When we were Kings.

uprooted and joyous, white dashes and solid yellows, a highway a home, a kick drum for a pulse, past lives seem like better days, well equipped to misbehave, things became and would later become, no questions or indecision, we left it all to chance and it worked out perfectly.

Each state a new moon, each sun a different shade of yellow, I could feel the earths pulse before dawn, and in those moments of darkness, insanity would strike only to create clarity.

Black sheep, stomping feet, swinging fists, colossus in bloom, and the smell of that old conversion van, absorbing the smell of sweat and the aching to live life less a mess.

A tall tale or big fish, each story seemingly taking its own breaths, how eerily familiar the hum and whistle of feedback becomes.

We got older, grew further, and knew that "Things Fall Apart."

And even when it was over, it lived on, assuming new forms.

It was perfect.

perfect.

per.

Colossus

The water will come rushing,
the hail will come streaming down,
but no hell will take me,
no god will make me drown.

Drenched and in search of salvation.

No sun to burn my skin,
no thirst to my tongue,
my crooked teeth preaching,
of all the good I've done.

Slowly adapting to damnation.

Rebuilding statues,
loss of life and lack of sleep,
all to someday worship,
at the ground below our feet.

Following a blanket of security.

Mother earth to comfort me,
and the stars to tuck me tight,
steadfast but writhing,
solid yellows and dashed whites.

Modern man taking me.

Yet do you hear it now,
the light sigh of relief,
the hope built in each man,
the promise of belief.

I am home here now.

Conflicting Reports of Disaster

Did you feel the wind pick up?
The nor'easter is moving in,
quickly the tides push forward,
charging the beach,
remembering Normandy on the Atlantic,
old souls surging
from that hazy blue,
and the world spitting down,
leaking life,
and all this destruction
brings me rest.

The crash,
the rush,
large boom,
followed by silence,
flash,
boom,
the rush,
the silence.

Repetition is endless.

dip your toes in,
not knowing whats underneath.
Those old friends,
buried breath,
waiting to grab hold,
and so remains,
that undertoe.

I fear those moments of clarity,
because its followed by death,
but I guess the sun don't shine forever.

wish to blush in your thoughts and pray for eternity in your absence.

I saw him grasp a handful of dust
and watch it run through his hands,
his time is endless.

Love

I have accepted death, disease, trepidation, and trials,
as constants of life and thereafter,
swallowed my words and put my best foot forward,
but do not completely grasp their constants.
I have yet to move through the mud encrusted veneer
of time's shackles.
I have not made haste in accomplishing great goals,
in the face of what in my own opinion is the unknown,
the fluid,
the ever after.
Yet, that sickle waits for me, hanging high,
and I make no moves to dodge it.
I make no footholds in mountains, or strive to reach mountaintops,
I just remain as moss on this rock below my feet.
I remain as rain water, to lay stagnant until I'm recycled to the earth.
And all those times I wait, in deafening silence,
making no moves forward or backward,
no choices in Robert Frost's wood.
As the tall pine stands,
rooted and unwilling to leave,
I have accepted all punishments that follow
a man unwilling to reach past the circumstance that has placed him here.
I've become a heart unwilling to fit the pieces back together,
a room with no light,
a night without dawn.

For I have died, because I refuse to live,
as an artistic statement,
as a lack of reason,
as a moment of clarity,
as only half of the whole.

Sparticus

The dim light rotates through the room,
from a pane glass window, standing the test of time,
I sit and wonder on things unknown,
delve into the deep conscious of inconsistency,
all things being, all things alone.

and death walks with all men,
he just walks a little closer to me.

these moments of clarity, are my moments of insanity,
my vibrant imagination, painted think in red ink,
on padded walls, straight bars, and white fabric,
we are all unclean, we are all the divide,
a clear cut act of defiance to rule us all.

I will not go, for I am free,
and from slumber I've awoken,
to retake me.



I hear it coming,
time opts to tick by,
click, tock, go the hands of clock,
spinning in the gyre
loose and uninviting.

Goodbye Emerald City,
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,
Goodbye unfortunate miss,
I'm going home.

I am the hum,
the slow spinning earth,
that low deep drone,
found in each flutter of your eyelids,
in each slow breeze that slides under your jacket,
creating the illusion of a sail,
in each footstep,
in each heartbeat,
in the smallest microbe
to the largest mountain,
that hum exists.
hmmmmmmmmm
hmmmmmmmm
hmmmm
the rhythm, slow and deep,
hmmmmmmmm
hmmmmmmm
hmmmm
longing and lasting,
never fading,
infinite,
constant,
and it's been there from the begining,
and it'll be there until the end.

Stranded

I search for meaning in every breath I take.

My eyes peer, glazed and dripping life,
through the chilled September breeze.
My lips yearning to taste it.

What sacrifice must I make?

A slow motion movie constantly in my head.
I live through the imaginary,
and imagine the reality.

Here I am settling.
I've accepted failure,
I just want to fail doing what I love,
loving who I need.

Stranded....



...with my head in my hands.

Escape During Low Tide, Head for Shipping Lanes, Never Think Twice

We sailed safely into the night,
On a raft of misconceptions,
and dead bodies bloated
from salt water and sun.
Pressed forward past the breakers,
drifted with the current,
followed by sharks,
waiting to feast on our remains.
The sun stuck us with blister,
burnt and unrecognizable,
our skin dry like leather,
slipping from our bones.

Modern Living

I have met love,
witty and opinionated,
challenging and defiant,
she is love.

not my love,
not your love.
just love.

she is joy,
small gulps of blue moon,
small slender hands.
she is love.

not my love,
not your love.
just love.

I grasp her hips,
swinging back and forth,
mid morning breeze.
she is love.

never my love,
never your love,
just love.

eyes, deep and piercing,
unselfish, highly motivated,
the smell before it rains.
she is love.

why not my love,
why not your love?
she is just love.

Hollow Earth

Hung myself with that rope called hope,
dangling three inches from the floor,
and the chair's turned over,
making no attempts for support.
Death follows all men,
He just walks a little closer to me,
Forgiveness now a memory,
created for the weak.

i love the new blacklisted album

I am, I am extroardinary

Wake up early, in deaf silence,
the sound of rushing water comforts me,
stand with my hands against cold tile,
hanging my head, feeding the fire of that belief:
I am insignificant,
I am insignificant,
in the mass amount of time that blue dot turns,
I am insignificant.
and on the comfort of moon-lit porches,
howling songs at the moon,
that guitar screeching like tires,
just slightly out of tune,
and it sings:
I am insignificant,
I am insignificant,
unless I make a choice to make a difference,
I am insignificant.

That cold breeze,
hands in pockets,
shivering spines,
warm wool sweaters,
north face jackets,
waiting for that white powder,
fresh, for angels to appear.

Ten Pounds

watching seeds grow in salted sand,
hands reaching up, pulling at our shoe strings,
tying knots to keep us close,
gravity is a lust of one's inner being,
those that stay are
those that are condemned and those
that evoke the worldliness of faith.
Faith, what a clumsy word.
heard it too many times
running out that old steel storm door,
hands clasp, knees throbbing,
Sunday morning crucible, and I speak on
what I do not know.
So what if I don't want to be?
What if he didn't want to be when he was all alone?
I saw him in my dream
and felt the world hum.


Oh these roots. these roots keep me close to home,
humble and away from the road.

Just as we are, and am, variables and space. Who are we kidding? It's been you and always you.

What if I don't want to be? What if he didn't want to be when he was all alone? I saw him in my dream....I felt the world hum.

Rapture

Do you fear?
Do you fear as I do?
That quicksand in my stomach,
at the very thought:
disease stricken bodies,
torn flesh in the cracks of our teeth.
And I fear,
that warm hum of silence,
as the world stops turning,
dilapidated buildings, crumbling statues,
withering, decaying, failing.
And I fear,
that last slow hollow emptying of air,
from lungs that once raised the chests,
of young men and women,
the blue faces, purple lips, and shut eyes,
six foot holes, steel bins, toe tags.
And I fear,
to come to two paths,
and choose poorly,
to look back and find that I have changed,
or to see that I have not changed at all.
So I ask, Do you fear?
Do your fear as I do,
of broken hearts and limbs,
of long dirt naps,
or following wrong paths,
so much so that you forget,
to ever live at all.

"The best pace is a suicide pace, and today looks like a good day to die." -Steve Prefontaine

Write something that is true to yourself. Sing something loud, so everyone can hear. I will be better, I can be better, or I'll die trying.

In the midst of midnight mornings blush,
powdered cheeks of rainbow dust,
starlight's distance gaining lust,
to the coast, boom or bust.