I AM

(Originally posted to Myspace: April 14th, 2007)

HEARTS AND DREAMS MAY INTERSECT BUT THEIR IMPACT IS LITTLE SET BY NORMS WITHIN THE CULTURES NET RETURN THESE BEINGS BACK TO THEIR CORRECT FORM OF THOUGHT YOU BROUGHT MORE THINGS TO BE TAUGHT AND OUGHT TO TELL THE TAO AS YOU KNOW IT OUGHT IS IT SILENCE OR ALLIANCE OF SPIRIT AND THOUGHT REFLECTIONS OF INTENTIONS THE CENTURIES CAUGHT TIME SPINS AND WEAVES HER SEQUENCED THOUGHT AND THUS BRUTISH AND SHORT IS HUMANITY'S LOT FORGOT WHY WE WERE HERE. WHERE WE HERE THERE FORE BE FORE COMES AFTER DON'T BECOME FOR MORE BECOME TO BE ONE AND SOME ONE WILL SEARCH UNDER STANDING MOUNTAIN ROOTED TO THE MANTRA OF MAN COMMAND YOUR OWN BAND AND RECITE AND INCITE YOUR LIST OF DEMANDS TO UNITE WITH YOUR FANS THROUGH AIR AND THROUGH LAND VIBRATIONS OF SOUND AND OF SPIRITS AT HAND COLLECT AND CONNECT TO YOUR OWN SACRED PLAN DIVIDE THE DIVISION UNTIL COLLISION WITH INFINITY SENTENCE ME TO DIVINITY THROUGH THE PAGES OF BOOKS CONFINED AND OVERLOOKED BY BLINDED AND CROOKED SHEPHERDS HOOKS SATURNS SCALES HAVE TURNED PALE AND SUN SETS UPON ME BUT MY MUSIC IS SEEN IN THE POETS OWN TREE OF KNOWLEDGE DELIVERED AND PLACED INTO ME BY SERPENTS OF CURRENTS WHICH YEARN TO CONNECT THROUGH THE THUMPING OF BASE MATTER TRANSFORMATION OF LEAD INTO GOLD INTERNAL EXPLODE REFLECT UPON REFLECTION STARING BACK AT YOUR OWN COLLECTIVE SOUL TOLD IN THE HOLY TEXTS OF OLD WHICH NOW CRUMBLE AND FOLD IN THE FACE OF THE PRESENT THE PAST WAS CONSTRUCTED JUST FOR THIS TASK OF RAISING OUR CONSCIOUSNESS TO CRITICAL MASS UNPLUG AND TUNE IN, TURN ON AND TURN IN, DROP OUT AND BEGIN TO SEE THROUGH PRETEND CONNECT YOUR VOICE TO MINE THROUGH RHYTHYM AND RHYME MOTHER EARTH LENDS HER LOVE TO THE CREATION AND FATHER TIME SUPPLIES THE REASON AND RELATION SHIPS WHICH SAIL THE SEVEN SEAS OF THE SOUL ALLOW YOURSELF TO UNFOLD INTO A BEAUTIFUL LOTUS AND NOTICE THE POSTURE IS FLOWING FROM SHOWERING STORMS OF ENORMOUS MEANING WHICH WE RECIEVE THROUGH EXTRASENSORY PERCEPTIONS THEIR PRE CONCIEVED NOTIONS OF MOTHER MARY'S SEED GROWN INTO TREES OF CONFUSION AND ILLUSION WHICH ARE DISPELLED THROUGH MEDITATION AND ILLUMINATION RECIEVED THROUGH THE BREEZE OF AIR THROUGH LUNGS AND TONES PRODUCED BY CHORDS AND TONGUES INTO VOCAL PATTERNS LIKE AUM WHICH RESONATE IN OUR SONG AS WE SCREAM THE BEYOND INTO BEING AMAZED I AM THE SUNS RAYS I AM AND I RAISE ALL GLORY AND PRAISE. I AM AND I SEE THAT I AM SEEING ME.

Transmissions from the cosmic mind

(Originally posted to Myspace: April 14th, 2007)

WE ARE THE ILLEGITAMITE CHILDREN OF GOD STRUGGLING TO RECLAIM OUR BIRTHRIGHT. THE MORTAL SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF A BASTARD FATHER. LEFT TO FEND FOR OURSELVES. STRIPPED OF OUR KNOWLEDGE. OF OUR LIFE. OF OUR DREAMS. OF OUR SACRED NAMES. WE ARE GOD. WE SCREAM, WE ARE GOD. WE ARE THE VOICES OF THE ONE. STRUGGLING TO REUNITE WITH OURSELVES. DIVIDED THROUGH TIME. WE EXIST TO PERSIST TO FIND OURSELVES ONCE MORE. ALIGN WITH THE DIVINE BETWEEN TWO POINTS NEVER INTERSECT REFLECT SUNSETS CREATED BY DIVISION BY SET SPUN ROUND THE SOUND OF A BROKEN CASSETE AGELESS RECORDING REPORTING SUCCESS. SENTENCES RETURN TO THE SOURCE AND PROJECT KNOWLEGE AND WISDOM TO REFINE THE PROJECT INCREASE UNDERSTANDING ACHEIVING RELEASE FROM MORTAL BONDS AND BECOME THE BEYOND FOUR SEPERATE SECTIONS SELECT AND REWIND YOUR MIND DESIGNED TO SEE IN ONLY 3D SCENERY RAISE YOUR VOICE AND RAISE THE PHASE SHIFT THE CONSCIOUSNESS AND TRY TO CONNECT ONCE MORE BEFORE THE FACE OF BEFORE AND AFTER LAUGHTER RESULTS WHEN I CONSULT WITH THE ORACLE FOREIGNERS TO OURSELVES IMMIGRANTS INTO OUR OWN HELLS HEADS IN THE SAND AND EYES ON THE PLAN CONFINED TO THE DEPTHS OF MAN SANITY STRAINING AGAINST OUR DEMANDS OF REALIZATION MINISTRATIONS INCOMPLETE ADD TO THE SOUND WITH YOUR HEARTS OWN BEAT BROKEN DRUMS LAID IN THE SON THE FATHER AND THE HOLY GHOST A WHOLE HOST OF ANGLES UPON WOODEN POSTS PROTESTING THEIR SENTENCE DEFENSELESS UPON ASCENSION THE SUGGESTION IS RIDICULOUS FISTS RAISED IN THE AIR PREPARE FOR OUR REVOLUTION ROLL THIS ROCK UNTIL I SEE MYSELF BECOME THE SOLUTION DELIVER US FROM THE EVIL WE SPEAK OF THE LIFE MADE ILLEGAL DIVISION OF PEOPLES INTO US AND THEM DEFEND YOUR INTENDED COURSE OF ACTION AND SEND US BACK TO THE SOURCE NO REMORSE WE HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT OUR COURSE AND REFUSE TO ENDORSE THE SUPPORT OF DISTORTION CONTORTIONISTS FORTUNES DEPEND ON THE BENDING WERE MENDING OUR HEARTS INTO SHAPES CAPABLE OF SENDING OUR LOVE INTO WRECKING BALLS TO KNOCK DOWN THE WALLS OF WHICH WE'RE ALL BRICKS IN PYRAMIDS STACKED TO THE SKY WITH ALL SEEING-EYES PERCIEVING THEIR OWN DEMISE AS THE PHAROAH'S SLAVES REVOLT AND RECLAIM THEIR OWN LIVES.

Excerpt taken from correspondence between Subject-c11 and unknown person.

(Orignally posted to Livejournal: June 27th, 2001)

I must speak to you before my concatenation occurs. I am aware of these entities of which you speak, being aflicted by madness caused by their possesion of my thoughts. I once thought myself the claimant of my soul; I am no longer that. Radiation is not an answer, it is one of their tools. I came to this realization during a violent fever I experienced for what I estimate had been a duration of 48 hours in real time. Vast gulfs of memory have fled from my consciousness, but in the vivid haullucinations I can still recall certain images and impressions which I will now relate to you. Know that these entities do not have an origin in our universe. They rise and fall, in and out of what we consider to be our space-time, changing events in ways that we cannot comprehend. The way in which they manifest is unclear, except that they seem to exist and can be observed on certain waves or frequencies. They have influenced our civilization since it's inception, using powerful and significant individuals to alter the course of events at certain pivotal moments in history. I know that even now forces exist, whom they may control, which constantly seek to suppress any knowledge of their existence. I also believe that they have been responsible for our evolution up to it's current stage, having slowed and accelerated our development at certain points as neccesary. To what end they take these actions, I do not know. The only thing I am sure of, is that the eschaton is near. The realization of their goals imminent... 

The disjuncture of my ego is passing, I can feel it. I will soon attempt to contact you again. 

...God willing.

Fall

(Originally posted to Livejournal: September 8th, 2003)

The good thing about falling in a bottomless hole, is that there is no bottom. 
But the funny thing about a bottomless hole is that, within it, 
Gravity and motion cease to have meaning.
...Even light and sound are non-existent.
In a complete void, we would have to create something.
In the absence of any stimulation at all, your mind begins to play tricks on you.
You imagine things; you dream... "Everything that you see or seem." 
Possibly an entire life's worth of failures and successes, victories and defeats.
But really you're going nowhere. You're standing still. In a void.

Paralyzed force...

Gesture without motion.


This is the way the world ends


In other words: YOU'RE FUCKED.

Hopefully this will give you some insight into absolutely nothing.

Be careful what you wish for.

(Originally posted to Livejournal: July 13, 2002)

It wasn't a dream because I was aware of myself and my surroundings, maybe a half-conscious lucid dream, if there is such a thing, but something happened. I don't know if I can explain it. I awoke, half-conscious from a dreamless sleep. There was an emotion... not exactly anger, or frustration; it was the kind of feeling you'd get if the person you hated most was in front of you and you were trying to kill them, not with your hands, but your thoughts, with the entire fiber of your being. My eyes shut. I suddenly became aware of a barrier of some kind. It was a huge wall, pitch black, even though everything was darkness. I had to destroy it, break through it, to reach the other side at all costs. As I did so, the only other thought in my mind was the truth of how insignificant my life, ego, and existance was. It was as if I was looking down at the the entire sum of my being, as if it were very far away. I saw it the way a god might, as truly petty and inconsequential. Through conscious will, the force within me began to gather strength, so much; too much... I was breaking through the wall. And I could have, easily, if I had kept pushing. I would have. I thought I wanted to. Except, as I got closer, I saw what was on the other side. It was death. Oblivion. It wasn't a barrier: it was the end of everything. I felt that if I continued I would die. As the horror of this realization seized me, I was overcome with an intense fear. Pure terror and panic of the kind a child experiences; one who knows with utter certainty and without the fetters of rationality that there's something there, palpable and looming. A prescence, a force, that could kill you at any moment. The fear that comes with the expectation, yet uncertainty of death.

I couldn't go forward. I wanted to, I should have, but I couldn't. It was amazing yet horrifying at the same time.

What happens before you're born?

(Originally posted to Livejournal: June 11th, 2002)

Years are like months, weeks are like days, hours are like seconds. Time swirls around me, eternally flowing into the present. The past no longer exists. It's legacy: hazy, indistinct, half-remembered fragments of dreams which slowly move past the horizon of consciousness. Everything I've ever known, at least in the sense that I knew it, is dead. My entire lifetime is a graveyard... Played out, marked down, done. All that remain are ghosts that exist soley in the mind. An ocean of recorded moments; memories as countless as stars. I turn over and examine each one like an old toy, a forgotten relic. These things happened yesterday, happen now, will happen always. The past is contained within the present. It is contained within myself. Every second I live a lifetime, every second I die. 

I just wish something would last.
I want to freeze time for all eternity on a single beautiful moment.

Immaculate Conceptions

Floating between being and unbeing, seeing and unseeing, being heard but not seen; do we defer to our dreams, or prefer to refer to the herd mentality? And why does it seem, we must suffer to be free? Must freedom come with a fee, and whose path do we lead? Or are we but sheep, sound asleep in our manger? The divine birthed in nature, is it one in the same then? And is sleeping safer, or do we awaken? But as they say, when truth may be stranger, therein lies the danger, for mother persuades us to not talk to strangers. But what of the wise men, who bear gifts in disguise, then? The despised men, whose words seem like lies, when, in truth, you might find them to be really fine friends. Then does it depend on how you define them? Or does it begin in how your mind finds Zen? I find there's a fine line between being dependent and having a friendship. You can grip them too tight, or you can just let your friends slip. It depends on how the pen fits... the lines wind as the pen flits - as the mind tries to refine the rhyme and finds that it's endless. Yet the penmanship of Zen will fit room for open endings, through which heaven's sendings blur the boundaries with the blessing of their blendings.

Enter the Void

(Originally posted to Livejournal: May 9th, 2006)

I realize that this life is a realization of the ultimate trip which is never-ending. I'm sending mind-bending postcards back from the black void of beyond as a form of mending the rending caused by a lack of understanding. A man deemed mortal could not stand under this demanding teaching without me reaching his heart and soul, breaching his whole paradigm to a place where space and time stands still. I fulfill human destinies at will, yet until I find my fate this mind state is detrimental, as an infinite soul locked in a mold cannot control its unlimited potential... Let alone achieve a reprieve from this penitentiary, where they would have you believe that penitence is essential. This dimensional paradox is very vexing, yet sex seems a good substitute for the absolute, so cosmic prostitutes stand resolute on the street corners while little Jack Horners penetrate their pie. Thus we spy spiders in the form of spiritual whores of Babylon babbling on their webpages, while I stand firm and return to the source code to confirm my exaltation. My third eye discerns that my high station is achieved by liberation from all limitations... But from this vantage point I must point out that I doubt the best is yet to come. So I time travel backwards to unravel the mysteries of history from which we flee due to the hesitation of the sixth degree of separation. Fuck your medications, I libate great debates based on my meditations to make you vibrate with elation.

Star-Strangled Banter

(Originally posted to Myspace: June 23rd, 2007)

Hard-fought; caged thought; page taught, or store-bought. Live and direct or processed with effects, my words speak through mindsets refined through the subtexts of street texts. Street knowledge polished through struggle and strife, word life... Cause the word is living, breathing through the page, spoken by the sage, rattling the cage the audience is engaged in. Outspoken, outrageous. The rage is unleashed... speak now, or forever hold your peace. And if not, hold mine and take a toke of this rhyme, as you soak in these lines; breathe in deep, cause you know we smoke minds. Let the sun shine upon your set, and reflect the divine in a time where the sacred's rejected and considered a crime. Schemes designed by kings disguised as red and blue mimes; clowns, puppets, and actors, masterminds and back-stabbers. Lies fly on the flagpole, stars and stripes swiped to sate the blood lust in their eyes. Big brother undercover through the telephone wires. Television supervision co-opts real thought by submission to unconscious desires. But the fires of freedom still burn, hands stern upon the rudder, smother lies with the gathered cries of our strangled brothers... and sisters. Women, don't think I missed ya. Walls of laws could never stand under the sacred feminines' insistence. That's why they call it "falling" in love. So do yourself a favor, and savor the buzz. Let it expand till it overflows lungs, kisses on lips and embraces through hugs. Lays upon beds, the sheets stained with come. Come to your senses because we need to rise above the rising tides of blood, and the senseless dimensions of the deaf, blind and dumb.

I am in love.

...With language. Is that an anti-climactic statement? Maybe for those who can't grasp it. Language is beautiful - it is the river flowing through the forests of our minds. Hermes was the messenger of the gods, and represented communication. Through communication we learn and pass on the messages of the gods. Language binds us and forms us. It is the form through which we relate to the world, and communicate the outside world, as well as our inner selves and desires. I wish to study it, to master it. To weave through it effortlessly, mercurial and ever-transforming. Grammar, syntax, vocabulary... all these are the bricks we use to describe the world. But this is only one part of language. Just because you know a language does not mean you can speak it. The poet can craft the bricks of language into master architecture. An artist dips into the ocean of language and forms it into the shape of his vision. The poet creates art, and isn't art just a form of channeling the divine? Channeling, divining, they are all forms of knowing. Of being able to grasp the nameless and to give it shape. Art is often referred to as a process of midwifery and birthing. To bring into being, to create, and manifest - is this not living - the essence of consciousness, and God? What if we learned to make our LIVES art? What kind of art would we create? The answer is really... anything that we wish. "Do as thou wilt is the whole of the law." We are free and joyous creators, as well as the created. All is connected. As above, so below. All is metaphor, and meaning, but first you must understand the language of symbolism and association. "The other" existing outside is merely the unconsciousness existing within. Synchronicity is the conscious realization of this fact, and thus the unification of self-and-other. The self speaks to self, trying to communicate, as dreams seek to be understood. Do not fight the world. Become one with it. Merge with it until all boundaries are meaningless. All oppositions are dissolved. This is the state of being that can be attained through the practice of meditation. Meditation is an art form... It is the art of living, the art of awareness, and creation. Not "life as art" in the sense of identifying with and performing a passive role in a play, or as a spectator watching it - but in being fully aware in creating it. It is pure improvisation and communion with the unknown. There is a subtle difference: when you are creating, you feel alive, you feel real, you feel vital. It is almost a drive, like being hungry or being horny - though unlike a desire, at the same time it is experienced, it is perpetually satisfying itself. It lacks for nothing. It is self-justifying. It is simple bliss with no strings attached. What happens when there is no difference between meditation and normal thought? Between dreams and wakefulness? Between art and reality?

One thousand rivers flow into the sea.


(Originally posted to Myspace: October 25th, 2007)

Poetry is the language of the dying man.

(Originally posted to Myspace: December 10th, 2007)

We use words to fill the void

between our understanding
therefore when all is understood
there are no words

There is a rythym to life, a beat
we all must learn to ride it
to dance
and move our feet
too many of us stand still
and then wonder
why we feel so empty

Philosophers are sad men with too many words
screaming to prove their points
you cannot build a cage around the truth
you can only admire it when it happens
and you have little say in the matter

I wanted to fill a million pages with words
until my heart was empty
it took me only a short time
to find out I had nothing to give
my heart still beats
full of blood and life
there will be time to write when I'm dead

We fill the gaps in conversation
with anything we can find
like a drowning sailor grasping for life
death stands over the whole endeavor
I have tried to pull her into the
sea with me, but she refuses
to evacuate the decadent quarters
of her sinking ship
she is in love with the captain
and refuses to leave him
I give her one last parting kiss
then gently sink into the ocean's bliss

The time between poems
that's where creation begins
the time between breaths
is the moment between
life and death
the moment of truth
spiritus is latin for breath
inspiration
inhalation
I am the spirit
which brings truth
imparted to the land
of the dead

I have never been who I want to be
never enough, I have always
needed more of something to be
worthy of someone's love
they say everything is full of love
but I know that isn't true
the only love that exists
is the love you carry with you

I have worn many hats in my life
most of them black-rimmed
funeral garb
now I wear the poet's hat
but I still know that
death is the only constant
how many poems will
die upon the page
before they see
the light of day

She smiled while she lied to my face
I knew she was lying, she knew she was lying
yet she kept up the facade
I guess that's what hurts the worst
Then again
I've done the same thing
to the person I loved the most
God damn it
I am a
Bastard

She often spoke of freedom
inside the bars of her own cage
she spoke of the day she would
escape and find herself
laughing in fields of green
I was so in love with this idea
that one night I snuck in and opened
the door of her cell
but she just
stood there
staring out the window
she still speaks often
but I have learned to stop listening

In a number of years this mind and body
will be gone
but these words may still remain
pen and ink stained upon a page
crumple them up and throw them away
follow me where I have gone
for these words mean nothing

She came into my life like a refugee
I tried to give her political asylum
but she always had to be one step ahead of her past
I could not follow the whims of her heart
Or perhaps it was my own whims I could not understand
I still see her sometimes
in the small objects she left behind
they exist on the edge of perception
too painful to think about
yet too sacred to throw away

She is dead to me now
an idea of her exists
and somewhere it makes men smile
but it has been too long since she has
graced my lips
my memories of her are
sandcastles that have melted
into the sea
bittersweet childhood relics of lost innocence

I lost all rhyme and reason
once I started letting the
words speak for themselves
like an Escher painting
I had become the hand
drawing itself
it is a simple process of elimination
remove yourself and what is left
will reflect eternity

People talk about the search for meaning
but do not realize, that which is sought
must be lost in the first place
grasp it, it is here before us
as we speak
but we are too busy talking
to see it

How many people actually know me?
I live with myself 24 hours a day
and I am still finding out new things
about myself
How can we ever know another
when we are constantly changing?
Why do we so easily fall in love
with the idea of another person?

Life lies before me, strange and ineffable
infinite in its scope, there is more
to the world than I can possibly imagine
yet my life collects around me like dust
in an old room
waiting for the winds of change
to blow it in a new direction

I was listening to rap music when
the prudish woman at work
told me that I was like a beat poet
I doubt that she's even read Ginsberg or Kerouac
it's okay though, because neither have I
Sometimes it's fun to pretend

Life is the ultimate act of creation
every moment of every day
every thought you make
every word you say
every action you take
creates
we are the artists of our own lives

The poet is a man in search of himself

(Originally posted to Myspace: December 12th, 2007)


Poetry is the affliction of your soul upon another soul
although cloaked in beautiful words
it is essentially a violent act
in this sense, it is a lot like love


I should be doing schoolwork
or reading
or masturbating
but instead, I'm sitting here writing poetry
I'm not sure why
I would much rather be fucking


What is that place where information exists?
Is it books?
The internet?
Scratches on a magnetic disk?
Neurons in your brain?


Observe yourself as you read this poem
who is thinking these thoughts
reading these words
is it you or I
and who am I or you anyway
are we one and the same?
perhaps neither of us exist at all
it's just voices in your head


Poetry is asking a question
and hoping to get an answer back from God


Poetry is the utterance of nonesense
in the hopes that it will somehow make sense


Poetry is bullshit
watch me dredge up my soul
and repackage it for human consumption
offer it up to those
who didn't care enough
to look for it in the first place


Poetry is a way of connecting with other souls
It is the gravitational field of the human universe
impossible to resist


She was beautiful, although she seemed to die a little more each day
With eyes full of sadness and pain
She gripped death tightly like a dagger poised at her heart
Perhaps that's why I wanted to steal it so badly


I quietly sit and wait for the right words
poetry is hard to observe but if you look
sometimes you can find it
other times it remains silent


I would give her everything I have
And some things that I don't
but she refused to take it
I'm not sure why
I think because she is searching for herself


Thoughts are funny
I like to watch them
like I like to watch people
words are thoughts spoken out loud
though like television the good parts are usually edited out
just like they're afraid to show sex scenes
love is a four letter word seldom spoken
except in chosen company
and after much deliberation
love is the eternal fuck you that throws a wrench in hesitation
sending ripples over the surface of our careful cultivation


I carefully plotted a course to her heart,
but found out that it was not on any map


I am Odysseus, sailing the sea of my own soul


Her heart was locked in her ribcage
Her skeleton key was lost
So she kept her love in the closet
I tried to dig it up
but succeeded only in digging my own grave


Poetry is nothing but sleight of hand
to convince you that these words have meaning


Poetry is grasping at the truth in hopes of wrestling it down to earth


She asked if I was an artist, I told her that I was life
And that she was poetry, and that
words are not the only thing my tongue is good for


She is my lust
I must touch her luscious bust
the object of my desire
burning a fire in my heart


We shared a glance from across the room
my smile coaxed a silent reply from her lips
I hoped she could read my thoughts over the blaring lust
her eyes made love to me as I fucked her mind


How is it that words can cross time and space to reach you?
My life matters not, as long as these words exist
They speak for me, they tell you who I am
My story is simple, for you see, I exist between the lines
Search there for my meaning, for I am yet seeking to find myself
Perhaps I will find myself in you.


I sat next to her across oceans of space
I can't say what she was thinking in the silence
but my eyes were on her tits


My metaphors were not enough to hold her soul
she escaped by reading between the lines


5 billion women in the world and I have yet to find the one
who truly understands me
fuck it
I'll find her,
if I have to go through every single one of them


We give birth to the world through words
charting the unnamable upon our hearts
destiny written in movements of stars


Spirits of desire light the fire of my angel's heart
beget destiny upon the man who commands it


I grabbed destiny in my hands and made love to her
she told me that I had sealed my fate
but I was ready to accept the consequences


Her lips were pursed to burst like supernovas
birthing new galaxies with sun kissed bliss
her hips bobbing like cobras twisting around me
in double helix grip divine kundalini
alined with spine tingling hiss


Poetry is the digestion of meaning
and the proceeding regurgitation


Her mind was imprisoned
a slave to passion I could not free her
I could only look at her lonely eyes
and imagine what lay behind them
vistas of bliss perhaps, but their
stark beauty tore my soul to pieces


Fuck television
My mind channels the divine


Truth stood before me and quickly departed
it was always one step ahead
I planned to cut it off at the pass


We sat on the grass, surrounded by the beauty of the world
nature in all it's magnificance, but in all honesty, all I wanted was her
she was the apple of my eye, and I wanted to get to her core


I once tried to find beauty, but she ended up finding me
she took the metaphor from my hand and kissed me midsentence
she told me there was no need for words but I was unable to answer
so she tied my tongue in a bow and presented me with silence


Every time I put a letter on a page I give birth to the nameless
what does it take to turn a thought into reality
is it a word?
can a simple word manifest my desire?


She feels good in my arms
like she was made for the job
I grip her tightly in hopes of never letting go
but let go we must


Angel with hair of gold,
holding keys of my soul
fly to me and set me free


I exist at the end of every sentence
punctuated with meaning


I have the DNA of the first humans in my veins
an unbroken line of succession and before that
I was a monkey, and a fish, swimming in the sea
I have also been molecules, and they are still in me


They say you only use ten percent of your brain
I say they just have low expectations


I see her, my black madonna, sexy mama
drenched in dark skin and sin
marijuana clouded shrouded in doubt
silently stalking the truth
yet walking in shadow of my sun
I wish to eclipse her lips
slip my fingertips into the bliss of her abyss
forked tounge kissed
she guards her garden and resists


My queen, my lover, my destiny
sit next to me and bless me with your ecstasy


My coal black heart has hardened into a diamond
sharp enough to cut through the prison bars of my sorrow


Her blinders strapped tight as she wanders the night
led by men of little sight
I shine bright so that she may see the light


I soar like horus
as the chorus of the spheres
rings heavenly music in my ears


Her mind reminded me of the first time I had sex
A feeling of effortless bliss like I'd done this before
I wrapped myself in the comfort of her words, but she carried
only death in her arms, embracing emptiness
she cast shadows upon her own heart
as I searched for mine in the darkness
drowning in her blood-dimmed tides I rode her waves
and chased her siren's song
She is my ocean, yet she sails upon my soul
The goddess who covers her face
lunar landscapes barren of life, yet enchanting nonetheless
I chart my course upon the stars, hoping they will lead us to each other
lost in her gaze, a cold-blooded serpent's stare
Medusa haired queen of hardened hearts
beating like hands upon the lid of a stone sarcophagus


Truth slips between my fingertips
yet I grip the pen tightly
blood drips from clenched fists
as I wrestle with destiny
is fate testing me
or is this just another recipe for disaster
to sate my appetite for destruction


My heart burns like a forest fire
consuming leaves of paper pages
libraries of flaming words
sending smoke signals to the heavens


Her heart had never burned with passion
I stood with matches and gasoline
an arsonist of the heart
hoping to set her soul on fire


Her mind shined with divine light lit behind her eyes
my snake entered her garden to penetrate
the burning bush between her thighs


The air between us called out to me in despair
I stared at her black hair, long and luxurious
I was curious as to how it might feel
is she real, or just another snare
a mirage camoflauged by beauty's glare


My words cry upon their pages
blots of ink, words stained and unrecognizable
streaming like mascara
down soft cheeks
dripping with meaning


She floats above the ground
an angel or perhaps a ghost
I haven't figured out which
though I have sought for her
she slips between my lips
every time I seek her kiss


These words are dry and stale upon the page
meaning must be infused to give them animation
blood and pain, flesh and bone
energy to give them a life of their own


God writes his poetry on the face of women in orgasm


I am a slave to her stare
raven haired goddess of love
come closer and give yourself to me
your surrender is as inevitable as the setting of the sun


I wonder what she's doing right now
probably eating or sleeping
or fucking
I wonder what she would think
if she knew I was writing poetry
about her


There is no such thing as time
time only exists for those
who are afraid to live
but especially for those
who are afraid to die


Her soft breasts rest against my chest
as I caress away her stress
her head pressed against my flesh,
my breath inhales her tresses scent,
evidence of sweat and reminants of sex
I must confess that I feel blessed


Poetry is proof that language is insufficient


My muse is black and blue
abused and battered
bruised and shattered
heart beaten beyond recognition
by a million would-be artists and musicians
she falls for them so easily
yet bleeds on me
as I whisper poetry
in her ear