale,
a victim or the villain─

this story, even if honest,
is neither true, nor yet truest,
as perspective ain't prescriptive.

Insomniatic Love Sickness

I'm sitting outside, the sky is overcast,
reflecting the orange-glow of the street lights,
trapping the days warmth and humidity ─
intensely aware, that the waning crescent moon
is setting on the eastern horizon, over your house,
worrying at the metaphor this presents, while
drinking and giving myself over to the random play of
music on my mp3 player ─ disconcertingly poignant,
love songs and life songs ─ and all I'm thinking
is that I want to kiss you and not stop here...

Twisted Clichés and Misunderstanding

In the story ─ I didn't write ─

there's a clearing ─ a campfire ─

occupying the cardinals ─ four figures sit ─

Beauty at the North ─ Age at the South ─

Reason at the East ─ and here my analogy breaks ─

for love and every emotion ─ is born in reason ─

seemingly obtuse ─ seemingly irrational ─

ultimately utilitarian ─ perfectly practical ─

in scientific jargon ─ I've captured my moral ─

punctuated equilibrium ─ wave–particle duality ─

nothing mystical ─ no pretense to high artistry ─

tszzzzzzzz tic tic

All these electronics,

buzzing / humming / droning,

plus the tick and the tock

of an antique clock,

aggravates my brain,

so I long for the rain

and an electric storm ─

which might take out a transformer,

or drop a power line ─

then I'd have, a day's reprieve

from this technologic din,

and I might succeed

in a full night's sleep,

or something creative.

It's A Night For Poetry

It's a night for poetry

─ Gothic and grim ─

for the soul's hunger to sate.

It's a night for poetry

─ by candlelight ─

for the spirit to rejuvenate.

It's a night for poetry

─ Baroque, not prim ─

this mortal coil to escape.

Introspective Musing

I feel wholly insufficient,
to art - so egoistic.
Possessed of virtue-altruistic,
the muse developed a wart.
Beauty marred, her artist starved,
or changed to vocation-scientific.

Grandmother's Lessons

tomatoes ripen by moonlight-

you get your biggest harvest

when it's full, in august.

water in the evening

(soak the ground,

not the plants)

pick the fruit in the morning.

-and they are a fruit-

so are the beans, cucumbers,

corn, squash and peppers;

so, eat your greens too.

give freely to friends,

neighbors, family, and

can or freeze what remains.

Phone and Drive

And so- the phone rang.
The ringtone was something by Huey Lewis & The News,
for the irony.
(Because the only good that comes Huey Lewis and the News is the irony).
despite the new laws and PSAs she answered while driving-
an adept multi-tasker, she wasn't concerned
with crashing, and there was no cop in sight.
Plus, to be fair, what killed her wasn't operating a secondary device
while driving, it was the news,
which caused her mind to blank
in the wrong moment, just when she needed to react.
But her heart is still beating.

Hourglass

to where do you turn for meaning,
the bible, dictionary, or koran?
are you buddhist
or pagan atheist?
do you pray to hindu statue,
the sun, or the east?

what answers do you hold?
what words dare you speak?

is your faith true and blind?
are you subject to your mind?

a victim of tinted skin?
and slave to tainted flesh?

is earth your mother;
sky your father-
count you crow and spider as your brother?
or be you darwinian primate,
of the highest might?

do you see that even
now we live in eden.
or perhaps this is ragnarok,
when soon some feathered serpent shall return,
as the ages of iron find there end.

so tell me now, do you seek to be content-
or strive to connect with divine intellect?
is chaos evil, and order good-
or have we misunderstood
the prophets teachings to our kind?

but then no mans hand
can grasp the sand.

Time's Elusive

time's elusive
for pensive
people
laugh
scream
and
hide

such waste
it is to be
a nation free
while some judge
based in ignorance
  but those of intelligence sit on the fence
based on relativity
thank Einstein
if you feel fine
like a mouse
in a lab coat

waste not want not
o what bull shit
go to the supermarket
get what you want
change your mind
then trash it

this
is
how
we
live
time's elusive

first– then– at last

first you're young,
brash and bold!
doorbell wrung–

swallow your tongue!
punches pulled?
hope on hold?


then you're old!
no time left,
hope bereft?

plant a poppy.

Poetry should be heard.

Grace In Nirvana

I could exclaim
the joys of life
or, condemn you all,
the source of strife.

If I have a soul,
I've walked this plain before,
known by many a name;
ever the speaker for reason,
earning death for that treason.

Maybe, we defy human nature,
with every effort to be better.
Then, maybe we live in err,
defining self as our struggle.
Thus confused, thus clinging,
thus fearfully believing.

Tho ultimately self-contained,
still seeking and contriving
self-righteous, self-made conflict
in hope of attaining,
just reward, certain grace,
unique to us and ours
but denied our race.

Good Morning

We begin with coffee:
freshly ground sumatra,
(organic, shade-grown & fair-trade)

and cold, clean water
(sterilized and filtered).
While the Mr. Coffee

works it's alchemy,
we start the computer.
As our system boots,

we turn on the TV,
to the news or cartoons
(upon our sensibilities).

The iPod may still be on,
in the background.
Our coffee is ready,

and we pour a cup,
(half packet of Splenda
and a splash of soy)

to sip impatiently,
as Facebook loads.
C'est La Vie.

and in this end, I find regret

As I bleed out, I think
how this act changes things,
I've martyred myself to those who loved me
and proven my insignificance, unworth and stupidity to any detractor
they'll smile and smirk, “it's just evolution at work”

as I bleed out, I worry
what will remain, what is my legacy
in my wake, these things I write will take on poignancy
my words will titillate with a sense of missed urgency
published they will provide, an immortality critics can't deride

as I fade out, I wonder
what dark secrets you may find
hidden in boxes and drawers or password protected on my hard drive
the evidences of fetishes and long hidden addiction
but I trust, upon review, you'll choose to keep it, the final secret between we two:

and in this end, I find regret.

And I Alone

every moment, alone
every moment, alone
unthought
unthinking
every moment alone
her smile, her lies
here lies her smile
and I staring
at the wall
perfect metaphor
for the future
tripped up
tripped out
lost in unthought
lost, unthinking
bleeding secretly
in secret places
future unseen
through the wall
death certain
discontinuation
uncertainly
discontinuity
direct violation
of the empiric
radical belief
so common place
truly mundane
I the radical
in every moment,
alone, unbelieving
actively skeptical
braving the alone
social defiant
rebel against the norm
quite commonplace
quietly seeking
ever alone
her smile wilted
deformed, defamed
certain testament
and last will
repent, receive
repent, believe
and I alone
every moment alone

Acknowledging Puck

I worry about the impact I have upon people.
I know, I shouldn't.  I should relax, be me.
But, I infect people, and affect them
deeply, profoundly, just by knowing me,
I alter them. Or, this is ego and vanity,
run amok, drawing phobia from coincidence.
I may overestimate, inflate the merit
of certain evidences. The girls who spurned
my advances, to marry men essentially me,
in appearance, intellect, even temperament.
Maybe, I was only middle-link in their chain,
not prototypical. And I wonder, of the friends
who gave up religion, forfeit education,
changed party affiliation and preferred
brand of detergent, not upon my urging
but after incidental conversation,
meaningless musings unmeted
seemingly & passively caught up in my ponderance.
Inside me, a certain devil, oft called Puck,
a villainous and dastardly demon soul,
an infamous spritely trickster, benign.

Independence Day Sonnet

Dear Uncle, you try to infect me with rage,
honestly I hope I never reach that stage,
it can't be healthy at any age;
just as you shrug me off as naive,
I can see you're not so sage.

Despite the things we both believe,
(I cling to hope, you live in fear
and nostalgia for yesteryear)
I suspect we both agree
there's danger in complacency:
revolution's never won,
freedom's never free!
Liberty plays host to Tyranny,
our common goal to cure that phage.

Seed

Carried on the wind of culture, was something novel,

less a seed, more a pollen granule.

Dangerously far from reality,

the merest hint of potential

floating, wafting, drifting:

perhaps settling within a mind

in full bloom, copulating,

yielding a seed, pure potentiality.

Half threatening some pervasive perversity

but equally promising perseverance,

or perhaps only preservation but, certainly of hope.