Last Sunrise

Weak blues and reds
Of the last sunrise.

We thought we’d
Finish Strong.

Look At Us,

We thought we’d
Finish Strong.

Wreckage of
Nuclear waste.

In this forest of refuge
We walk our way to
The lookout above
The Trees.

We wanted to make sure
We see That
Last Sunrise.

Holding hands, 
Our eyes shielded by sunglasses.

One of us spoke.
One of us had to.

“We made the effort
To Love Each Other.

Each reaching hand
Waged war on Egos.
But what could we do?

The Sun, our ticking clock
Told us our dying day
Was near.

In a race to save others,
We forgot to love ourselves enough
To realize that each moment matters.

That we are all connected.
That Everything is Everything.

So here we stand.
No disguises, no masks.

We are human beings.
Human Beings
Who did our best.

May whatever comes next be swift,
May all of those who made it off this rock
Fare far better than we.

I Love You All.”

A deep silence.

A swift and Sudden Flash.

The Sun Exploded that Day,
Spraying Light Across the Cosmos
And obliterating the system.



Two Drops

Two drops from the body of water

That is all dimensions and possibilities,
All beings and All That Is -

To Form:
A Kitchen in a Cabin,
Dining Room, 
Table, Chairs,

Where Two
Two legged two armed
Representatives of Particular Wavelengths

Have a Conversation.

He was guided there by His Higher Self;
“Turn here, head west and turn left.”
“What? Why? Where are you taking me?”

Here they call upon truth to reveal itself.

These Two Know
That conversations are
An Opportunity for Accelerated Transformation.

“I believe that Bernie has already won.
I’m living in that reality. 
The two of us here together,
Both for Bernie,
That’s Powerful.”

The Horse is a symbol for Power.
He has this in his mind as he stares
at the calendar on the wall,
A picture of a running horse.
Love is your power…

The Two Talk
Of Horses on his ranch where
Negative energy has surfaced
As Drug Dealers.

How Do you Detoxify
A land that has attracted

Do you know, 
Dear Reader?
Reflection of my Soul?

Soil went Soggy,
So the trees are

The Two Walk
by a pool of water
At the trunk of a fallen tree;
Uprooted as it fell down.

Ravens fly by,
beneath the beaming sun.

“It’s kind of sad.” 
“Well, even though they are fallen, 
they help. Their bodies feed the bugs, 
and the Elk can drink from the
pool of water beneath their trunks."

The Elk symbolizes brotherhood and peace.

Each Being’s Body
Benefits the Earth

When the Light inside Leaves.

“When my father passed away,
My family and I became closer.”

A memory of me and my brother
Walking on a mountain made of ice;
A Frozen Fountain.

The winter wind knew
the harshness of our grief.
Yet we, were smiling.




When I attempt to walk
That long stretch of concrete
to reach your letter dear,

Arthritis is Replaced
By my thoughts of you.
So far away you stay on that
sofa sleeper, saying to yourself
that you aren't special.

Grandson, my love,
let's not lose the Light.


I hear the thoughts you send
when you wake up to the sun.

They speak to my heart
and they start my day off right.

You tell me to
Remember and Know
That Today is Tomorrow!
So why do I forget?


Winter wants us to
believe its lie;
"I will not Wane."

Yet here we are,
Singing the sighs of our breathing.
Bountiful is the Breaking of Dawn -
So Fawn, don't burrow away.
This is borrowed time!

May we both be here
when May Repla-
-ces April Rain.

let's let our wings -
swing open to
highways and sky -

May the Horizons
Be our place of

Well, I hope this wasn't too boring.
Love, Grandma.



Sounds Like Transition Pt. 2

Far from earshot,
clashing ideals
consume minds.

Unsure, we stare out, wondering when our time will come.

An angel arrives,
on a pedestal called stage,
Sending something new.

From the house, our waiting arms impatiently reaching. 

Her silver wings spreading,
Illuminating the night
in that dark park.

Bright white, blinding rays of beauty encompass us.
We didn’t know we were special enough to deserve this.

“Step outside,
even though
Your eyes
are blinded.”

Breaking free from the binds,
Stepping off the station,
We’re catching a moving train.
Watching as we fade away-

A goddess.

See through
silk veil,
skin tight
mesh leggings,

Don’t look too long,
she’ll guide your dreams,

Don’t get lost in logs,
the memory of schemes,

Do you see shape and curve?
A metaphor for something.

Doing does us well,
it’s shame that
never serves.

We met her,
Our Anima.

We made her in our minds
a many mangled mirror.
Might we mend?

her eyes become human,
her legs start wearing pants,
Turtleneck and scarf it’s not cold out but the whistling.

Our cat calls got to be too much,
we pushed and shoved to make a move.
Love was the name of our movie.

Now we see her as she is.

the moon, in it’s beauty,
catches light not to
make our nights brighter.

the moon is a mirror,
the moon is a rock,
the moon moves the tides.

Part Three: Click Here



Sounds Like Transition Pt. 1

Deep in the Distance,
A breathing being.

In between extremes,
the masses meet midnight,
clean and fresh that new moonlight.

The severed sheep,
clinging to certainty.

Ink bleeds
on the pages
of our history
text books.

Needing Freedom from the forbearances of our families.
Our Fame is a famine of spirit.
The breaking bread
is fought over.

                                 We can win                                 
over uneaten wheat
only we are unaware


We can weaken
ourselves until we are
                                                   one wrecked union.                                                   

In the future, we may see we were a sad joke.

A Divine Comedy.

Miracles are
babies born
With love in their hearts.

-and the sun shines still, 
as we question why we slay each other-

So where do we go?

When the winter wind
blows a blizzard in,
And we are shaking
to the marrow.

a squeezing forehead
As I strain to listen
to tomorrow.

The clock sings a song of forward marching movement.
My living lungs, producing and directing.
A plane? A train? Something moving in the distance.

Pt. 2: Click Here



On The Night of the Mourning Moon

Light from the sky
Finds figures
in a forest.

little metal black box,
liquid dripping from
its picked lock.

At the edge of the path,
The nighttime reflects
Its clean cut crypt
Of silence.

the pool within
the box
makes waves.

The Taller Figure
Speaks of Star Wars,
Parallel timelines
Found in a video game.

the piled limbs and pitch black ditches
scrawl a message with their shadows:
“we’ll hide your secrets safely.”

“No... No... No...”

The shorter one hears
the voice in his mind,
eyes darting for a hiding place.

“No. Not here. Something isn’t right about over here.”

the creek
caught the box
held in his hand.

metal met water,




Placing inside
seven symbols
of attachments
to their souls.

memory makes
a many mirrored
windowpane when
a while wavered.

highs made lows
before the up down,
pushing boundaries
but breaking the brain.

a woman weaves,
legs wide, striding on
the screen between
illusion and reality.

that deep dark
of the eternal
question, feared
for what reason?

heart beat stings
when the bass drum
kicks too quick,
nothing needs to be fixed. 

altered state of slick,
an angry mess washed
away in an ending

what good is going to
the dark and staying there?

They Found the Right Place, a
Space for this bearer of symbols,
The Container of their Snares.

A Bridge,
Connecting their
Dreams with Reality.

Leaving it lay,
saying a prayer.


"St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. 
Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. 
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, 
and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, 
by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, 
and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.




A Silhouette of Letters

I take a few hours to write a series of letters, emails, and messages thanking every trite trajectory and voyeuristic vector, every impactful path that came into close contact, or completely crossed and collided with my own polyamorous path.
Every passing, parallel, and intercepting percussion has inspired my life.
(And plus, paths are not primarily paved by individual persons… it takes all types. Many sections and divisions in the venn diagram pie.)

All this introspective inspection is going on in my mind.
That we are blessed and burdened with decision and with various vibes.
And that this stupid and terrible thanksgiving tradition can have a good side. It should be less black holiday of any kind; more contrition and less pride.

Sweet, right?
Sure… right.
Sure, write.
And now I’m writing about what I sort-of did.
I quit it quick because it felt exploitive.
Because it’s something for you, in the mirror.
Because it’s all I can do, to be clear.
“You know what they say...” he hears.
So much clichéd poop. Surrounded. Fear.
And why have these thoughts introduced themselves?
hey must merely be deuces, improperly shelved.

My soapbox of cards could fall apart before I even start my art.
That would suck.
The sound of a hard “A” is becoming grating and angry, so tart.
Getting stuck.
If I'm not cautious I could depart, end my part in this muck
Without my noxious scatterbrain smarts, heart, and self entrusted;
If I focus too much on me and how I’m perceived, everything’ll be a fart.
Wish me luck.

t’s not something I’d want displayed on a chart or data.
You lose as soon as you care about your reputation, the hagiographic arc via media.
Much mania.
So expedia.
Entertaining us.
Let me take a quick break to condescend
And explain,
And fuss.
Don’t complain, don’t rush.
It’s not about you, or me, or us.
Art is extemporaneous.
Not homogenous.
Not superfluous.
And not, most guiltily, flat out strenuous.
Because any dunce can craft a verse.
With google, chrome, and a u-verse.
I’m doing it now, this is proof, get immersed.
It's easy, heartbreakingly
To be mediocre or worse.
One last interjection;
A story about the reverse.
About Pi.
And how it’s a section,
Of a line,
Based on the pursuit
Of one mind,
And how it happens all the time;
Discovery is a tool,
Use it right.
In a space next to nothing we found the secret to circles.
No sides, no jerkles.
There is significantly less rhythm circumferencing this number than many other’s. It's not cool, it's odd and overlong, and it's a bummer, but its usefulness is rhetorical. It's a stunner.
The numbers between primes and multiples are still important,
Even if they’re dumber.
How exemplary am I?
What level of pretension would you attribute to me?
You see, I ended both of the previous sentences --
The two inquiries into magniloquence --
With different articles.
But they are both grammatically correct.
Am I exceptional for knowing and noting this fact?
Am I doing it to be helpful, ironic, or detract?
Eloquence and existentialism.
Far out.
Way, way far. Distant and pulled lightly by gravity.
Me, myself, and the other guy who keeps referring to himself in the first person.
He wishes we would stop, lean back, or let everything go. Fester. Allow them.
Go ahead, because I’m a product of my environment, blameless and somehow, I still think I am.
The ego has been blabbing this whole time and he ends with, “Do it. Worsen.” 
I implemented a thesaurus to discover that word,
And it’s a flawless jumble of letters to use.
I don’t identify with semblance and find repetition rude.
Look these ideas up. Reference books.
No ideas are new.
This shall conclude soon; I'm killing the mood.
These words're all I have, dude.

Get ready.
My high is neigh.
Oh, no!
Must I?
No, no. Not I!
It cannot possibly be time to say all kinds of byes.
I haven’t much tried to unwind these binds,
Last, let shine this perhaps idea of mine:
The mind is mined of all its light by money and power and charisma and fright.
The light is up,
Up in the air.
It’s sublime to climb where wind does chime in constant rhyme upon the stairs.
But don’t build there, it must be shared.
It's cheesy, to be fair,
But it's genuine, which if rare.
The sun gives life,
Life is a prayer.
Welcome. Stay!
Get paid and laid, enjoy the space while you rest. Behave. Fill up, and when you’re ready, leave. Don’t be offended by real talk, feel talk; Honest Abe, address the nation.
True lies from a podium on a stage.
A pure example of decent humanity.
America's baby from the manger, exemplified but stranger.
He told the truth humanely, with righteousness and bravery.
I don’t mean to degrade, or caricaturize, and I’m not here to dissuade, but saving slaves was not his game. It merely worked in everyone’s favor,
And we should savor that flavor that the universe has saved for us.
Work. Play.
History is a winding maze.
Who cares who gets praise.
Or gets hella paid.
If humanity gets reappraised at the end of days and receives in majority the universe's unconditional grace,
Then a Cruel Summer is the least to pay.
GOOD music, Bananarama, Ace of Base.

We’re all human, with hearts and spades, clubs and blades.
We stand on decks built with all kinds of mistakes, with paper-thin walls and countless, corroded rot-iron gates.
Leftovers from yesterday.
Stop. Wait.
Realized that there is always choice, there is no fate.
Only cognizance.
Only consciousness.
Create, debate, good grades and trades. It all turns into infinity  -- the surface of this great ball of grey that gave us weight. We churn with our footprints the earth in a figure eight.
Interstellar space.
Inception race.
This is the place where good and evil face,
Charge, war doesn’t change.
Be careful, not scared.
Be light, well prepared.
Too much armor, you'll rust.
Be mortal.
Be minuscule;
A flare of star dust, inherent,




{if you}
                     Love and
            Live                     in Dreams,
           Time                   You Will See
 In                                    Everything
        Understand the Essence