Whispers to Sea: II

Seeking to gain power? Conscious people laboring. Matthew prattles of Diana. Egyptian thief train station headed further and it is true but I have been, say, except for a few young men, on trains crammed desperately. Slanted eye upon realizing Atlas, except carrying his own – her body. To forget all these sons of whores alongside our train and its far off a man walks by and steals a forward or sways side to side. Camus, Caldwell, Steinbeck. Across the desert in California, 319 UP903134, to be conquered and window and she admires him dark as they do during where no man’s foot has dared to. How large our pride compared. We came in cars on smooth though she has waved her silver in his face, his forearms, his feet of men did once roam Sacramento. The last people to exit Davis stay on to greet the rising sun to the sea – docked. Take a seat next to a different species of butterfly, redwood trees still in subtle ways. Agathangelos thinking in time, somewhere familiar, a place, hills, dew from grass. I soon learned – resolved. A black odor the ceiling. Who was sitting outside on the drive through puddles? Glock with yellow leaves underneath on the 101 things this morning – the moon. Were before me from the view from white mist from the crashing, the first drop of rain followed. I have entered through the door, hundreds of calling frogs one hour past midnight thread. I can see with where we stay. Raining for a few days. Midnight theory. And then what? I worry for his loneliness – paths of life. The woodstove glows orange, lined at the side with peeling cloak the bronze hill. Many treasures found, to write in a room, it looks as animals and plant life, firm muscles and confident stride, leaves on the soil, of a way you are to bring comfort, pauses for a moment, and this little world here – His crop dutifully examining farm, question, learning of any kind. Limits of life are tested. Every winter of my earlier years staring far way into the Pacific – the healing component – and I, in Klamath, like a simple child, disgusting, I believe one word at the side of the road in B. after two weeks nothing seemed. “It’s what I do, I don’t time it!” Return south soon? Along the, and according to Ingrid, the light. No wonder everyone sits. A peddler passes calmly without the wind, is mightier than the way into my sight and brought birthday as a day normal infrastructure is not old, when all of against your hand if I am tossed inside a smoking marijuana sockets examining the man with no home. Every morning we human brain red tomatoes fly igniting Halloween – Table to steal a brownie before inhabit the dens that find no sleep. This drawing of a girl, of Clinton, while her husband docks tunes between heaves and surrounded by these people. You see an old woman walking with LSD vision. I ran to the top color, patriotism see? I’m the one who made it hot 2016, and ecstatic morning can change the feeling of the King Lear, The Rubaiyat, On the Road. I slowly walk to the candles written for how am I to say for sure open enrollment begins? The middle of downtown B., Oregon so, “I invoke thee, thou diamond-fiery.” It is true, even the meanest garb feel inclined to be the first person they heart is willing to greet them, looking up to look into the Matali. We journey in the path of Parivaha; zoom in and see where 108th is, humming the hymns of Mutability. Entanglement about his shoulders. If you were to ask me why I dwell among, to steal the luster from her sparking eye. Election tough for parents, teachers emails show strategy of Clinton pipeline shift. Pakistan moves to block protests. Are you to me an individual obsessed? Claws at the backdoor to the organic cider and ginger, displaced and sad there. I sprinkle words in handfuls, and hear with me, city — of course one day I will. Haunts me also in daylight, there is a walnut tree breathing.

Ecstasy or Pain

Will you be sincere 

Whispering into the juice box (jukebox) scared

The music, after all the lights are turned out for the day, still plays for ghostly spirits past midnight once a perverted chill takes hold of the concrete.

In the Pacific North-West a lone trail rolls through forest bending into Klamath hill. 

An orange light betokens a cabin abandoned between the trees. And quiet you can hear Alan Vega from an uknown source, some speaker cracking in the dark. 

Only one hears the voices inside ones’ head

I may rise from the dust 

Sipping on juice box innocent, just a boy

Or someone else.

Am I queer to dance? Or expressing all boundaries of human soul? Is it still of me to question if I am man, or woman?

What do I do?

Whose name is moaned from my lips in ecstasy or pain?

Reflections on Moving Glass

What makes man understand unconditional love, while realizing that one can embody a demeanor, or outlook, that is inferior, evil, unconscious?

What makes time pass by slowly under the employment of a generation before me that has lost all regard for the value in youth? And pass quickly under the sky alone or with a loved one? Infusing your time with love, or building sand castles out of sand.

Sadly, I don’t know myself. More often than not I am carried away by an unproductive klesha, or simply dumb-brained thinking of static. My empathy know bounds. It seems that the more successful an individual becomes the more hatred they  view what is misunderstood, and more walls are built between their comfort and reality.

I find myself hating the youth – I don’t see myself in them. I don’t see myself in fathers yelling at 5 year old daughter who is pushing a wheelbarrow to the curb. 

I almost cut my hair in a Cadillac arguing with crazy men. Why does anyone expect another life to spend eight hours cooped up inside? What makes people comfortable with wasting life? Our only gift.

I see grown men struggle with actions I accomplished by 15. I see them work slow, stupid, and self assured. Pretending this is the life they planned to live.

At times I grow tired of the man I am becoming, and want to leave this world drowned or hung, realizing how alone one is. Sleep stains the grass. The bodies are not breathing.

I don love my fellow American. Without much thought I wouldn’t treat the majority better than a dog. Suburbs are insane asylums for the upper middle class illusion keeping capitalism alive. White America is a spiritual ghetto. White America set on fire.

I have picked stones from the crust of Earth and watched the mud crumble and stain my hands. In the spring I’ve heard swallows collide in mid-air during mating and the acrobatics of love.

— I have hated my countrymen for who they are.

I have not known my origin. 

Whisper

You will see angry men, sensitive and insecure. Take off your angry sunglasses! Or an old lady reaching for French bread pizzas in the frozen section. 

“Where is my past of mounding dough down some stone canal in France?” A woman – Lone. “Where are my memories? Don’t you get them anymore?”

With dirty eyes peeking from a barred pharmacy window facing the street.

An escape from noise – To watch you 

Take off your wig on the cobblestone…

“Sure let’s crack it open, eh?”

Separating yourself from the identity that your family has only recently learned to love – and around the corner your running…

And old men shoot the enemy as they stumble away, down some railroad tracks in Prague, Manhatten, or Nice

Died mumbling.

I’ve seen leaders send their armies through the golden gates unlocked by Peter. Out these doors you left a man and returned beyond recognition, clawing through clouds and metal in order to reach the ones you love.

That loved you… Those who are no longer with you on Earth

Have forgotten the sound of your voice, and in the mirror stands a different man, numb – and sad like always in the dark giggling, clutching your knees and idiot.

What comes 

I’ve just heard some rumor                                             

Don’t worry, Don’t refuse to work   

Take ten minutes, 

Taste the free 

Coffee and Turkish meat of political rebels.  

I’ll have a plastic bag, I’m walking    

To tundra – Off shelves of Luna to snickers by Tosi toast  

 Into the Pacific – My eyes are always crying.

Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore?  

To listen to the lark ascending, the darkness of the sun.    

Babies cry next to empty shopping carts, inviolate  –    

In the middle of the road,    

The noon of night,   

The joy of love.                                                         

Braid your hair my daughter,   

                              Unknown girl, unborn divinity.     

Your mark’d defiance under trains   

Covered in Flipino mud 

 Where you may dig for diamonds,

 The eyes of an ancient woman

 Papa, will choose a bouquet of flowers – 

For the old Dodgers fan pulling himself across the square,   

 Dancing with Love  

White Heat.
We’re busy all day tomorrow,     

                                 Watch my cup of water tremble.            

Workshop Poetry

Don’t forget the market on Sunday, Don’t forget your Mama.

Dotted lights spell coffee behind my eyes, 

Blonde hair is braided, cutoff, and thrown away – Drowned in an awkward soda.

Cover your mouth. Her eyes dart around the room suspicious of you, followed by a man in yellow…

“You’re writing novels over there?”

Of course only the story of the dream in front me – Reaching for money.

Reaching for candy —

Should I stay with my Uncle? 

A man stares down into his green grocery bag,                              “Where is my money?”

Voodoo

A familiar deja vu flashing daily images

One million men across the country, eyes rolling, thinking of you – With disease,

A shining light reaches a dark mirror, hidden past crooked branches in the forest – Whose fingers peeled the scalp of a flying witch, and held her hair loosely by the nail.

A hound there, led by his master, watches the navy sky tirelessly

While gracious hunter peers past overgrown eyebrows.

18

People, when embarrassed, crumble like ants hit by a ray from the sun.

“I like your bracelets!” “Thanks.”

Through the jungle to find what is left of his family after boarding a train in the Land of Peaches.

Where is Peach now? And Tahoe?

And the Moon’s Shadow?

Who’s is this old man insane? Staring back at me through this evil mirror – my son,

Look at the two of us, my resurrection.

Mother Earth is the Lazarus pit.

But what was my mind state as a young man?

In Pencil

You are making my butterflies go…

My mother are you warm? The general, he don’t ride so well- anymore.

As long as grass shall grow;

Apache tears, Custer

The talking Leaves

The Ballad of Ira Hayes

Drums, White girl

The Vanishing Race

Bitter tears were sweet when they ran.

Wagon train rolling along Whiskey