Each Point Remains My Center

In my dreams, I see oceans
bone dry, skeletons of large mammals salting the earth,
I walk it's desolate deserts, I follow it's bottoms,
large mountains rise above me, I move through its caves
I find heat rising from their warm centers,
I close my eyes and see the future, nothing bright,
nothing safe, all desolate, unforgiving earth.
I close my eyes and see windmills,
they turn slowly as the a breeze finally brushes past me,
the earth has stopped kissing our backs and faces,
fluttering warm summer and cold winter air gusts through us,
I feel it in my bones, and taste it on my tongue,
nothing more to understand, no more to love.
Deep breaths and I find forever,
in the moments before sleep.

and the perfect day begins with the a deep seeded feeling of disappointment.

I want to do something with my life

before it's over

I met a Man at the center

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
-Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)



From empty bellies of times misgiving,
stand, with trunks digging deep into earth,
washing the sickle's feet in ash.

Let drums hum, deep and dividing,
marking god's footprints, tearing, ripping,
grasp at it and feel it slip.

And cobbled stone left stained, enchanted,
lips holding, poised, jaws shaking,
feeling despair settle into your syntax.

He speaks, "Just as tumult subsides,
bright light doth bring anew, fear not
the pain is endless, but the end is near."

From promises now forsworn,
from Gaea's bosom, Colossus is born.

If a generation of dancers lives peacefully, count me in.

There is a rhythm to my madness,
the girating compression of joints,
swinging rapidly horizontally,
and I don't care who sees.

My hands grasping sky,
in daylight, in moonlight,
feel it taking hold,
and I don't care who sees.

Moving gently with the breeze,
and wildly with the ocean,
if the beat is what fills you,
don't care who sees.

Mine is a dance of agression,
happiness, sadness, loving, glee,
and I move to the rhythm of my own madness,
come and dance with me.

Give me paradise

Those same violins keep ringing in my head. How old songs go unforgotten. How fond memories never fade. How each hour feels like a fleeting moment. I miss it. I miss those days. Not so long ago, I felt alive. I lived for the sake of movement, the passion in slamming my hands against floors. the blood, sweat, bad back, headaches. Those basements, small rooms, highway convenience stores. Yellow line Paradise keeps calling me home.

Days pass by and everything stays constant, the wind blows, the sun rises and sets, the trees stretch their branches to the sky, the birds sing, the bees hum, the world turns, and turns, and turns. And I am to believe that I'm meaningful, I'm a mere speck on the continuum. I am a mere dot, living on a pale blue dot, living in an ever expanding universe, that is a dot in another universe and so on, and so forth. Merely everything and nothing, I am, I am, spinning and spinning, living and dieing.


There's a screen window here, a small hole in its right corner. it's been there since I was young. It never looked so old. Slightly rusted and worn. Not as taunt in its frame but who isn't with age. A little loose in our frames that is. that same black oak branch is reaching toward my window. The one that spit shadows against my wall when I was four. I was so scared of those shadows. Now they watch over me. They know who I am. What I am. How I am. There is a closet here, slightly cracked. As if someone is peering thorough at me and there are. The faces of thousands of old baseball players staring at me. Those musty old cards stacked miles high on the top shelves. I must have a million. How I love them. How I love them so. It smells of dust and gauze. Oh how I've become accustomed to those smells. They linger in my nose even as I leaver. They run deep into the fabric of my clothes. I don't mind them, those smells. I have grown quite fond of them as well as the fresh gauze that wrap my empty cold heart. Where every room is a prison, I stay hidden.

Those same 'ol ashes

Somewhere along the line you lost your way. Spent years shouting for change. Waited for the world to adapt while you stayed the same. You've spent too many years staring at your feet to not know where you stand. And that suites you.