ive

i often see

homeless people 
talking


to themselves

to nobody that would care to listen

not just
 talking


-proselytizing-

i
 think
     
how noble of spirit of them

to be speaking directly 
from the 
Source

to the audience of one's



Self



having no expectations of resolving the dilemma and
 
going through the script



anyway

i ask myself should i stop and listen

but on my bike and its fucking minus twenty


and i dont really listen

to the sound of nothing

anymore

even if its coming in the form

of the eternal ramblings

of an old man


maybe next time pal

.

in the last year

ive

had the pleasure to encounter

many fine pairs



of abandoned children's footwear

i hope and plan to plant them

somewhere as seeds

of anarchy



everything that is mine

is yours

they say it could be a top 5 snowstorm

or a rock

put some pictures of the streets

dammit



i remember i played a lot of golden eye

during the ice storm

i guess thats what you do

when you're homeless

and staying with regular programming



shit

this is becoming some thing

more akin to recordings from a broken

conversation


than a poem



well

i dont care, either



>>>>>>>>>



Friend, dearest,

i 

i feel that

i AM

you

 you and 

i the same breath

i the same person-mind



it is a feeling both strange end wonderful

and also blind 

is truth that sees well but does not touch itself, in the heart

that we are one and the same

kind may be or maybe not,
what remains remains to be seen

as keen as i am on seeing eye to eye and whisper mouth to mouth

to ear to ear

and between what is and what is not mine is full of doubt



i feel you because i am going to eat you

(and i need to make sure you are good)

because as i enter wood would you please expand

and who is inside who
 
is inside who absolutely absolutely

irrelevant

who is inside must be the eternally asked

absurdly over-done

(did it?)

question, that is because difference there is none be-

tween the two: Inside and Out

and inside-out

i feel sometimes when skin sinks beneath the sickness 

that the body once was considered (evil to be, how!)

that

if somebody out there is food for someone else 

else survival wouldn't be survival of the fittest

but rather

something closer to dolce vita sweetness luxury good health,

my body still would give itself to become another's

a mother’s perhaps, the violent embrace of lovers

still would fill the space of babies unborn, yet undiscovered would be

what i hold dear, in secret
:
the me, the eye that is my i, 

the power of saying this is my _____, my_____, (this, that)



oh tooth fairy, give me all treats

or a little death if you like

quite fine-feeling as long as well nourished you are

and

i see (that you are)

and feed myself on bodies washed

- home - country - family
-
they are my clothes and

underneath lies the me

that is not me
  
the me that i don't consume
 
 the me that really is you.





====++++=====



i sat.


I went for a bike ride, handstands, a few kicks

GANJA. and the moment opens itself up(right and) center.

i sat and i listened

to the sound of me sitting in a room

Listening. and the words come:

TOUCH. how you say what you want to say

VOICE. who is this
NOW. always

WONDER. i imagine the whole world made of

HANDS symbol of power, and

EYES the symbol of wisdom

We rise, and the Garden lies before us

WE stand still, and the Garden unfolds

its work 
(which is to awaken)

i sat next to the cat.

she let me tickle her between her paws a bit.

i wrote this then i went on the internet.



================



internet love song.

  i am following this, bliss path, the truth of smiles ripening soft bosoms with tickling insect jumping jacks, free-falling mountains of conundrum, candy horses rolling down paper-thin cycles of i'm awake! hunger, tiredness, acceptance, rebirth.  

i wish there was a radiant smiley face emoticon with a little tear of gratitude for you and you wish there was a little face with a tongue to lick it up i bite the air wishing it was your shoulder. you: wispily running away with a cute flirty face pretending you could never want or enjoy that kind of pain

  i am drowsily falling into an acro-yoga lovenest of golden eggs and musical moss and trippy honey pillows. i am tip for your top, pimp for thy squeek, tires for your slashes, mittens for your (i)lashes, ribbon for curtain, a stormy exit from your dysfunctional family supper, a tempest for your rowboat, a sail for your tempo, beaches for your shipwreck dreams, a melody in your heartbeat, cuddles near your fire-pit, i am riveting rambles that draw harping runny roses for your robust rustle, a voodoo milk-shake in your Caribbean vacation, a water-pump for your infinite Wilderness, a painted tea-pot Containing Our Collective Soul.

  my love is a tingling bubbling powder that feeds tiny monsters guilty of hiding mysteries in our forgotten forests, an electro current of flesh and math and flowering antsy-pantsy, my love is the melting point of old books, the meeting of loose morals and bad habits, of mental hospitals and dew-drops, the dance of creation and maintenance and cataclysmic anger, Shiva and Kali negotiating their business in a rusty brooklyn diner. my love is finer than a quark, thicker than human stupidity, as cruel as a kitten, as lost as a partying emperor, graceful as the gait of a blind eagle.

  my love is a failed artist. a brisk walk for a workaholic elder, a mixed-feelings whip in the hands of an unwilling executioner. my love is dim lighting in Beijing, a rave in the Arctic circle, a victim-less Venusian explosion. my love is a broken radio, a satellite in your kitchen, a gummy bear in your parent's couch. my love is a lucky penny in an infant stomach, roadkill on a bicycle path, straight A's in kindergarten, an impeccable fountain of frustration and complaints. my love is a chocolate and coffee stir-fry, a kiss-me-for-a-dollar sign in an abandoned warehouse, an earthquake in a wishing well, a bad joke at a funeral. my love is a 4 hour Hollywood commercial, Tom Cruise grovelling from Irritable Bowel Syndrome, stealing heroin from Kurt Cobain. my love is a nice ass in Winnie the poo. my love is justice served steaming hot, fresh out of the microwave, with a side of Russian mustard and an Umbilical chord. my love is a parade of miniature dinosaurs, a Hawaiian Cowboy Space Police Teddy Bear. my love is Old man, rocking chair, smelly dog, tobacco, Bourbon, and porn in the background. my love is a Japanese Wife Who Is Excellent at Accounting. my love is prehistoric science-fiction. my love is a dull knife buried under the chin of political aspirations, a stab in the face of indecency, a slap on the wrist by a hyena with a tuxedo. my love is a birthday party for a dead viking in Valhalla. my love is a poem that never ends, lips that never dry, a post-card from a sorcerer, a plastic cup on the other side of World War III. my love is Isis, coming out of the closet, whispering "I am that I am", admiring a photo-shopped panorama of the Middle East with a glass of orange juice. my love is a blend of a discontinued flavor of Fruity Loops, McDonald's special sauce, caviar and curry paste. my love is an open mike that should've been over hours ago and the bartender is sleeping.



================



(loss)

earlier in the day
a storm was brewing
grey clouds shooed the sun's light into
alleyways, afternoon naps and heavy suppers

I walked to the picnic table and back
Smoking, unconsciously.
I could hear the crackling of a heart or two
seeking safety from the Winds
of despair and forgetfulness

When the Moon appeared
it whispered:
"Remember This Song? 
We wrote it together.."

by this time, the world had endured
[enough of] a beating

I could smell the settling down
of everything
that Had Been Brought Up,
the fresh sense of renewal
of a Silence awaiting to be tasted

I thanked the celestial goddess
for the friendly reminder
Acknowledged the sweetness of the air
now docile and warm and almost
Welcoming


In the distance a young couple retreated
to rest.
I sat outside
admiring the undisturbed and majestic emptiness
and gentle beauty
of the Night Sky



====++++=====



You Are a Garden

As i me
and
er
through the afternoon haze of nice
shower, cherry-picking tomatoes, admirable beat!
weed and sweet jungle juicy greens
i ask myself 
when did i forget to slow down?
what is with this rush to see and do?
and a
void..
i might as well
rest
and tickle
a tumbleweed pickle sprout before 
he disappears into
his secret meditation

Being in this place fills me with Questions
and Presence and
reminds me 
i already have everything

Sometimes i wonder
how can i be so confident when all i have to show for is That
which cannot be shown or proven or demonstrated
is it enough
and is it crazy to think that when entering back into My garden
that all i want to do
is to meet you
there?
(seeds of mystery sprung about the silent soil of inner life,
the harvest of a soft caressing Winter envelope of Thought)



----------------



In the Cold metal cell of invisible soul, the ocean of pre-birth and after-life, of future unknown
and unknowable, the first recognition. visions of millennia, eggdimensional hyper-worlds
developing within. idea fish water grass muscle tissue bacterium structure, all is submerged in
bubble, all is thick, vacuous, milky, raw. light flickers, barely entering the retina, it struggles and
dies and struggles; the first forms of life, appearing, like extra layers of darkness, darkness enveloping itself like brain, slowly growing, breaking into new space, pushing the outer shell, spilling out fizzz. suddenly, the opening fire of a hundred hunters killing, rivers of blood cutting through rock, history, frozen time. rain starts gushing, fuming, mad rain, penetrates the abdomen of defeated soil, and then, a soft swelling of the earth, endlessly giving, stomach burst, vegetation.

the invention of peace.



*************



Metal

(I)
Cast Away
to Unlikely hood, Perpetuous Self Disdain and the Sarcastic Capital Insult Looming around for
Soul - Blood - Systems
(II)
Thrown Down from a grave high - Source - they call It - to renew Ends with the Meat
(III)
Flounder About and Depart
Equally Invited to the thrashing in between Hope and the Swallowing Face of the Ultimate
Passed
Away



.................



the suckers are tired

  they lie
in their piss and dust
and ask

  for more
nothing.

the suckers know

  they know that they know
and they want

  nothing more
than
being
the ones that know not that they know not.

  the fools
the suckers long for
the dream
the exhaust pipe, a wet Whisky ladder, a slip slide down the ash fault

  and bugs
arms racing with fire
the monsters approaching and your inner self smiling

  you beautiful vulture ,,thinking,,
can you hear my beast
open a crack. THE VOICE OF GOD.

  all the baby wipes in the world wont cleanup this mess
and your inner self still smiling still beautiful still ugly

  yes asshole
the suckers lie
they will speak in dead tongues
and murder your still beautiful maybe

  watch out.
Start with simple things.

  i wish this day.

  i wish i could do THIS when i wake up.

  i wish nothing

  and for a very particular breed of person
to come into existence as soon as possible

  this hunger. nothing. more nothing. want it
and the suckers will smile with you
the bugs will be flickers of light

  carrying you
whole-sale
blind celestial illusion

  the sucker
who wants to know
why
isnt hitting his head agaisnt the wall
hard enough

  my box is bigger than your box.

  and the suckers are hungry
for neck. diamonds.

  be still your innerself
feeling this snake-spine
this

  crawling.
sucker.

  easy sucker. jumping low jackson wheel gun slinger
mind
gone fishing.
 and poof. within the blink of an eye
i
cured all of humanity

  forgive them father.
they like video-games, doom! and vibraphones

  AND ten things to do before you die
okay one or two things
have a conversation in your sleep state
recover from a potentially life threatening situation
read out loud.
look into people's eyes
write. fucking anything.
fart! loud
road trip
make rules!

  the suckers are tired.
they lie in their nice
warm. cozy death.
they breathe death in and death out
and they Give. the best. the most.

  the givers are silent.

  they wait until the last moment and hush you into a meadow with a kiss
and eavesdrop

  to be a true giver one must first bask in one's own loneliness.
 piss and dust.

  and this promise from the universe:
i am going to be kicking around for a while
 and you Never know.

  the suckers smile
because its fucking great.
they're "winning!"

  and its never going to stop.
it feeds itself.  

and the givers wait, silently just until the last moment.
and take you away.












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