at the turnstile, you say there must've been a change of heart,
we now move from center upon breaking away,
easy to believe in dreams, for we forget where we had them,
was this even a dream of ours, or overheard from someone,
for all the evenings we held each other over the stove,
keeping warmth in our breath, reading our eyes for signs
to stay with each other. we could not make love,
but let love make us, determined to preserve
the sense of self worth while sharing,
to animate anothers eyes with constant suprises,
and that has led us here, in the departure, caught off guard,
leaving alone, all plans now go solo, and you,
you will go off to another mans dreams, to awaken with a spark
from another mans heart. the voices of sympathy will quiet down,
the pangs of isolation will stop drumming, but for now
the past has been cancelled by the present, the future will fade
your precense from my being.

 

underfoot crickets silence, overhead baskets of clouds overturn,
across the city a brigade of rain set to charge,
throwing spears which spark, preparing for wars
in upper atmospheres battlegrounds, angels choosing sides,
gods players inflating the ball, underfoot dry mouths
turn their throats upwards and open, creaking as floorboards,
the seams begin splitting, and gods eyes begin turning
from blue to deep grey.

 

i slept right here alongside your cathair bed, no,
i didnt leave to go, that was the bathroom door,
the toilet seat,
a car door, are you back, what friend?
oh, only that acquiantance of yours again.

 

wet ecstasy, fingers slipping on what the mind is still gripping,
from that same spot i watched i now feel closing around,
pink words breathe without speaking, the mist of midmorning
flickers of flames raising to shake my hand, and all at once
these shiny slippers do snugly fit, each heartbeat
filling my toes with tinsel, i lay the dry side down
and bring up the ripeness of her lungs.

 

feeling, i am feeling, i have been feeling, i will be felt,
paperweight, dead breeze, a film without projection,
light, the switch, the feeling youve been felt up, fed up
with those who call you to come off stage,
youve been feeling so long now, that you long only to be numb.

 

what choice do you have, you must speak out, you must respond,
against the personal the social the communicable injustices,
that which you detest consumes all that which is around you,
with steady strokes, the lions jaw and snakes curl, caught up
in choking, you must speak out not speak about,
stuck in sweet juices, look at this honeycomb,
the society we've spun, adrift in privatized acts of excess,
to protect ourselves from the world which divides freedom up,
and resells it as obtainedable priced plots of property.

 

stop crying hug me honey with your redfaced blues,
walls may be crowding you, but windows are always open,
no matter the storms outside, theres always shelter in me,
the smaller girl within who can never get life in order,
repeating how noone understands,
how noone can dry these acidic tears,
the thin blood which streams from wrists,
the harmony of funeral bells, effects of self inflictions,
shes lacks the awareness of those who stand besides her
as shes lost in the pains of her own reflections.

 

with an anger which strikes like whiplash, i backlash,
and swing the bucket of blood, swivel iron plated eyes,
i watch my actions from the outside, without any cause
for control, eaglehook fingers i gouge out lives
like overripened melons, i can wring you awash with emotions,
the smallest of scratches cannot scar the holes in me,
i retract, absorb present awareness, youve won again,
making me lose control again, and from behind the rage
i see a smile finally rise up from you.

 

the break up, we, the people, covering up sadness
by climbing ever higher to the top. we, the person,
of such good friends today, but weaving a seam of hatred tomorrow.
the break down, we, alone, can only be driven to tears
surrounded by other sufferers and we, together, feel a bit better
by talking of anything but. the break between us two,
distance, irreversible, me digging away as you climb away,
i find a hole by which to lick my salted wounds
as up on the hill you bury our old bones of remembrance.

 

each time she turned to begin a new direction
the skies tumbled in to blind her, if i dont take
her by the arm now ill be sure to never find her, again,
the seeds in sowing her life, again, i kiss the shovel
she digs with, again, im removing her from the trees
and the leaves she believes fall from her. when she
surrendered her vices i applauded her choices, and now
the voice within her does not speak for her and she
resides in constant defenses. i keep her up so late at night
as we argue out the dark clouds which dampen her soul,
i await for exhaustion to set in and quiet her, but she continues
with questions on the effect of any new directions.

 

you express your disappointment, but i dont see your hands down here,
you have eyes to see but no ears to hear me, youve the time to watch
but no patience to listen. with moist pressure i sensitively listen,
hoping to remove the shell by which i bang my head against,
braille in a cave, i cannot read you, therefore it is so hard to please you.

 

us us us us us us us in kaliedoscopes from the snakes tongue
infinite mirrors, broken needles in the mouth, id slap to skip it,
to return back in tune, but i just tune you off, till your precense
is innoculously ambient and unfelt, as enos revolving piano down the hall,
everything between us is wrong to you, even without friction,
everything i feel for you- its never close enough. my mind open, my
body stripped down, possessions shared, but nothings enough,
and all i have falls short. as if i have to cram peace
down your throat, to yell in your ears about how life is you only,
well i have only self security, i offer only sincerity, i dont have
brute force to solve your inability to resolve our fortune together.

 

too often i find myself on defensive, when i am not the one
who began the attack. you approach me, you question me,
you do not like the response given, you attempt to make
my beliefs just an unravelling of excuses for myself,
you intimidate me with offensives, so that my thoughts
can never fully express themselves to actions, and let
my pure actions feel released as positive emotions,
for such a trail, would surely lead away from you.

 

how far to escape the sun, how far to run before love is undone,
to deny the force of ones own heart, the souls instinct,
the acceptance of being loved, with faith not reasoning.
the answer, to seek no more, to dissipate all distance
with all living creatures, not just one lover. unity
in the darkness, the most colorful sky is a setting sun,
crying so hard, the need to be touched, how far can time
travel before this love of attachment is numb.

 

spiritual bonding, i have seen it, felt it, wore it,
beyond the furthest pressure of hate and love,
when the face in the mirror is hers, the mouth
you kiss with is hers, a bonding time does not undo,
no mind erases, no skin forgets, no science pinpoints,
no words compromise, heaven may be years away
still we can sit up on the fence together and look down,
when reaching out and into each other without limbs,
when seeing eye to eye from the inside, when the new
dimension forms between us two, no time nor place can
quantify the weightlessness of our souls as one.

 

over the hurdles, off the crutches, kicked the habit,
the fresh air and breezes, the neighborhoods shrink,
and out to sea, to navigate earth from above without wings,
drifting with purpose, wandering with intent, passing
each city as a man stricken by wonder, over each mountain
as an eye focused on amazement, stumbling for a new language
to assess my positions, why, love is no labor after all,
for all the time i spent making up questions
for answers i knew id not realize, now i remove
the quiz, the college, the tests. a spectator to lifes unravel,
i drift over the highest seating, i kick the tendencies
to spin around anxieties, and in the freshest air i glide
past of my worries, most of which arent even mine,
and in the night sky i follow the light which comes
from sparks of my heart as it scrapes the stars,
ive come to know; it is ok to go it alone.

 

our bodies against each other in this stale heart,
i hear the crunch of bones as you turn over,
we have been growing old too long together,
you mention something rambling about shoes,
i answer without meaning,
we both could care less about the happiness we've lost,
for we spend the attention forcing ourselves together.
you think about the days work, tomorrows weather,
the weeks bills and saturdays errands. mouth to mouth,
as uninvolved as watching two dogs hump on an unpaved road,
how long ago did we lose that love we wore out, only photos
can provide an example of laughing together,
written memories, some sign of dependance,
notions of desire dried on a ballpoint pen.
our souls, so many times spat upon each other, bleeding freely
with frustration, so glued with codependance that we forget
what we live for and why we live with each other.

 

feeling so caged, everyone looks from a distance,
everyone takes part of the inquisition, those men too
apprehensive to know me. am i human, or parts thereof,
built from the same parts as most, just in different order,
my perceptions aligned out of common sequence,
i am only an observer, watching them learn the lines
to memorize to maintain this position in life.
all you must manipulate to get what you want, the people
you must shuffle to make yourself always ahead,
i dont mind being the background, i dont mind
not possessing the high position, i dont want
to throw anyone off, im not out to hurt anyone
nor make them feel inadequate.
we all have our determined places in the play, as actors,
as stagehands, as props, as the audience and ushers,
and there, hiding out, rests the phantom,
shunning all scripts and moving in shadows.

 

youre messing with me, and the worst part is
i have the time and patience to accept it,
how ridiculous i seem, laying here, trying to believe
your reassurances that you love me,
and all my problems are just miscommunication.
too many people in your life, spread thin with stories,
the plans, the backups plans, youll never be bored,
and my number is the dialtones last resort.
you call me by habit like dialing a plumber,
calmly asking me to come look at your plumbing,
and once arrived i only cater to all smallest habits,
my frail gears squeak on, contemplating faith,
thinking solutions can occur
by constantly ringing the same bell by routine.

 

charred remains, fizzing on damp mornings ground,
a magnificient towering bonfire which had glazed the skies
with wet flames of sexual effigies, i walk around,
lost in mystery, using my heel to kick up old ashes,
no more fresh logs to be found, no more fires
in anyones eyes, the smell of smoke weaved in clothes,
a taste of hickory scent and a wrinkled mess, i walk down
the beaches uneven footing alone,
letting them clean their own messes,
i clean with the gulfstream and dry with the low tide,
i step between shells, watch waves dissolve my traces,
all these events of yesterday
will not even be a story tomorrow.

 

seconds tick, minutes stroke, hours melt to days,
loose leaks are everywhere, springing forth semblance
of personal history, a weak glue which devours you,
until a lover is known as 'that girl',
until a friend is 'that one guy', but fear not,
i will always bear the scars youve put upon my head.

 

i am handing life over to thatwhichhappens
after giving up the practice of communication,
i was shot from your skies, peppered with sarcasm,
seasoned with criticism, pasted flat as a mockup.
i now find a new shell to inhabit, where you cant name me,
and after your touch, i have the fear of being reached again,
for the mebeingmyself makes people wrongly second guess,
so i leave the high of public skies and begin to drift
away from wheretheyare.

 

the love you have to give is the wisdom i absorb,
as if being in your shoes, your precense takes me off
the ground, i cannot hear you but i see love so clearly,
the beautiful images you convey to me, now a vital organ,
needing you for a complete existence, my disembodiment
lies in fitting neatly into your senses.

 

as if everyone around me is going crazy,
so i have to turn it inward and think it is all me,
well, either me or the people i seem to attract.
does offering up more of myself mean becoming
more commercialized in my beliefs? in my silence,
often i am being called secretive, but why
must i always be so forthcoming in expressions,
and not be given a time to step back in silence?
do i pick up friends by chance, and then try
to fit into their own set of rules and weaknesses,
or can i find those who have natural expectations
which happen to fit my dimensions?
if those around me are unsatisfied with me,
cannot they find another then who fits
their criteria of a friend?
i could be attracting those types
who i know i cannot please, and then spend my time
seeing just how much i can bend and twist
to fit their molds of what a good friend is.
if i live in the freest forms of expression,
surely the more i express
the more i will be found objectionable
by larger statistics of people, no one man
possesses a singular frame of mind.
if i live by attempting to achieve
the greatest amounts of joy,
i will always indirectly affect those around me,
if i alienate myself and attempt
personal satisafaction alone,
then i have created a bubble.
so i am at fault either way when choosing
to include or not include people in my life.
i wish i had the level of acceptance
that i attempt to have for others,where,
should i falter or fail someone,
they accept that i stumble every so often
but my motivations are well intended.
i attempt to share, to bridge distances,
knowing when to offer my opinions
and when to accept facts.
i try to give the same level of emotion
i am offered by others when one on one.
i try to walk on the same spiritual level,
and to accelerate positive processes of others,
and create a sense of trust so that words
arent left unspoken, all thoughts are revealed.
i feel with some, as if i cannot win in games
of give and take, and i am awkward when accepting
gifts on any level, for i never want to take
more than im given, and never want to be
in a state of miscommunication.

 

its 12:06, thats twentyfour minutes
to get lunch on the second floor cafe,
i broke off perfectly at chapters end
of alperts self realization, a book id been reading
in class but not for class.
marking a page by bending, i grabbed my jacket,
joined the traffic of doublespaced hallways,
waxed floors of self doubt, heaven and hell
both held up by crepe wallpaper and brass knuckle lamps.
at halls end a neon aquarium stone litter ashcan
is overgrown with butts in all angles jutting out,
a push of a symbol and doors open their jaws
to pull me down in a wired box,
with a free view of the city and its identical structures,
all containing the same halls the same litter
the same people in drab variants, nailed down
to formica desks under monochrome monitors and empty pens.
the chatter of keyboards the milking of consumers
through the friendliest of phonecalls.
arriving under red lamps keeping warm
the fried greased shapes burnt ends, fingerpoked dried curls,
a plastic plate on a plastic tray
sliding noisily down steel rails, i go sideways
past the greenbrown foods, to the browngreen foods,
toss a couple guessing games onto my plate,
squirt extra condiments to hide flavors of the feast,
i take a stacked textured redplastic cup,
run my two fingers around the inside to remove
all the steamed-in crumbs, then dispense myself
some tea from a synthetic tea machine, which pisses
in a frothy stream, tannic urine bubbling with soapy residue.
end of the line, pull out the wallet, dispense fair trade
to the frog with the hairnet, she had the correct
loose change in hand knowing the cash id give her,
they drop before my hand fully extends, 4 pennies
fall into what was a casual art of my salad,
'sorry for the croutons' she croaks,
ive made her day by failing her efficiency.
i dont know exactly where ill sit, small clusters of rats
have taken all main tables and they gossip chatter
between nibbles, fingers and fries in a frenzy,
i sit beside two men and one woman, lost in talk
of a contract, they are unbroken by my entrance.
a plastic fork in left hand i pick and pile food
in my mouth as mechanically and unemotionally as possible,
tuning my ear away from human babble and to the sound
of musak from one broken speaker.
i am an employee.

 

i eased myself back down onto the broken oak futon,
stretched out as comfortably as one can between broken slots,
the mediterranean orange of the cover, dotted
with dark coffee and tea stains
which also cratered every square foot of the floor.
i dropped my hands into my lap, tried to give
my best impression of disassociation of the scene.
the only part i could not pull away from was the smell,
the dark murky rancor of burning crack in pyrex,
the crackling of roasted heroin with cocaine
salted in for good luck. the sweat of a wild dog
frothing filled the air densely,
"and what i do you see what i do is have friends
many friends oh never fuck the friends you see
lots of friends and no never fuck over friends i say-"
and hes flipping manically through a small diary
loaded with foreign names jumbled down on random angles,
pointing with a chapped wrinkled finger tip on dogeared pages,
"yea i-" tried to interject, but he breaks in,
"no never nothing wrong with my friends, many over the world,
good to be with people treat good never fuck each other over-"
he goes without beginning or end, or even concious stream.
i had no real statements to make, but still would interject
if just to break up his fragments and rambles,
he had no real point and i had nothing to cue in on,
we had gone through this goodwill speech of his
many times through the night, each time he finetuned
his broken english accent he was pushing through to us,
two american boys in holland, each time juxtaposing thoughts,
playing with the phrases of the same 7 sentences
with thickening dutch tongue, -kssssssss- he inhales,
his yellowed bulging eyes, halfway shut and flickering
as though a brick had pained his temples,
his lips a tight spincter around a glass mouthpiece,
sucking so deeply that a thin blue flame cycloned itself
inches down into the pipe and stopped
just short of entering his mouth. we sat there,
watching him convert powder to ash to high, his chest
a hollowed out easter chocolate heaving and crumbling away,
'ahhhhhhhhhhh' a thick yellow tail flicked from his mouth,
his nostrils flared for seconds as he leaned back, the toxin
curled and spun itself toward the ceiling fan, to be wrapped
in a wispy typhoon, down into the foam mattress his bones piled,
something creaked, whether the futon or him,
i considered up and leaving but home was 3,453 miles away
and my feet already hurt.
the unknown man was zippering up a faint distant smile,
with his eyes closed nodded to god unseen he coughed,
through many dirty charcoal filters in his throat
as if he were about to speak, please god no i thought.
instead he reached again for lighter and pipe,
and circled the lighter around the lip of the pipe,
he was mouthing something silently
and signaled to another man who was emptying a stolen purse,
whos own pockets were bulging with a bronze cigarette holder,
a black lighter, and three still-sealed needles in packages.

 

groveling bearded old goats slinking past red tungsten bulbs,
emptily staring past glass doors,
studying the props on stools, with slower footsteps
he looks them up and down, and down again,
she pinches her nipples, crosses her legs while nodding,
old goat, his eyes give the struggle of indecision, thinking hard,
she waves now, sucking a finger, she gruns coyly
and looks down at his waist, his fingers begin
a slow motion toward her door, shes opens it before he does,
and nods his welcome in, she points to the back,
draws the curtain and the red light goes off a second later.
what cant be washed off tonight will heal by tomorrow morning.

 

never having spent so many consecutive days with one person,
never looking from a distance at the knots we've tied together,
the communions of phoneline conversation, so hard to humble myself
before someone more fickle than i.
never silent, always the gears in her i hear,
always the sound of debate even when the challenge is over,
under the bed a collection of past hearts,
she claims our time together speaks for itself,
i go by instincts, but now with all the time gone i question
if emotions can misdirect instincts,
and if natural courses can run me emotionally aground.

 

venezia 14:15
outside this hotel where im staying, the danielli, is where im sitting,
crouching actually, up against its facade, there is a bridge which crosses one of the canals,
and sometimes i switch positions and go over to sit on the third marble step,
so i can get some blood to my feet. its about 70f and not one italian cloud in the sky,
i have to squint just to see what im writing on the paper.
the wind blows down the sidewalk against all the hotels,
looking for entrances by which to steal a wisp inward and rattle a hat or two.
on the other side of this 20f wide walkway is the lagoon itself of venice,
a green murky choppy pasture. ferry boats and cedar gondolas rock and clonk up against each other.
the hotels smooshed up together are from the 1500s-ish i think, most restored to four star hotels,
and the remaining buildings are mostly churches thick with centuries of incense,
some still colorful in their mosaics of christ with all this saints and disciples gathered around him.
the walkway extends for a couple miles in either direction,
each stepping stone the size of a block youd build a castle from,
but all worn down to a puddly resemblance of softened squares.
to my left its as busy as a new york corner, peddlars with market wagons
loaded and overburdened with beads and gems and trinkets,
they list to the side with the weight and the wheels bent to wooden ovals,
little gypsy rows of them, the outer carts with glossy postcards, shiny pens
and sparkly plastics for children. the cart nearest me is walled on all fours with 17inch beads,
hundreds to choose from and the slightest breezes make them sing as a crystal brook.
for the first time of my european experience i feel the sun perking up hairs on my arm,
most dont feel that same toast though because they  all are wrapped in black pants
and black leather coats and black sunglasses.
unlike most places where ive sat, this spot seems to be one where the people arent intimidated
to gaze directly right back at me, as if they couldnt decide if i were a statue
or a man about to take a dump in the street. i wonder how much its obvious im an american,
and what level of guilt i should take in this fact. im dressed in brown sandals very well worn out,
bright blue socks, baggy benetton jeans, a brown braided leather belt, and a long sleeve gap shirt
tho sleeves are yanked up. underneath i've a second brown tshirt to stop chills in colder breezes.
im wearing an indian beartooth necklace and a second necklaces with a single bead,
one that rene had given me to wear for the trip. ive got half a beard and half a hair style.
a hundred people per minute pass by, none of them outwardly appear to be american,
they wear the baggy jeans and the black pants, except small flocks
of visiting italian merchant marines stride by in tandem.
the old women here have so few wrinkles but have such wide hips covered with multiple skirts,
the tourists at least can be pinpointed because they carry those tourism plastic bags,
and have cameras swinging around their necks, the wives with bags and the men with deadpan stares ahead.
i just blew my nose to peoples displeasure, i put my notebook on the ground and now
have turqiouse bubble gum stuck to the bottom page, smells of spearmint.

its monday now, i mean tuesday, a morning at 240am.
i was lying in bed letting my mind run its random stream before my eyes close,
a streaming banner of led ticker tapes thoughts rushing past my inner lids.
its always before the deepest sleep that i have the deepest reflections on life.
right now though is nothing deep, just that i thought of hopelessness there is in writing,
i mean, its all for nothing, writing what comes right to mind,
without wondering how to arrange them or how they fit in context to their neighbors.
so they either are simple simon or muddily complex. i thought writing was supposed to be a healer,
a mediator, an outlet, to let me get a grasp on events in my life.
but they only are too small bandages for any real wounds,
they dont actually resolve any past or reveal any future.
i would like to think writing resolves the two of me, the first being 'i' with all the thoughts,
and traits, hopes and opinions, and the second one being a stranger, a foreigner to this bulk of flesh.
i think im too involved with myself to heal myself through mediation of the two.
solutions could be at my feet, but i can only see through my eyes,
i cant look down without tripping up. i wish i could take myself completely apart,
as many pieces as neccessary without any rush on time, then build myself back together
using only the pieces i want to be, or believe is me, then i could see at a distance
at that which i feel is not me, or that which i do not wish to be.
i wish i did not just feel the pains of life, but could also place them,
put them in their proper perspective, for there is noone outside of myself
who can arrange my pains and priorities and the hierarchy of my emotions.
i feel the most vibrant when i am outside of my own surroundings,
its seems now being here as if magic is at every turn, that is it easier to find myself
when i am always discovering new things, and placing them according to what i deem important or trifling.
it creates a hyperactive energy around me when i am not rolling the same stone day after day.
travelling is like childhood, where i wrote my own stories, made my own rules,
paved the roads and made magic from the smallest features.
as a child i think i had so much alone time when not in school,
that i not only created my own happy world around me, but i also brought it to school,
and though i was restless and annoying, the way i reacted tended to entertain other students.
i took and still take what is given around me, and find ways to make it entertaining
so as to not be bored. i think in all the classes and jobs i tried my best to lay low and stay quiet,
but it was hard to hide what it was that possessed me at times, and that tends to annoy authority.
when i left kings academy and went into public school, i had more access of peers around me,
and they all had groupings and cliques and caste systems i was not familiar with.
i tried to feel out all types of people in public school and see who i best fit with,
although they all thought it was neat to have a 'new kid' halfway through the school year.
i learned that the best way was to be a good listener, for everyone had so much to talk about,
and so much that they felt they couldnt express to others
because everyone else found conversations more of a competitive sport than a real give and take.
i was all ears, i was eager to pick up quick on what were concerns of people my age,
as i wasnt familiar with most of these problems of teenage years.
i realized in a couple months that there were so many lives to be led,
for in kings academy everyone tried their best to all lead the same carboncopy life,
to see who could follow rules the best. it was easy to fit in by just listening in public school,
and acknowledging what they felt was important to them might be actually an issue,
instead of denying them or laughing at them.
but all the cliques in my first taste of public school in 11th grade, they were like animals roaming the plain,
just people dressed in differing furs, i felt no real draw to any sort of them,
so i sat at a distance in the classes, at lunch, in the parties, and when going out.
i spent much time on the phone listening listening, quietly giving away my time
that i couldve spent on some self-realizations of my own,
in little increments i tried to push myself out of the shell i had built so well around me
in veil after veil, with each peek out i found i didnt get ripped and shot apart as i did at kings,
but in order to keep their attention i had to not only listen, but tell them things they wanted to hear,
things to not upset them. i didnt turn to anyone but found people turning to me regardless of clique,
and i would keep them tuned in by following their leads, but i didnt find any serious inspiration there,
and i didnt want to follow them into their own flaws and picking at the scabs they needed to let heal.
i felt as if i was giving and then taking, but i was not sharing. i was using my senses but not my spirit,
i found that peoples compassion came with a price; there was no absolute acceptance given,
and most people were attracted to what others 'could be', not who they were in the here and now.
i gave people my support, i sometimes twisted my own ideals in order to not ruffle feathers,
i did what it took to water friendships, i followed them down until they hit walls within themselves,
and i developed a series of unhealthy relationships as friends, naively thinking how could i do no wrong
by agreeing with the. and sometimes some let me know they possessed a love for me, and theyd get upset
when i failed to respond, and they would say how can i not love them if i was there for them all this time?
and i seemed to understand them more than most, and i seemed to have things in common,
but i would only silently think, well, all ive done is agree with you over the months because who was i to disagree.
i would have no counter response for them, and then things would not be the same after that,
and they would be mean spirited or spiteful from that point on, or they would say i was now holding them back
from being complete because i was withholding something from them that they wanted from me,
they would rebuke me with 'if you dont love me then why have you spent all this time with me?',
and i didnt understand where i was going wrong. i couldnt figure out the pattern.
it took a year to realize that people will take you in until you start pushing out, in any circumstance.
it seemed then that the best way to build a real relationship was sometimes to say no, sometimes disagree,
sometimes offer constructive criticisms, because you are defining the boundaries of yourself,
and drawing up the lines between 'you' and 'me'. it reveals a playing field and rules and differing thoughts,
and its easier to play this game of life with the lines drawn legibly.
they can choose to accept my ideas as much as i had accepted theirs, and they could make the choices
to either work with what i give them as a friend and confidant, or to move on and find a better suitor.
when boundaries arent made, theres confusion, false signals, and mishandling, as well as no clear goals or sidelines.
what children probably learned in the youngest of peer years, i was only now coming to build in my later teen years,
building a psychological system based on trial and errors, i could see how peers around me fit into the system,

but i could not find it easy to impart my position in the social schematics.
i also came to realize i could not impart any senses into someone else
unless they themselves had at least the seed of curiousities, and the desire to sow that seed,
and forcing something down anothers throat, they might swallow it then, but spit it up later.
i found many were secure when around peers and insecure when alone, whereas i was the inverse,
the one to recognize the disease is the one who doesnt carry the symptoms, and spiritual mirrors are hard to find.
we see a man with one arm as a handicap, but we also see a man with three arms as a handicap.
what a difference i see when a child grows amongst other children
versus a child who grows up alone, as i had way out west in the woods of west palm.
ones not better or worse, its just different.
i still see no purpose in the concepts of win and lose, i cant stand competition,
and i release the good moments just as quickly as i let go of the bad.
its amazing how one minute of harm can affect another person for many years, how efficient evil is,
a minute of compassion is often easily forgotten by people because they long for the next drip of it.
many seem to pass pain on for release, instead of resolving it within themselves and ensuring it doesnt spread,
but that takes internal work, which most people shun. so i didnt have the childhood pleasures of a neighborhood,
and i didnt have the pains either. i had my tree forts, animals, my miles of trails cut out,
and makebelieve wars with carved sticks and canals and matchsticks. so its all ok in the end.
as long as my mind is always in gear, always seeking to build no matter alone or surrounded by people,
to keep a positive track because the negative is too easy, too efficient, in dragging not just self down but all around.
i dont need praise, or promises, i can go it alone, i can hope the best for myself and others,
and perhaps just some day ill find someone who can accept my odd ways and we can work out being together
in this fragile ice sculpture of time which melts away day by day.

 

horizon stretched too thin, a rare steak red in the middle,
milk blue tight yarns at both ends, in between the struggles
of halloween orange and royal blue with stitches of yellow.
too pure colors stretching feathers in the atmosphere,
too pure for my own vision to soil, almost can i smell them,
like lightning storm, like a bitten tongue, as if heaven
has closed up about me and crushed me without even touching.
within seconds, the horizon sleeps, yet its fluttering eyelids
now given me much to ponder on, the copper haze finally recedes,
and gold paints to blue paints to black and the poke of stars
and planets as their headlights never arrive, but here on gravity
i will keep waiting for my chance to fly alone.

 

newfoundland at night, cold sharp shimmering glass slivers,
on red carpet, first step on a new land for me,
one airport, a boundless outback with no known horizon,
one runway, a circumference of glaciers, we stretch once,
run from plane to hanger, sliding along her majestys awacs,
inside awaits that black coffee, those decorated pastries.
she, petite lady, irish accent, points our position on a map,
no named city for hundreds of miles, we exist as only an X
on a airstrip, and for only 15 minutes of visit, we refuel,
and we run back as they roll up the red carpet as we dash,
and up again and across the atlantic, below rides by
what ill never see again, one perfect white mile of frozen halogen.

 

its 630, the sun cleans the cathedral windows of the amsterdam station,
im in a criss cross double corridor, crouching on a wall of blue lockers,
the hallway is fire-red brick stacked and mortar piled on doublethick,
the tile floors both babyblue and cream squares, gum spots dotting randomly,
a staccato squeal of steel on steel vibrating all senses,
as the hellos and goodbyes of too many languages resonate and bounce.
its now 6 hours later, peering out germanys midnight terrain,
cradled under blue moon and royal shadows, a two foot hallway
in which i squeeze and breathe, a conversation of 3 german men smoking,
in their late 30s and over intoxicated, i smoosh by them without breathing,
pressed up against plate glass instead of excusing my passage.
the first man in a tightblack leather jacket, small dark german eyes,
ruddy red face, he smells in a malty way and with the residue of a ashtray,
almost blinding my nose for adventure.

 

my mind pierces my soul with paranoid fancies,
the memorial of past issues and present fears,
when i am distanced from my 'reference point'
i feel so jumpy, it affects all my interactions.
i have no idea what she is doing back home,
i chastise myself for making a reference point from a human,
as if some type of crutch instead of a true lover.
a reference point should never change whether with or without me,
i shouldnt be in fear that she might be different upon my return,
this fear hangs around my neck and forms dark clouds of depression
raining in my ribs, a granite pendant pulling my neck down.
instead of walking proudly i feel i am crawling about, a lost roach,
creeping in and out of bright entrances, then back
into the dark streets like bear hugs of anxiety,
less space to breathe in every minute.
i physically feel my reference point hurting me now,
i feel as if i have become so close to her that i can sense
when shes hurting us, no matter the distance, and i know
she makes her reference point by whatever and whoever is the closest
at any given moment, as i am an easy space to fill.
every time i ruminate this in my head it shoots into my soul,
that i have given too much validation to a fickle girl,
i know the only way to stop her from hurting me
is to follow her 24 hours a day, but that is not a proper solution,
that is not healthy love. i feel she is such a rare talent on this earth,
i feel she has so much to offer the world not just myself,
i always implore her to push herself, develop herself, find herself in her art.
i try not to push myself on her, in hopes that as she discovers all within her,
and all the world has to offer her, that i will naturally be found
endearing to her, and that she will naturally desire to be with me,
without my insistence or use of tactics. oh it may not be true,
but i am going to still wish for that, perhaps her true state
might not find me worthwhile or attractive in any way, but nonetheless
every day apart when i travel, the paranoia grips tighter,
as my memory and our future may not be enough for her,
as if she might need something here, someone now,
to reassure her of her beauty, as she is in constant need
of physical appreciations.
her twisted logics can rationalize any form of action,
as she has told me how she finds no guilt in her wants and fulfillments.
it is as if i have made a drug my reference point,
for my want of her is stronger than her want of me.

 

rocking horse, keeled to one side, stuck for a moment
on one wooden leg; the moment when either falling to collapse,
or roll back in rhythm to yet do another cycle.
cherryred hooves and candycoat grin
which i must always show with every apex, slug on a sidewalk,
surrounded by a ring of salt as the boy looks on, saltshaker in hand,
i can curl over and wait for the boy to lose interest and leave,
or i can try to bridge the sodium fire, scald myself and sizzle away.
or the boy might lose patience altogether and spread me out
under his rubber sole. i am, at every decision, converting
thoughts to motion, and without the right move, all could end,
a part could separate, a friend can become a stranger again,
i am the old man with his sandwich in hand,
a small boy fingers on windowsill as it rains,
but least of all this self now writing at an old desk by candle.
i am never now, i am always have been, i am never now doing,
i am always almost accomplished without ever having begun.

 

the problem with you is loving you before i liked you,
you wouldve never been my friend, we started as sexual intimates,
nothing ever more or less, and now with departure,
i find no reason to contact you, we started from the top
and now we only roll down, snowballing each argument,
as riding a motorcycle before ever riding a bike,
i feel we shouldntve been in love before we fell in like.

 

you know them by name and faces you daily see,
but its easier for me to remember their frequency,
the current and flow, the locked in patterns
they catch their thoughts in, nerves versus nature,
choosing the cycles to sing with, to live by,
the tides of frequency by which we love and trust,
you know them by their bouyancy as you swim through your days.

 

im ok, i make myself happy, im the one who choses to smile,
i chose the truth and honesty, in faults and negative manners,
and a constant re-evaluation of movement of consciousness.
i hide nothing from myself, and always ask why, i never bore myself,
i dont require anothers precense to enjoy my own.
i try to avoid those who create their own struggles,
those who surround themselves with troubles,
for the victim and attacker both create themselves,
and those who smile chose to, despite their situations,
indeed, we all have our hells, we all chose to complain.
im ok, i make myself ok, for its only me and my situations,
and the doubts in my life, oh i forget them quickly,
i leave it to others to remind me of them in the future.

 

the center of disney world, fantasies all shrivelled up in florida sun,
what once stood as stone castles and over saturated color-bound worlds,
now shake in wet winds as cardboard waterstained boxes,
once peels of delight and imagination screeching on on each turn,
the around-the-bend hidden horizons of scratchy 45s of pirates
cursing the same singsong for two decades, warped continental children
going on in mono recordings about the size of the world after all,
on greased axles im pinned down to a smelly copper travelbox.
once upon a time one day in the kingdom meant a whole year dreaming,
but now its 8 hour waits in humidity just for ice water and a 3 minute ride,
where the dark waters once drowned my ideas of reality,
now pours 2 foot deep cold filthy water with copper wiring,
reality comes of age, fantasy fades with knowledge, unpainted faces,
rickety pneumatic legs, my own 20 year rollercoaster i brought to the party,
missing limbs and cracked torsos, rusted signs of life, the wonder year
has come to the new year, characters dethroned from gods now annoyances,
the tired shuffle of us, the tragic memorabilia of all the lost children
who grew legs, lost wings, and fell from the grace of their dreams.

 

growing up alone, entertaining self with creativity of simple things,
a forest, a canal, the ground itself,
many years making somethings from nothings,
noone to impress, noone to mimic, the isolation to feel as you are,
until the day when moving into the hive of peers,
everything as if a megaphone, everything felt with sensitivities,
everything taken naively. now looking forward to the day
when the space to return to self opens up, back to the amusement
of simplicity, talking to trees, singing to sleep,
feeling that everything doesnt have to be a possession or claim,
or eye to attend, life doesnt always have to be a showdown,
there is no prejudice alone, or opinion to fend for,
and any cage one finds themselves in, well
there's always a door to exit. growing up alone kind of grows on you,
especially when you find yourself having to deal not just with people,
but all their hidden agendas and motivations and tactics.