Skyline

upon a day, in Everytimeland, there was and was and was a meaning and voice whose lips and sighs evade the stars as time conveys the years. And on this silver day, there was a man who continues to believe that if any line is continued on to its furthest point it will and does connect with itself again (and again). "There are no lines", the man would say, "only sections of circles". This man's belief continues (and continues) to this silver day to have no bearing on anything that anyone thinks or does, and if it did: it wouldn't matter. Once...

As blue as it is forgotten

This is a poem in which I, the poet, happy as I am, will demonstrate an amazing ability to underjudge you, the reader, oh humblest of creatures, and your ability to grasp, handle, and hold some of life's greater treasures. You will continue to be wondersmitten as I dip, dodge, and duck around what you once thought of as your language, but is now clearly my own. I will bend the world around you, and force it to dance unthinkable dances. I will casually pick my teeth with sweet silvery images and cast them aside as pitiable objects to the shadowy floor. I will swiftly climb through thick... wait. Stop.

The rest should be spoken in hushed wispy tones. Whisper to the page, oh reader, whisper now. And if someone should happen to enter the room, just continue whispering, leaning ever closer to the page as if in a trance. Then, when the poem is complete, turn you attention to the person, gaze at their true self through the windows of their eyes, and say: "the poem is over, and all that is left are words on a page". Then you must leave, knowingly, never to return.

lunacy in their hennessy

and that silver liquor pours from the moon through panes of my somethingorother (maybe mind... or room, never been outside of either), some call it (rhymes-with-spite), I call it drunk with envy, but only he knows for sure and sometimes, when it doesn't stop slipping through doors of (how-do-you-do) I call it mine, I have bottles-or-pockets full of the stuff, and when he (no one) isn't ever looking I slip it in their drinks and abscond into the cloak of the night (pulling it tight around me), and then when no one (he always) sees me I admit it was nothing (they couldn't handle) so they put cold glass to their lips and tip twilight into their gullets, all the while I'm laughing up a storm off the coast of Tripoli (all the way from here), but they'll never see me while I'm wearing the smiling night around my shoulders, it always puts them in such a mood (you know?), they drank most of it, but most of it is also worn on their faces, and mostly dripping from off their skin too, all of it, though, is still with me, in my bottles-or-pockets-or-maybe-even-mind, and only that which is in their eyes is left by morning.

dreamblood

I don't know. I thought it was through the silk darkness that I saw your dreams. They were mine once too you know, sailing through shadows, and floating through the effortless alone. Not once, but twice... or was it forever that I held them bleeding in my arms, their gaping wounds sobbing emptiness into my lap. Nothing mattered then, only whispers like tearing: warm sticky flesh from smooth white bone gleaming. I can tell you what you do. You do what I did too. You squeeze only tighter, oozing thick black nothing onto your floor. Whisper. Blood. Whisper. Emptiness. Whisper. Alone. This is always and only where your dreams will take you.

smooth(gray)plains

There is a feeling that I call a memory that when I once pondered with pen and page (oh so long ago), I found myself places, in worlds deep and loud, and all too easily did I relate these experiences. They were worlds I could taste. I grabbed handfuls and armfuls of sweet scenery and pungent smells, tangible textures and bright melodies, and threw them upon a page in a desparate frenzy. For a while I found I was in a place of neither cold steel walls, nor warm green hills, but only smooth gray plains that dissolve into a frictionless sky (and silence). The words were merely words (heavy). However, now a smile glides across my face. Silence is broken. My eyes close. I can hear a deep rumbling of heavy waters. The words are becoming lighter. I will soon be swept off once again to Whocareswhere. The words are becoming worlds.

(however) You+Me=We still can't do it without Him

All I know is: whenever I walked into that room, the hiphophurrah turned me in/and upsidedownandout. It was a musical frenzy which bounced skitterskatteringly inside your sconce (which is no kind of flattened candlestick, but only your skull). It zipped and zathered (which is only a word as much as alone) down your six lane (un)conciousness, which doubled as mine, but only for one musical moment that lasted as long as Today. It moves you through sweet versions of effortless reality, down whipping winding lanes of don't you forget it. I think someone wants to see to it that the intersecting lines of yours and mine don't form too many truthful beauties, as they so often do. And that's what this is, isn't it? The result of 6,000 years of eternity, echoing the sweet sweet same old same old sounds that only sound new because we hadn't yet heard them Today. Hallelujah.

Moses Supposes

Moses supposes his toeses are roses, but
Moses supposes erroneously.
Moses he knowses his toeses aren't roses as
Moses supposes his toeses to be,
but what Moses doesn't knows is,
is that while some people love roses, and
some people love the smell of french toast sizzling
on a hot stove in the morning, and
some people love the red-orange-pink glow
of the sun as it dips below the horizen,
other people, like the man waiting behind the corner
loved the startled shrieks of the innocent
as they screamed "why me"
under a brisk november sky.

sweet,warm night

Light waves of smoke lapped up against the walls, dripping their heady flavor into the room. Wisps swirled and eddied around your head as you moved through the aroma-drenched air. Warm liquid hugged your bare feet and soothed them.

"Have a seat" the old man said, as the warm firelight licked the ceiling a sweet dancing orange. He sat there, clothed in the thick smell of autumn. Smoke poured from his lips and long pipe, floating through his thick beard. His eyes were deep, black as the warm night, ablaze with stars. His voice shook the room with a cleansing warmth.

"I suppose you know why you're here", he said.
"I'm afraid I don't sir", you answer. It seemed as though fear could not exist within those walls, and you allowed the thick air to wrap you in comfort. "In fact sir, I don't even know who you are".

Warm laughter danced carefree in the night of his eyes.

"I am Death", he said, and wrapped his gentle hand around your heart and (with a warm slashing sound) ripped it from your chest. Your eyes saw no more in that room of blood, fire, and ash.

HereisThis-> <-HereisThat

Pushing, trudging, through thick stillness of page, moving nothingness aside and replacing it with pure determination; charging blindly forward into emptiness, leaving behind only This and only That. The sweetness of a page that drips (with pure Idea), saturated with haha-loneliness. It can't be stopped (yeah right), you know, once it's started. It's like a snowball, tumbling through the white snow. Words roll across the page gathering mass as they run. The mind creates the hills, the turns, smearing thick Vision across the inside of your eyes and mine. In the end, though, it's always the same: An abrupt end: sweet empty (

A sentence in which...

The sound of bluebright hope s(wee)ngs through the neverpresent "when" and flightfully fits it's essence (the whole and nothing but) into the slot between Hail and Hate and in a roundabout hi-de-ho altogether pleasantly shattering sort of way, glorifies the great Alrighty (yes yes), whose Love and Upstanding, Downstanding, Allstanding, Instanding, Outstanding, Overstanding, Through-and-Understanding concurred all with the great Yes of Life.

warm sloshing ideas

you'd think (with some sort of sputtering giggle) that if you were an underwater sea-slug of some kind of another, that maybe that grotesque hand of yet-dazzling fury (O, that bright hand, grandchild of seething form) wouldn't be able to smother all your dreams as they persperate in shiny multicolored droplets from your slick slimy membrane. Well, what do you think of it, as far as reinvention goes that is? Do you feel, in the warm dark squishiness of your body, a palpatating rhythm writhing forth most likely to be interpreted as hideous laughter or kind yet firm words of criticism. No, it couldn't be that sloshing about within you. Or could it, a wink washes over your body. No, that settles it, (you dive back in to your warm pools of thought) The Megaomnitroid is an accurate, yet altogether uninviting new name for God.

the mile-blue ponder

What is it, All-Blue-and-Smiles? I've certainly never heard of such a smuttering happy-how-thing? Doesn't it see you: down the now, into the you, up the ever, but always through on the other side, howling moonhate on the slip-and-slide sky. chip by chip, and side by side it clamps the under-up omniwho all across slip-up-sunday (which never cries and cries). No, never. Thick blue lips dancing across the bloody horizen chlomping and splurping salivamen who dance and dance and dance to the here-and-now-universetune.

drip. drop. glides crystal sorrow from hopeful eyes and once again it's sit-up-friday. Cry cry for the whole capful of them, the thick sunslosh few of them, unmeaning anything in their wonderworldeyes. The updrops fall to the blue from whence they never came. Can't you, won't you tip droplets of fire through the lionglass, pickpocketing he who sleeps and sleeps and never lives but always dies. It doesn't stop here you know. The whiping winding hip-hollering road unwilds itself at the unshine palace, never tipping, always wooing the on-and-on sky.