The Sock-Monkey As Alone

  Mushrooms clouds signify    one thing... it is too late. My mind is nowhere    the orange glow of fires acceptance will not fix this    but is our practice prayers of gratitude    wishing I could do more in the dream, I feel it is   better that, I was never born

. Only fans... too much Beauty Middle aged women trembling from nerves Showing off and being appreciated I am happy for you... But it's only "fans" a voyeurs heaven Though dont get me wrong I know none of this is my place I want to make my life simpler To be possessed as much As dragons and giants by gold. Which objectifies us both I want let go and be a fan Dreaming more... I find joy in your labour...  

We were sitting around high You through me a camel filtered I smoked it taking as deep a breath as I could I said "What should I do? I'm scared anymore" You looked at me sternly and told me "I'm not your father, I really dont care." I was friends with your son I sold my criterion DVDs to buys those camel filtered The last time we talked You threatened me with a club You carved, like a knights mace I still don't understand  

"The most important point is to accept yourself and stand on your two feet.” ―  Shunryu Suzuki “An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.”   ― Charles Bukowski  A stream flowing through the pipe as a babbling brook under the road: is the belief we can not cause harm. That we can be only an observer and necessary information. This child with a Beigoma in his hand (if only to feel the warmth of the cast iron). Dandelions crowd the tall grass surrounding him. He thinks he is the stupidest child in his elementary school. He has a long piece of hay hanging from the corner of his mouth. "Today sucks," he mumbles not so much to himself so much as an ironic proclamation to the world. Then he stands up squinting as if the sun was in his eyes, though he was comfortable in the shade. He walks off down the stream making sure to stay in the shade (and to pretend the sun was in his eyes) with strength and darkness exceeding one of

When my mamaw Would talk about John Denver I would think of ghibili Whisper of the heart Now when I think about "Take me home, country roads"... I think of my brother.... Tears in his eyes.... voice cracking... Whispering the tune to himself After her funeral.  

The smell of rice with garlic black pepper and salt some butter sure would hit the spot I remember boiling water The rust powder would settle after cooling off ...it tastes like milk. spiders everywhere...    afraid to go to sleep       and wake up  Hungry most days...     happy I had been        introduced to the truth           sad that it hurt so much But I now appreciate kindness  

      In the hand of a poet. A book that's cover was made from the skin of the first human soul It's a paper from the Tree of the knowledge of Good and Evil. and its words were written in   the blood of the cross... Some things cannot be rationalized...       But still, we feel illuminated.

       Ecstatic truth when confronted with a lie    it can be disillusioning... I look at myself   as actively grandiose sure that everything has its truth...  even if embellishment    is an act of creation. Inadequate reactions to a lifetime of the mundane give birth to contempt to an exceptional failure.  

Boiled with sugar and water It is mostly the juice and peel... Though the toast... is... toast... (see what I did there) And to much THC can be... rough,    Like a kiss it is meant to be shared.      Choices confuse        Where          Marmalade covers            a multitude of sins  

  Slackjaw by Jim Knipfel it gives me some heavy old-testament-style prophet vibes, that is what this man gives off. Like a punk-rock Ezekiel. There is a darkness and dangerous honesty to Jim's observations and an honest sense of peace that overwhelms his world even when he is punching out windows. All you really need to know though is Pynchon gave it a kind if not an outright glowing blurb. and all readers at this point in the century should know whether that is enough to give this book a read or not. The rest will be somewhat rambling on my part. There is an irony in gaining a kind of ruthless clarity of morality while he was going blind. That for me was the central metaphor for the book, how loss and paint burn away the dead wood of our souls. Yet there is always something more to throw into the fire. and the light from that burning of us illuminates and facilitates change. Though in no way is it romantic, unnecessary pain is a reality whether we want it to be or not. the proces

    Rock n roll as a Outsider: a Poem It's a grateful sound     a celebration Of live given and lived     Bonding over our diagnosis trying to pretend     it's not some ludicrous dream         We were innocent once          like rock n' Roll as an outsider never able to fulfill dreams                except for each other

There is a kind of clarity That includes our acceptance Of singing an inspirational song While being off key Shadows creep (what else would they do?) As light like a blade cuts the darkness From a formally closed door We thought we were going to read By candle light But lightning reminds us of how little it is That we control  

             Salvage me From the side of the road    The moonlight, while cars           clogged the interstate. the fear of clarity in a moment       where the cabal has the keys       the planet may not go on after a century of consistent choice though we hope,    or at least continue to breed... The passenger jets crash out of the sky he which is filthy, let him be filthy still and he that is holy, let him be holy still.     "Not in your heart you don't...                          but you will be terrified."

I am meditating again, doing my best to pray I want to belong           I want to share and                                             express            the mystery of Ecology  The wayfaring isn't hard           if you move with the waves            Your laughter is like a morning dew  making this dandelion weed            feel like a rain-stained flower.

           “Not only is the Universe stranger than we think,  it is stranger than we can think.”- Werner Heisenberg.     Expending my soul in the pursuit... "if music was here before us               who was it here for?"" ascending toward the word.  comprehension ever so elusive.  yet the need to fulfill a compulsion  human souls reduced to submission and dominance all messed up....        maybe I am not in love. I know that schizophrenia is not romantic. That madness reductive with unnecessary associations         and a desire with no real meaning because it isn't reciprocated.          Yet whispers mean more                  a tremble                         a pause                             neither of know the answer                           The Beatles "I want to hold your hand."          While I am waiting around to die                   it doesn't seem to ever go as planned                        nor does curiosity say goodbye                

Another tired old man living a crappy life Short term lovers like calendar days         meant to be forgotten. If you can't trust someone     all you can hope for is money         coercion of a system that manipulates with terror,               but that takes money.                    The ugliness is always there                             in your eyes I am swallowing your sloppy seconds. in my eyes I want to make her feel like she makes me feel.                            like she makes us feel                   Maimed by love: to much or to little.                             a barely civilized animal trying to articulate truth.    

    "The most important point is to accept yourself and stand on your two feet.” ―  Shunryu Suzuki “An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.”   ― Charles Bukowski  A stream flowing through the pipe as a babbling brook under the road: is the belief we can not cause harm. That we can be only an observer and necessary information. This child with a Beigoma in his hand (if only to feel the warmth of the cast iron). Dandelions crowd the tall grass surrounding him. He thinks he is the stupidest child in his elementary school. He has a long piece of hay hanging from the corner of his mouth. "Today sucks," he mumbles not so much to himself so much as an ironic proclamation to the world. Then he stands up squinting as if the sun was in his eyes, though he was comfortable in the shade. He walks off down the stream making sure to stay in the shade (and to pretend the sun was in his eyes) with strength and darkness exc

The laughing crow calls to me. The setting sun orange with life   I have been thinking of you       For the better             Or the                       Worst.      With memories               Like                     sunday funnies...        Trying to impose rules              When it is not my                 My place to understand  My attitude is all I control        I wish I could love unselfish           Being grateful fo you and your                 Family     Though as selfish as it is         I wish my life was lived           Rather than being the outsider               Left out in the rain.

The air is warm with your sweat flowers cursing casually innocent with a smile moist lips say does it feel wrong or true through this guilt, I feel empty and reviled   there is a causality, the fragrance wet soil, a flower rests in spring rain will it be chaos or repentance will we choose pleasure or live in pain   the tension in my hand's heavy breathing your eyes and words consent to this prelude seeming pleased with what your inspiring your life inspires though I'm confused   I wish I could love you platonically yet this prelude scares me peacefully.