i know the name, but without the purpose, i know the pain, but without meaning,

i writhe in ecstasy of each beauty which blinds me, i bathe in bubbles of possibilities,

the spirit rises as the view fades, i see the mirror again, man, so porous, blanched,

compared against colors man so dim on the inside, the limits, the boundary of skin,

the knowledge of laws based on causes, the halting limit of written and spoken words,

the name of pains which only a separate entity can feel alone,

the reflections only we sense of ourselves, and how we see names

but cant explain to the outside world all which we speak and resolve within ourselves.

the shoebox clay classroom with linoleum floor and tin rackety chairs,

with a teacher in his 50s, some elward olmos type with no chance of humor,

theres 15 people my age, blank as slates, prepared for programming,

3 different van gogh faded copies on white glossy showpolish walls,

of whose enamel i still smell faintly, above the human humidity.

theres one wall of pre-1950s books in collections, catalogs, and volumes,

stuff thats only opened to please a teacher. he gives us an assignment,

of picking any 10 books and putting together some essay

with 2 quotes from each of the ten books. ugh.

theres some broken christmas lights on one wall, theres another work of art

with a throwdown of popsicle sticks on a brownposter board, the board

has some french writing on it and i think its something about gun control laws.

the teacher drones on so uninspired to teach inspiring works of literary art

"...the jargon of the scholar, and the jargon of the literary detective...',

this dim energy to fire up these future editors who themselves, to me,

look quite uninspired themselves.

i feel like ive cheated myself, trying out college.

this just is not the way i can learn, i just wanted to try it for a semester.

too caught up in myself to write effectively, in suffering silence,

my expressions tangled within themselves as a yarnball of neurons,

writing out an unraveling of string which is headed to the sleeping cats claw,

my failure, my heartache, whether i choose to write or not,

whether to take any action or not, i head one way without change,

self oiled streets of self expectations, misguided inspirations,

never enough pressure to express, never enough force to reveal all,

the clutter, muddled, living in stress trying to relax by creative endeavors,

juggling two worlds, drowning in nature or consumed in the city,

the hungering artistry, the ties with people in knots, a notebook, a pencil,

a not too warm day, i rest for one brief existence, living,

without being pressured to acknowledge the time in passing,

so instead of writing i will lean back in the silence, and think things through

yet again.

holding my heart for god to grasp it, my head held by faith in the struggle,

squinting eyes glaring upon the riches without weight,

there are no fortunes to be made in heaven, only fulfillment,

happiness in wild gardens, the leash of blind faith,

the violence around me persists, the ignorance as a stagnant smell,

i answer to noone, my eyes and feet bound by ties of direction, destiny,

no arrows, just a circle, holding my lifes single thread

up to the grandeur of gods web,

i dont want to miss his world

inexhaustible muscles, prying loose second chances,

a finger works the sheets apart, a tongue insists on biting itself,

an edible pearl in the shell, a sky blanked out with liquidpaper,

thick wine dripping from the authors lips, the artists bread,

cleaning off and polishing lifes blotches of blessing and curses,

multiple lives which call forth from one soul, the harmony of emotions

singing forth as a universe wrests itself free, the last sound of earth,

a bell, its final harmonics into the final silence of completion.

she uses the eyes of a needle to read through her skin,

the serpent which climbs on the camel again,

winding round her knobby knees, salivating blood,

victim of constriction as veins flood with the deserts hourglass,

the plan of the planets, the drowning of fish,

a blanket of nerves and fork-split flicker of a snake across wrist,

the camel spit in both eyes and a wide yawn, hollow sound of cold sweat

running down her bones as a rusted flagpole, muttering about locking

death behind glass, muttering about short limbs we all balance upon,

a needles point of view again, tides take her out in a silent riptide.

sliding down the sidewalk i could never walk alone,

the dark nibbles in distances, the crumbs of me, collectively,

would never feed one womans mouth.

my manners as i gaze up to stars which god has copyrighted,

there is no creation of mine which will light up one womans eyes.

the hidden roads all leading to heaven, fear of becoming a future generation,

my reflection on too many mirrors, the worst fear is finding no excuse

to leave for better place to stake my existence, better people perhaps,

but for the here and now ill spend time saving for the utensils

by which to work.

searching for an original source of happiness, a leak in the ocean,

bodysurfing the waves of like and dislikes, i look for solutions

in the deepest of sleeps, i pray for deliverance from self constrictions,

where each man persists in revolving around his fatal flaw,

illustrating to others repeatedly how this system consumes him.

i live hoping i dont have to actively pursue faith and hope,

but that they reveal themselves in a pattern of self-evident footprints,

deciding if humanity is to be valued over just existence alone,

we are flawed with this tendency to attack others who share them.

is there time to attempt many directions at once,

or do these footprints fade so fast we must continue in one direction

and hope it bears out happiness before the waterline reaches our lungs.

death keeps us in our hometown, we stumble across meagre pursuits,

trivial ways to strengthen these nails in our coffin,

how dearly we all hold hands with love

as we are tickled on the back of our neck by deaths feather,

how fondly we make symbols with our fingers, as age throws soil

up around our ankles, we take sides in religion, divide our spirits,

in hopes that these are only ornaments and not scars,

the more desperate soul, the more eternal his newfound solution for faith,

as death carrys our credit card spending freely each day,

our crosses heavier and denser with moisture each year,

the pulse of our own hearts fainter as we try to find

a life outside of our hometown, as if death could be escaped from

by devotion to a definitive god and a new city by which to root.

a man is no more than his fears, love is without a wrinkle

but fine lines do develop, love the greatest offence to take up,

hate the last defence, a man cannot love what he sees

until he loves how he sees, fear is the packaging of no movement,

feeding upon its tail, reactions of always 'did' but never 'does',

each mans monster began as a selected pet, outgrowing the leash,

and with newfound teeth gnawing the weak gravitational pull of love

into the bared bones of habit without corrections.

wrinkles do not bring wisdom, i used to think age was knowledge,

now i see age can just as likely continue with ignorance and obstinance,

for not everyone has been blinded by creation and possibilities,

often dull eyes rattle, propped up on bones of gold,

their words like leaky pipes, age brings on more compounded effects

of the original pursuit, the childhood whistle into an elderly orchestra,

just as a seed can bear a fruitless tree,

and watching a wheel get squared off down the road.

searching direction, the pushing the pulling the double reflections,

our greatest one-all excuse is 'yesterday', deciding we must change

something not quite tangible about tomorrow,

a tunnel where pleasures pass through too quickly,

and pains manifest as unhealthy meditations,

and you become a bird for everyones cages.

patience a wet toilet paper in my hands,

so many bricks stacked upon this glass house,

a decision whether to cut out the heart

or remove the eyes in order to stay here,

either living in black and white or else feeling black and blue.

searching for a prime truth, thoughts as crystal atoms shattering,

glass shards fill my mouth, i speak words as dry ice,

we laugh about it, and try to tweeze the pleasures out of the pain.

goodnight candlelight as a sweep my tongue across your lick, out,

the afterglow of the universal blindness, focus on shadows

which skirt my dreams ragged edges, a harness attached safely to my pillow,

keep angels guarding the corners of my universe as i sleep

with a heart which roams unprotected into the hypnosis of rem,

the curling warm kitten around my neck, the small sparks

which illustrate the caves, the butterflies

which continue in their orbit around the stamen, goodnight cooling wick,

as the internal shadows wrap me in their sphere of influence.

past the light, euphoric darkness without skin to limit the evaporation,

the loss of matter, gain of energy, transference into my surroundings,

no materials, no senses to alight, stripped even of spirtuality and gravitations,

the energy of me cycles onto flat surfaces, winds in on itself as a snail,

and inside out, to disappear into this noneness and oneness,

the hell to some is heaven to others, and this measure of me as frequency

goes back under the pool.

DIARY, AT DRIVING SCHOOL

american institute, school of.

an empowered name for the menial schooling it provides. in the size of an open university classroom are seven rows of eight chairs across with a walkway down the middle and two extra chairs way in back. i sigh, realizing a higher force has kept that solitaire chair in back empty for me, so i head straight back there. the front of class has a 40inch tv pushing a weakly tuned recording of an old 1970s cosby comedy routine with the ever-played-out dentist routine. its on vhs and cosby plays out a sloppy mouthed patient as the guatamalen men in front of class all heave-ho their chests laughing, with their little arms folded neatly together on their bellies.

the back wall has a coffee machine, a snack machine, a soda machine. i leave my personals in order to claim my stake of this rear-most desk, and get myself a tetley canned tea. while walking back to my seat i notice a familiar face in the middle of the desks; its an old highschool teacher of mine, mrs lebedeker, a piggish slobbish woman with unkept beesnest and waxed hair piled high, so i do a quick prayer she does not see me during our time together and try to start up a conversation about 'all those years ago'.

great, now i noticed theres no clock on any wall and i myself never wear a watch, and suddenly ive lost all dimensions of time and space. next i notice everyone has a clipboard on their lap except for me, and i shrink even more as the teacher arrives, hand in pockets, an ageless reckoning by which id guess a haggard forty-something. she clings inside a longsleeved tightnecked rayon shirt with paisleys of orange staving off indigo, it is untucked and bows under a gut which is hedged in tight slacks. the polyester walking sticks are of tan color and almost match the corkleather heels worn unevenly. her hair is, well, there. wavy brown. thats all. she immediately angles to the tv and turns the vcr off, as if cosby himself were her opening act, but now she has the spotlight.she precedes to do a number of up-n-downs in the center aisle, and with a manner of trying to embed humor like punching holes in the sky she goes through asking all of our names, in which we also must come back with a spelling of our last names, each and every one. after this process which already wore me out, she then wanted us each to describe our driving likes and dislikes. ugh. i must look suspicious because im having the gall to be furiously handwriting away while everyone else pays heed to the speaker at any given moment. so certainly she must begin to circle closer to my spot with each of her parading turns to do another aisle cycle. i begin to accept the future of her asking me what im writing, by which ill respond ohh, just some thoughts, and she will, in her own certain georgia courtesy way, ask me to please refrain from continuing. this nervousness has me biting my nails.

in the rear of the real full last row, lefthand side, a 20ish girl has got to be trying by definition to resemble mariah carey. she does it with a west palm beach flair that only us natives would understand. in her dingy pale blue silkish jacket she snacks away on a bag of randomly shaped pretzel pieces, and munches away with a chipmunk fervor, and as they fall in she constantly scans the crowd but i cant tell if shes thinking because her expression only resembles food not curiosity. shes listening to a man talk about getting a ticket when his car was parked on his friends private property, and he wont give up on the question as if the teacher were the judge and jury, the teacher keeps volleying his ball so it goes back and forth, and theres a thin man between them whos goading both sides on by repeating 'yeah........yeah....' after each sides comments. i cant help but grin every time he does it, the whole scene as seen from the back of class is just like im watching a play. its been going on for minutes now, and now there are people saying 'oh...come on!' muttering it and shaking their heads, wow, theres actual friction happening here. hey, we're all here for four hours no matter how you cut the film, so why not just relax, i mean what are you going to miss out on.

the class is a whitmans selection of 38 from every country from caramel to crunchy. the instructor now pulls the new-jersey-thickneck-jock guy into the front of the class for a demo, why he wears his baseball cap indoors an raybans hang on his chest over a goldlink necklace. hes emotionally indifferent to being up there while the teacher tells him how to pose, and i just noticed the tv is the same model and make of my parents one. the instructor reminds us what a privilege it is to drive so we shouldnt drink and then a perhaps-jamaican accented man says if so many accidents are caused from it then why not outlaw that and legalize pot. the teacher responds with an odd angle; that if beer was illegal than jamaicans would be smuggling that in instead.

what?

she goes on that you can be charged for DUI on any objects which transports you other than your own feet. she starts saying all the smaller ones like skates and horses when she locks on and wont gaze away from my can of tea, oh it been a while now and finally she pauses, puts a finger to the chin and asks 'whats in that can' and the class all turned to me, whoa, all my molecules burn with embarrassment, 'oh is that tea?' as she notices the actual label wording, and i say 'uh huh' as small and scratchy as possible, 'oh, it looked like a beer label from here'. oh my. i regain composure and take a sip of tea. then its class break with ten minutes of empty space, where everyone stretches and mulls about the room. the pot man saunters over to the teacher and begins still pushing his point, and now that people can express laughter and frustration they do so because hes kind of loud and people want a break. they find they can leave and go outside so they pour out into the now-night sky, and break into little islands of chat.

great, mrs lebedeker, who i spy from my side eye, is facing me and turns my way with much intent. she mows on over and now just stands like a grazing cow before my desk, waiting for me to take a break from doodling and look up so she gets the split splinter to say 'oh is that you gary greenwald?' and ill be forced to respond with the effect of a pleasant response. blablabla shes so very close i can smell all the cigarettes shes smoked between my senior year and now. she even crinkles a piece of paper she pulled from her pocket, as if it were a bell for my cue, but it shakes me not and finally, finally, she juts off to the ladies room. relief.

the instructor comes casually my way in ziggyzag fashion and 'what do you have there?' with a pointing righthand to my notebook 'are you doing homework or something like that' 'no im just writing about class...you know'.....no, she doesnt... i continue to mumble on about on how i have to write to remember things and she asks, now quietly so only we two can listen, 'are you an evaluator?', 'no, im just a person here', 'ok well we have evaluators all the time in here and theyre just scribbling away in the back, i try to get behind them and read over their shoulders', i nod, and nod, she goes on 'one time this guy was writing so much i had to stop class and ask him if hes an evaluator' and i think does this mean shes kind of bothered when people write during class if theyre not an evaluator. everythings said for something and i saw no hints of meaning her statement. the teacher watches her mariah student come into class with a 4-pack of hunts pudding she bought at winndixie next door.

a little crowd condenses around a photo book up front with 8x10s of dead people in car crashes, a 'best of' collection i reckon, chosen for this purpose. brains and innards and glass and arms and dashboards and legs and shoes and engines and the fluids of both machines intermingled onto asphalt. the teachers away so i get up just to do a wide circle around the room, as i pass that photo album i notice they hadnt updated that collection since my highschool drivers ed class. splotchy wings of blood and brains popped out five feet from the open head, charred barbie dolls with their own frames caught up amongst the cars. it suspiciously looks though that each photo someone has either pasted in or added to the shot beforehand, a beer can or bottles, and i think he out of place and unnatural they look, and how that has to turn it into humor but instead people turn each page and look down by the bottles and remarking 'oh yea' and 'well of course' and that annoys me though it shouldnt.

the class is ready to begin again and the teacher heads right in to a story about a young lady who wanted to commit suicide by parking on the road around a sharp curve on a highway in the wrong lane. a young man comes in his mercedes around the wooded corner and blammo they both die. right then she turns the lights off and her clanky remote begins a movie about a father and son buying a car. the young hipster is informing his ill-informed father about how modern and cool it is to have an airbag and power steering and abs brakes, and the dad just doesnt seem to give a hot-diggety dog. the salesman was therefore compelled to lead dad off to some dark sideroom and insist that he please watch a short flick called 'safety first in new car buying', and this movie-in-a-movie opens on a centrally-plump string bean in a wheelchair who is in the middle of a junkyard, and hes just talking away about how he used to be a football coach and was ever-so happily married, and he lifts an arm without a hand over to a pile of flattened cars and says it doesnt matter which one exactly, but one of them cars was his and he didnt have his seatbelt on, and he starts really sobbing and urges everyone, please, please consider those safety options on your new car. end of movie. the father looks up and quietly nods his head, yes, hes been sold on the extra $4600 of options on that new car so he doesnt end up in the junkyard next to his new purchase. the son puts his hand on his dads right shoulder as the salesman puts his on the right. this is just a horrible moment for me by law to be forced to watch on a television. someone imagined all this up and got a grant to shoot it. the movie ends with a few pages of statistics in black and white.

but wait, the movie isnt over yet because how its panning across the 3 men perusing a row in brand new 1984 cars with giant chalk marks on the windshields proclaiming their safety options, oh but no, that now fades into those two 1980s accident-dummy figurines who do the safety car commercials, they have a string of one-liners on carcrash jokes, oh, to lighten the mood perhaps with cute-rate comedy routine about flying through windshields. the light comes back on, the teacher asks me in the back to hand her a chair, i fetch her up a chair and bring it to the front as the lights go out for movie two. close up the teacher smells like final-net hairspray, and i hear her burp a couple times as she taps the remote on her chin. this movie is two sets of 25 acted out scripts, where you get to choose what is the correct choice. half the class feels the need to blurt out the answers out loud, we are talking about a crowd of mostly adults here. but after question 17 people tire out of being wrong out loud multiple times to everyones quiet and the teacher gets up and goes near the back where i am which forces me to stop not paying attention for 20-something questions. and in the final few questions the teacher actually fast-forwards it because time is close to over and half-dozen people have dozed off.

she says with so few minutes left there will be no test this time. this time? im guessing with no evaluators she can cut out early. she has a folder with xeroxes of diplomas for us all and as she straightens them out to hand them out she finalizes the night with yet again one last plea to not drink and drive. i mean, im in here for a speeding ticket, so whats this push for something ill never do by nature anyhow. in her final round of pacing about the classroom over these hours, she actually somehow knocks over my tea onto the floor. and mariah laughs. now what was THAT about, knocking my drink on the floor. i lean over and prop it straight up on the ground without putting it back on my desk.

class is now over, and everyone gets really talkative and loud as they begin collecting their goods, one voice louder than all others says 'whats worse then driving with ted kennedy' and i tune out while the original annoyer of the night has already started a loud discussion yet again about how unfair it is for someone to be arrested for sleeping in their car, and get tested and found to be drunk, because at least he isnt driving and hes on private property. i realize i am missing patty duke back home. my jaw hurts because my wisdom teeth are acting up. the teacher is calling out names one by one, each person scrambles up with their personals and takes the diploma and heads out the door, having to mail that diploma copy to their 'whomever' so that they can have tickets reduced, points removed, or whatever. its not in any certain order, i just wait for greenwald to ring out, and im out of here.

light focused between the eyes, inner buzz of eyelid static,

the slideshow from today till imagination, birdlined windowsill,

the swirled strings of stars soaking in symphony,

a sponge starving for salt to flavor its flesh,

cross my arms around my pillow, the mazes of mysticisms unfurl

in entangling trances, a single winged dream

which can only fly indoors, a prayer without a heaven,

seeds which carry into other peoples dreams,

the freedom which exists when securities unlock hangups

and everything feels perfect in place.

do not get pissed of fire in your eyes, you asked for some light,

so i lit up your conception of the world like a kerosene rag,

you exploded and rejected my views, so dont get upset

because what i consider as truth in my life

does not agree with your confusions.

i struggle to keep flying as a bird in search of its ark,

even a branch, i know i am the master of actions,

but the re-actions i seem to not have control of as yet,

in the precise numerical chemistry of communicating with you.

here i crouch in the plastic-paned birdcage, passing out newspapers,

holding out dirty change, the tourists white noise as they hover,

i count the coins, i pale away, the worlds wanderers buy trinkets

off my counters, canadians ask for foreign change back,

a broken tv in the distance plays the xylophones to some 50s cartoon,

a bulgarian female asks if the rhinestone shirts come in extra large,

someone complains that theres no orange juices left,

im too bored to read, too tired to write,

too worn to respond to anyones words.

a fluorescent-lit broken cage of a job, i claw at my vinyl seat,

i try to imagine fresh air, this dead air caught between two ears,

streaming my tongue, numbing my teeth, here i crouch

in a temporary job dying for ways to pass time.

singing the universe on paper, making songs from passerby comments,

matching the flowers to the gardener in the botanics of my mind.

the blue pales of a shaded moon, breezes slight as cat whiskers,

wet tongues of dew on my napping skin, owl gliding through me,

im brought in as an accessory to a dream, the cream rises,

coating all cells as i drift into the eternal, the death of sleep,

i lie still in total sum, curtains drawn around each breath,

all of which goes on around me translated as shadows

which come in and out without stopping to beg for my attention.

i fingerpaint the poetry of life, gorging arms to forge rivers of life,

sprouts in fertile furrows upon the wrists,

the legs the forearms, there streams a babys last tears, welling up

from the core of a soul left without gravity,

wear the mask of blood and smile, the bubbly children giggle,

funny red clown, why cant you dance, why not come to school with us,

why not read instead of writing,

why not work instead of playing for money, sitting deadcalm,

but teething like a hungry reaper in private.

i pluck my overripened arms as an overtightened harp,

hear the echo of metallic rivulets as they shrill like baby birds,

the taste of coins tossed into the fountain of life

which now drip to a healing standstill,

im holding alot in, many animals,

who each wish to tell you their own story,

im releasing alot of nails,

none which are meant to fasten you down,

these things get in the way, while searching for the childhood

of painless cradles with reassuring song and warm whispers.

never change a word of your life, you must follow out its mistakes

for they form full sentences when you finish the improvisation,

never regret what youve felt, it takes a spectrum of emotions

to see a full rainbow after rain.

tomorrow, responsibility will call,

even though yesterdays expectations never arrived, stretched,

so thin between frets that its painful to bend, quicker to age,

more inhibitions and less expressions.

youll only be known for what you did,

not how you said youd do it,

nor what you originally meant to do it for,

so follow the road you cannot see the end of,

see where your heart decides to call home,

someplace constructed with the words and wisdom

that forms your personal needs for peace.

today on september 18 1992, i have heard that this glorious bombshell,

in which i work, it is not having its lease renewed next month,

so much tension arises suddenly that i have one month,

to build my ark for the flowing seas of bills. then again,

i havent had a weekend off for over a year now, i have worked every one,

so the 'weekend off' will be so new to me. now at least,

i can express my true thoughts towards rude customers

while i sweat out what job next, ah, theres alot of history

for me in this little giftshop in one year,

this is the most social job i might ever possess,

and i had some adventures in human forms which will be forgotten,

not good, nor bad, just spectacular every one.

you close your eyes to listen, you hold your breath to listen,

you stop all thoughts to listen, you sleep to listen,

you dream on your stomach to listen, you laugh to listen,

you stop hearing and listen, the starvation of patience,

the fasting and thoughtlessness on the concepts of creation.

a prison without guards, a cell without bars, a joke without resolve,

we are as free as we care to think we are,

if you speak of suffering you will continue to pursue it,

if you focus on love, you will never lose its source,

no matter what new material man discovers or creates,

none of it helps you find your own place in his plans,

there is only one source for creation

its the god within you, caged until you find completion

of this quest of existence.

i turn the page, i turn the page, with my fingers

until they themselves have become my eyesight,

feeling around all edges, transcribing my memories,

how many pages will i get to turn in this life,

over and over to strangers i ask obliquely,

but never more than a second look to any one of them,

i study the clock, in hopes that time would lose its impact

over so much intensive observation, i turn the page

and slap a mosquito as i reach for more kerosene,

when the mosquito goes silent you know its time to strike,

the music i hear now is only the pressure of my mind

up against the constraints of my skull, i want

to educate myself and not lose the passions, i thirst

for a homogenized view of this given reality, i study

the vessels which rarely give second looks

as they drive by on their own ways to turn the page,

repeat this footnote to self;

never retread the same thought twice.

lying in bed, a flood comes rushing in, sudden sharp breath,

as my mind expands at the same rate of my lungs,

pumping this fuel into my heart, precious life,

clapping in absolute bliss that life never stops growing,

and curiosities never grow cold.

from bitter inner seeds the sweetest trees grow,

i catch blue ripples from the air under this shade,

i convert all random energies crashing around me

into a steady focused stream of love, then push it forth

from my eyes, playing out the orgasms we unfold,

for all i need is within me,

and all the rest is here to serve and be served.

deadly nightshade curled around fingers, smoke in the eyes,

chewing on ice cubes, broken candy sticks around the bed,

candlelights swaying as they diminish, tired emeralds,

the passion of two lines to become one circle,

broken legs of sobriety, limp arousals in shadows,

tendrils sparkling, clay that comes to shape,

hummingbirds too fast to see

but we feel their passing as they pollinate their senses.

the metallic taste when thinking too fast,

the wave that washes me in sweat

when i try to glide in full perceptions of mirrored awareness,

a man made through tolerance, through meandering, through delicacies,

nothing solid enough in him to make certainties of,

just subtle moments rolled in sugar,

and the hum of circuitry when trying to doze off at 2am.

the clock pours gas over me, i never made the time i meant to find,

my candle out without a wind, thoughts twisted wreckage,

roots without soil, i collapse this jellyfish on its back,

drowning on my own weight when translated to energy,

this living clock which does not give you change back

when you offer up your wealth of ideas.

ringing ears shifting for proper balance, a sight with five eyes,

overwhelming senses of awareness, a newborn twice awakened,

the division between self and possessions,

a position distant by which to watch myself,

a way to leave fingerprints on the mirror, a cerebral switch,

illuminating the darkest cavities, the art of shattered glass,

the more learned the more puzzles on how they interact,

taking hold of life means leading the one most believed in.

painting life with the rarest colors, squeezing them till grey,

squeezing lights till choking to darkness, heaving onto paper,

laughing up daily pains with delicate wit,

three meals a day with madness in between,

waking up daily to another gathering of scrapbooks,

a lifelong trek from edge to edge of this flat world ive drawn up.

i think there was a time when teachers gave students a concept

and let them reflect and work it out on their own,

helping students create a smooth workflow

according to their own internal workshops.

now the teachers seem to only care how we memorize their words,

how we follow the charts, how we must be broken in order to be made

effective workers not thinkers, like fish in a pond

never knowing theres an ocean out there.

the sickness which brings us together, no heaven can we hold together,

as stray animals we cling onto each bone thrown, children of rejection,

the loss of protection, a puzzle of eleven thousand pieces without a manual,

dysfunctional, or perhaps singing in tune to the chaos,

the parallel unveiling of each action, disgust of resolution,

the weight of god and devil on each knee,

is this tiger for the circus or wilderness,

the primitive life bound by full-developed circuits,

the ease of disaster when we all come together in unity to disagree.

old needles finally fall from my ears, moths carry the quilts away,

a buffet of sadnesses, shes asks 'did you love the world before me?',

broken stars unhinged in my eyes, i buy books to read up on strength,

i check my dreams for any hint of where the tears source from,

inner gravity pursuits, coming back down to my lifes thick manual

and its incompatibilities, shuffling how to fit the space

between birthday candles. all this time tossing coins in the well

just to bring the waterlines reflection of self up closer to me.

why plant a tree you dont plan on climbing,

why go to the beach if you dont want to float,

why walk to the mountain if you arent going to look down from the peak,

why grow a garden you arent going to eat,

why make a friend if you arent willing to trust them,

why fall in love if you dont have the time,

why bring tears to someone eyes if you arent going to dry them,

we take always a bit more than we give,

we keep our fullest potentials under cover,

we try to love what we have to do, or we do what we love,

and of this i create so much just for your one smile a day,

i keep building gates in your fences, windows in your walls,

in hopes that the more i express the greater chance for you to love me.

life, as if coming into conciousness at the moment

youve been thrown off the rollercoaster ride,

scared for us to open our eyes wide to this event,

easier it is to make up so many things to do on the way down.

i stiffen, at the thought of living life too hard,

i want off what it is im on, i want into what im out of,

i want to see my life compared to what im up against,

do i choose pursuit of money or happiness,

do i choose the machinery or the nature of man,

will i hit the ground naked or clothed,

life, if only for a moment if i could see the plan

for this charted course of existence.

without interference, i breathe,

i play with existence from the outside of its shell,

to hear what god makes note of to himself,

love is the sixth sense,

colors which whisper pass through both ears undisturbed,

how intricate the ideals of simplicity,

intimately spun creations free of gravity or need,

only a spiritual rotation orbiting the firelight of gods graces.

is this me, or am i this, i draw a picture, or did it escape,

i write a poem, or did it free itself,

is this me or am i a collection of daydreams,

my movements but animations of still life,

is this me, what i see compounded by what i hear,

gauged by how i feel and relayed by how i speak,

am i the ink of the pen, the paint in the tube,

the scramble of a foreign language, is this me

or a hope of who id like to be.

im hard on myself, never sure if im a bad person or not,

i look at why ive done what ive done, then i forget why i did it,

im a junkyard always collecting spare parts,

fuel for the human engine, a smiling judgement descends on me,

i dream myself to sleep, i recollect reality with each alarm,

i was pummeled young and therefore expect it in life,

i struggle inside and out, i dance with a grey spirit,

i argue with neutrality, i bury myself too deep in people i meet,

i hurt myself

in believing noone else can hurt me again.

DIARY, DRAMA

the rice cooker was brimming with mahatma red beans n rice, the 510sq.ft. apartment incensed with curry and indian kettle spices. her and i had been smashing abuses back and forth in volleys about someone not locking the front door at night. heated words make me hungry, so i got some rice and put it in the cooker for dinner. then up jumped her cat onto the countertop, and as she is screaming and throwing one of her 300 pairs of shoes around the room battling her own demons, i am shooing the cat away with a wooden spoon. the cat finally heeds me but in doing so does a rabbit kick sending my pot in a spin and right off the stove, spitting out steaming half-cooked yellow rice and pinto beans onto the walls, drawers and floor, as well as my own legs, and im swearing and racing about which causes her to rush in and see whats the matter.

she assumes i did it myself and begins ranting and belittling without me even explaining its was the cat, and right then again the cat jumps up a second time perhaps to eat up the spilled spoils. with a pent-up instinct i swung at the cat with an open hand, the cat went down with four paws out and claws out, causing him to panic and ski-daddle across the room and jumping over a desk to hide, candles flying everywhere as he caught footing and scampered down to hide. she screams as if i had just dug the rice spoon into her left eye, i run out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, grabbing up all my possessions and keys, and as im heading to the exit within a couple minutes, she blocks the front door, 'im fucking leaving' i say and she says no i have to clean up the kitchen mess first, i tell her to have her cat do it, and back and forth we go for a few phrases with me ending with 'i dont love you anymore, i dont even know why i came back here last night to think things could change' and this time she leaves the door, so i go to turn the doorhandle assuming shes run to her bedroom to sulk, then we would be speaking to each other via phone by midnight, and by sunrise id be back here again, trying again, and going through the same antics but different drama the next day.

as im turning the knob i hear her deep gutteral growl coming up behind me, like shes cutting down her final days labor of sugar cane. then with a solid thunk i go black and taste metal and notice im falling to the floor without reaction. then im not aware for a few unknown seconds, then a few later things come to focus again, and i notice im on my stomach trying to get up on all fours on the floor, a deafening shrill also comes into focus '..say you love me or ill fucking kill you right now...you hurt my car you asshole...try to move and ill fucking hit you again...', i am spinning inside with a pounding headache and my fingers are deeply rooted in the carpet as ive fluid in my right eye, which my left eye indentifys as blood. my glasses are broken off to my left side, i try to each out for them and im hit with something resembling a heel in the center of my spine, so i just remain still with words above me repeating themselves '...you....me...kill....promise....love..' i slowly turn my head to finally view her above me, and there she stands redfaced and wildeyed with a 1.5liter wine bottle in her hand firmly, i start whining, saying how much im bleeding and i could be dying and such and how i need medical help. my head feels like two trains in opposite directions going over me at the same time, we are beyond insanity and acting out primitive roles, im still seeing grey around the edges of vision, and after a few minutes and blood puddling in the carpet i finally acknowledge, albeit under a bit of pressure, that yes, i do still love her, and yes i was sorry and id clean the spill up in the kitchen.

then i reiterated that i was still bleeding, and needed help, and she then put the bottle down in a chair and ran off to the bedroom crying. i used this intermission to get my glasses and bend them somewhat back to shape, and used my shirt to clear my eyes of the blood, and i crawled over to a couch to begin a new puddle, i found the phone cord and followed it up to the phone and pulled it down to the ground, i fumbled for someone to call so i thought to call my friend shannon, 'hey i just got my head cracked open and need help if someone can come get me from renes' is somewhat along the lines of what i said, but no matter how i arranged my words i couldnt get shannon to agree to come rescue me. i only had then two other people, both my girlfriends friends, who i knew i could contact for help, because i didnt want to call an ambulance or create even more dramat if i didnt have to, i just needed a 3rd opinion.

she was in another world on her bed, she was stroking her cat and talking calmly to herself and her cat. as i was on the phone with sunshine, her best friend, asking her to please come, she finally snapped into reality and went to get an old tshirt, and held it out for me to wrap around my head, and she helped me then onto the bed. 30 minutes after impact i finally had more of my senses opened, to be aware that i was cold and clammy and shaking and not breathing evenly, and finally her two closest friends arrived together, they came in and while sunshine tried cleaning me up quietly, david led my girlfriend to the kitchen where they giggled together and i heard david saying '....i always knew youd do something like this....' as he was getting some ice for me.

today my mind is a powerhouse, soaking up all magnetisms,

a desert dishrag delivered to the ocean, the notion

that i can take all in effectively, and be everything,

the effects of realism, not numb, not shocking,

a bit dulling, yet always elusive and hungering,

i will bring life to soil i was seeded in, my prayers

will forgive my pleasures. a horse with tail on fire

and on its neck tattooed a carrot, running to expectations,

the fire caught up with my mind. today i am everything i see,

this paper on which i write, retains my weight,

but not my true wisdom, and with sore tongue and bit lip

i try to speak my mind, ideas i want to create without study,

for who is more prepared to take on my life?

those who teach, those who learn, those who only know how to be taught,

and those who only know how to experience,

and those who learn by enjoying what others create,

this unraveling of which am i, well, we shall soon see

as i take these years to absorb all i can.

this is june 19 1992 and im driving right now to a 3 year dream,

to get my wisdom teeth pulled. the radio says its mccartneys birthday,

so to celebrate ill be strapped down in a dentist chair

with an opiated umbilical cord hooked to my arm

as a man reaches in my mouth with tools.

i dont want to feel that needle slide in my arm.

last night my mom said how when she had surgery they cut her open a foot wide,

and she was only paralysed and not fully unconscious,

and she felt them digging into her chest, and she couldnt respond.

ugh, thats comforting. i hope it rains all day today after my visit,

since i see summer storms bubbling in the distance,

my mouth is so dry from not eating or drinking the past 12 hours.

...

i just got my teeth pulled 30 minutes ago, we are right now driving away from the office,

i feel fine and all i remember is them inserting the IV as i was singing along to 'losing my religion' in my head,

and the next moment im back to the living, and i hear my mom behind me talking to the doctor.

i cant focus my eyes and im glad i paid $300 extra for the IV,

but i hope that i can get some liquid in me soon as possible.

if i could feel this way for one week

i think id have the whole world figured out,

my feet are numb, my brain isnt heading to any certain direction,

i dont even know if my teeth are really gone or not right now,

i hope they saved them, i forgot to ask. i might need them

for spare change.

coming down with fury, eggshell emotions squeezed in the palm,

i dont know what i did wrong, i only know the pain from the action,

something about being born which causes me to be hit,

something about me being reminded of my worthlessness,

something about the grip and the rip,

that i should come apart as you wish,

not be given a chance to rebuild.

failures and laziness, i know, fuck this and fuck me, i know

you have to hurt me to level yourself out, i know

its hard for me to relinquish and renounce someone whos

a part of this life and this blood,

how many times must you beat it out of me how i am

the perfect illustration of your hoped-for disappointments.

drip dry my mind, the poison creates a passion of null,

i am ready, to begin in my lifebook as i did once before,

and though i just lost 4 notebooks full, i somehow

must forget all those words id written and those times i plotted,

i am still driving at truths and attempting to be a positive force

in a dirty worlds mouth, there is no satisfaction in a higher position

by ever putting anyone down, no matter how often they use those tactics.

question my existence, my sanity, my affects on people, my weaknesses,

i am moving, but which way? i may find complacency tomorrow,

i may die today, gutted from the throat trying to explain myself,

countless times ive tried to pull the strings closer to play more deftly,

but the further they work themselves apart and loosen,

i settle for the meaning of me, this cavern, full

of distractions and differences, even now i cannot comprehend

how i could be raised in a modern world successfully,

how i could stay within the system that supports me,

yet still claim to be free of disease.

always the 'for' and 'against', always the indifference in choices,

always counted among statistics for its too expensive to buy yourself out,

always on the side stage of the sideshows,

i watch others realities versus dreams collide.

question my existence, often i ask myself 'who is this person doing this'

while looking at my upturned hands, as if im a tiny mechanic and navigator

trapped inside this clunky gearwork, and time moving too fast to recollect,

to reconsider, to recount every event daily passing, here i am moving,

but like a sliding ice cube down a warm slope, time too lubricated,

my only trail is the melting of my tail as i disintegrate

in a exponential time slope of consequence and finalities.

a bird that wouldve been me, if my home had its choice

id be that small bird under his shovel,

id be a deadfeathered friend, a bird which never spoke back,

never loved, never left the cage, only ate and slept on his hand,

and you reminded me when choking me

how much more of a loved one the bird was than me,

i try to converse, to hug, to agree, to love,

i moved forward many steps to meet you on your side,

small tokens, i know, to offer you,

but i was always a competition to your pets.

i know you lost your chirping friend, got drunk

and beat me from the loss, i know your heart is buried

back there by the fence, well, maybe,

when you finally break my neck

you can have the pleasure of putting me down out there,

and you can be relieved that this failure which was born of you

didnt get to outlive you, but barely scraped by

past the death of your animal friends.