beaches in my eyes, the shoreline running close to my fatigue

Percieved as my tired gaze paces back, forth,

in between this screen and the screen of my droning summer's night's window...

that source of tired moans,

pregnant swells of smells that only summer brings,

that only lonely ears can bring...

To a rushing roar, an overwhelming surf...

Crashing down, pregnant with possibility,

missed opportunity,

And frustration.

For awhile there it didn't seem it would matter...

How the creep back...

After lovely silent winters...

the air and scent only snapping with death...

And those insecurities died in my mind then...

Now this swell of summer and heat and

anticipation for what is completely unknown,

but completely promised,

and anticipated,

and overdue...

The swell of my chest and my confidence

And all at once all those doctors and mother's reassurances...

And girls and women who wondered and stated...

Whatever.

Whatever it may be that I feel now,

it is not much of anything.

It is not much of myself or who I am,

Only temporary passing,

seasonal frustration...

As all others around me mature in harmony with their appearance...

Their frames demanding their own confidence, demanding their own maturity,

masculinity, and persona...

It's alright. I wouldn't write if I wasn't Short.

A frenzy of pounding blood in cells in brain

Or is it a primitive rhythm?

That pulses and tells me it is hard to distinguish

Shrieks! Shrieks!

How quickly that's meaning is separated from it's sound...

Shrieks! and my heart is there...

That dull place after self-stimulation,

And between that place of self-proclamation...

Of Existence...

To this world by the creating of a zygote of my own...

One sided, like this feeling...

A glass that when a wet finger placed on it's rim

reverberations.

Shrieks! Shrieks!

Losing all sound and center...

A bollywood horror film moan of a damsel...

I can't stand Only.

I can't stand just One side,

But no one can could should...

Or else they don't care about their DNA!

Spit on DNA!

Spit DNA!

I Spit DNA!

Spit is DNA!

I am DNA!

I am Spit!

Jews, Forgotten, and 3 couplets on my pending tour around Lake Michigan

I creak out psalms from my Bible,

Of my wandering People...

I am a Jew.

The Mana of God the Well of Miriam the Guidance of Moses

Our Prophets

Our Customs

Our Communities

We Live Longer than Politics.

Tradition is without borders.

.

The ridges of a stamp

the calcium-sheen of the mouth gates.

The double takes

and neck breaks.

Limp Snakes.

Headaches.

I'm sorry to this Girl who I went to School with

She is familiar

But so lukewarm...

Never before have I...

ransacked my mind and failed to find...

her name.

and not only

But clarity of her character

or any incident of...

notice...just a lukewarm splotched-white face--

Short cropped blonde hair...

I'm sorry, but I never noticed you, and can't remember you or who you are.

Your memory is still lukewarm, however.

Not all molecules of air must collide in a thunderclap after a lightningstrike.

.

Eagles are to be seen and lakes and a Moving Earth

Trembling at the finger tips' adventures.

.

I will be unkept and smelly yet clean

My palms well worn and my mind well occupied.

.

Plans made, roads paved

Only Possibility awaits.

.

I Wait for You--A Triptych of Reflection and Observing Ego--

I try and write

With this conception of me writing the words I write

All in my head

In no such way does this work...

Though tendrils leach through...

Ferrous oxide and Peacock Rock

Oxidizing ideas and my plays on words...

Rusing the emotions I still hold for...

You. Only under the light of my attempts at art

Only then can I hear you, rather your voice,

Under a scamper of contending thoughts...

.

Little slippery ones...colored like on some

Saturday Morning Kid's Show.

All magenta's and mustard yellows' and blues...

Scampering around you like rats...

Mean urban ones with Battle Scars...

Scampering around you under that street light

...that backlight egg-yolk...

That gives you the queen's corona

That light which reaffirms my affair with you...

Or rather the idea of you...

I'm swooning.

Drunk in words and weed and you...

Sincerity I sincerely oblige...

I'm just a scribe...

.

My TRIBE is NOT of YOURS...

Your Celts, and your Romans,

And MINE, the Accountants to yours...

Your Policeman, and your Mobsters,

And MINE, the Lawyers to yours...

Hunched over,

Bent and Brooding

About what? I'll see

What to bring

But there's nothing more that I can't find

I'm sorry to myself for saying sorry to myself in a reflection

The Chicago Skyline projected sideways over a magenta night sky

Light-Polluted

Not Light-Pollution.

But I'm the oxymoron.

I'm the hobbit with the confidence.

I'm the one who runs around in his mind painting circles.

Purple circles with this Big Viscous Paint.

It bubbles and the bubbles dry in it's self.

It's about a quarter inch thick when it's dry.

From an ant's view...

Well they see this Purple Python snaking across the dusty linoleum floors of a boy's brain.

A gymnasium...where heavy-set children in thick cotton white-tee shirts and blue cotten shorts

Dribble my basketball Ideas.

I shoot, the hoop not much larger than the ball...

My inner right arm and the left side of my neck hot with sweat...

No idea is ever a 'slam dunk'.

I miss her and my conception of her...

Which matured as we grew distant...

All of them, all of those innocent embers of desire...

Smoldering in some primitive depths in my skull...

A cave even...A cave with Cro-Magnon's roasting flanks of Mastodon Meat

Over them...

Because my childish Wants I'm much too grown out of now...

Much more mature.

Everything there is to know, I've either learned it or wouldn't have a problem understanding it.

Yes indeed.

Yet I'm just knowing and being a few molecules on the outermost edge

Of The Vast Expanse of The Universe of Knowlege and Being...

That is our perception and introspection.

Not our self projection.

Never are we entirely who we want to be.

Never is that seen by others, despite our efforts...

Especially when we think it's working...

That they see past the short-wisp-jew...

An androgynous Anne Frank

Who writes in diaries.

But I'm alright.

I've got my pen I've got my paper I've got my few molecules

Of knowing and Being

On the outermost edge

Of the vastness that is The Universe of Knowledge and Being...

Hopefully I see past this step on my staircase of my life

Where I type on my computer---A once-white keyboard

Dirtied by hairy palms...

Typing away droning Nothings.

Onto a screen.

A pathetic attempt at being bold and deep.

But I write these disparities to put myself at ease.

For the doubt that rests on my shoulder reaffirming me.

That I'm set for stardom and proliferation and a fulfilling life.

Ayn Rand sneaks up on me, and I understand her point of view.

But nothing I've written still has not made myself my favorite author.

And I thought 'Fountainhead' wasn't my favorite either...

Writing this on an unremarkable night in the summer between High School and College.

It should be a time of fulfillment and planning and sex.

Sex. Where is this in my existence?

I don't have the molecules of knowing and being in terms of sex...

I know none of it

I haven't been...

With another

In that Act that I put up with myself I see kernels of though popping

Kernels of exploding doubt that reassures me...

That I am attractive enough to spring a mate.

I am just a penguin drifting off on a broken iceberg fragment

Away from my family,

Alone,

Smoothing my suit-skin coat

With the crook of my wing in a mirror.

My desmise is woeful,

But I still look so Damn Good.

Here I am,

There,

Propped on that Chair,

Staring at that girl

with that Hair

Behind the electric swirl

Of that screen,

holding her from my true sight

That flair

That goes off as two electrodes corrode and accidently explode

When the notion in the brain synapse is impossible to ignore.

She's there, she just doesn't see it.

Behind that screen,

Her eyes beam.

Through that electronic scream

of blue background and pale blue glow.

Don't worry,

I know.

I won't make things weird.

Even though I'm a standoffish hobbit.

Even though I chew my nails and spin my pens

And sometimes mostofthetimes I'm on a frequency

Far too high or far too low

And most of the times, peoples true reactions I don't know.

My brain won't explode

At the first sight of them,

I ignore them.

Because they aren't you.

Veiled but beneath true

Expressive complex and taking breath

I think of you,

Delicately, like something will crumble when touched,

Not that your weak, not that in the least.

Delicate like that me being near to you is such a weak bond,

For sometimes I don't see what people think.

A bond weaker than I feel I feel is felt toward me by you...

So therefore the though of you made by me is a delicately

posed idea, a precarious arranged object,

and I'm just watching this russian tea cups teetering over the dressers edge...

Waiting for it to shatter,

It's so inevitable that I don't hold my breath,

Because it's already been taken away

By the idea of me, you

Together, I'm fragile, and the agility of your dynamism in face of my

Dymaxion struggle.

I rattle of Buckminster Fuller quotes

and storyboards for post-apocolyptic graphic novels...

And you listen and put up with this...

You're cryptic,

Delicate,

Intricate,

And still you're there

That Girl

With That Hair

That makes my mind explode

And my breath to be stolen

And my pen to scratch page

To punch keyboard.

I will still be quietly hoping.

Anxiety

Stomach's lurch

Caused by nothing.

Nothing caused by doing the former.

Stomach lurching,

I need a drink of water.

I need to shit in water.

I need to bathe in water.

I'm doing nothing and wasting away,

listening to the tunes of my stomach eat myself.

Twanging to a Rush and a Wind at Night.

Twanging strings

Playing to the Wind Rush and Summer Rain

Seen through mesh and glass frames, pushed upwards

So just through mesh

The upper part of the window now double thick with panes,

But through the mesh,

Seen through the mesh, is night.

Night that unblinkingly stares back

At the naked boy bathed in fluorescent overhead light,

Back hunched over a guitar, twanging strings,

Night offers only Wind Rush and Summer Rain,

A droning response to a droning performance.

But the boy doesn't blink either,

He is flattered by the patter of the rain in summer and rush of the wind.

Buckminster Fuller and the Cave

A Door's outline of light intensifies 

As the darkness it faces

Increases, with each new experience

That is innocent.

Pure and important.

It will mean more,

If we have seen less.

The Door hides this light,

which isn't as intense, isn't as profound

When the Door opens, when the room 

becomes semi-lit

But without polarity, The Door

would be lost to the darkness,

lost without a frame,

An existence of darkness,

Social Darwinism and Conservatism 

And Thomas Malthus

Equate to extremes, woes, chance

And Good and Bad.

An in and out, a right and wrong.

Can we live in a room which is Dark?

Can we live in a room where we don't know where the Door is?

Can our existence be determined

Determined by something other than Fear?

Spit, Say Goodbye to your DNA, fate

Only wind will surface

When you search it for the deeper

Meaning of being the seeker being

sought by no meaning much deeper

Than the survival of your helixes 

Than why must you search for such complexities. 

Looking Back On High School

One Real Day.

Several Meaningless

And I walk out Done.

Clear the Way.

Nearing Seemingless

Oblivion.

Have I reached equilibrium?

Now that I walk out Done.

One Real Day.

It's all pressing against me, a formless brush, mountainslop

I've ascended. Branches slap my face and

I push them away and

My feet pound the unbroken earth

Clearing the Way.

One more Day.

Almost Done.

When I can't step out of those doors, that brush.

When I can look back on the building

Not with a next day or week or people or assignment in mind,

But with memory, with Shape and Center.

Reason Will maybe Come.

But Reason Comes Slowly.

To Open One Eye, You Must First Close Another.

One open to see the building that stares back.

One closed to greet the memory that stretches further back

With each step in time and space,

I distance myself away 

From the Actual Occurrences

Of that Place. 

Approaching the Arrival of Summer and Other Things

Waiting for so much thats punctuated

By breaths exhaling want

By a future thats an amorphous 

Mass not defined By

Physics.

The future is a non-newtonian solid.

Do I know what that really means?

Where I see summer in robins and grass and flying discs

I see an uncertainty, a certain winter.

Cold and fog and biting wind.

And in the Midst

Are my bare blackened feet 

Tasting the freshly thawed warm ground

Running for a catch

Where I see robins I see uncertainty.

In between myself and what's next

Are my open palms, the markers of my genetic code

Those little trenches that spiral through their surface

Are filled with freshly thawed warm ground,

Straining for a catch.

Waiting for the wind, waiting for an answer.

Prayer

Every night since I’ve gone to sleep to

The Din of everything from Jazz to Talk

Whispering in my Dreams

Ears quivering for further instructions,

Words listening to their rustle on the page,

A brush, dense, yet perfectly flat.

The bloodhound nose of pencil-tip

Sniffing out the right one,

Snaring game rabbit words,

Yet my leg is caught in a snare,

And it’s not hunting season just yet…

 

Not my time to enter, or leave.

A family of lions hunts perfectly.

Nature is order.

Evolution is perfection.

 

The Blue Ball of Coincidence

Harbors life defiantly in the

Winking Face of the Universe

To the Universe, it is

Just Chance, fluke, and fortune.

 

To the Lions, it is dinner.

 

To my slumber its just slippery

Thoughts sliding past my grasp.

Giving me insight for a moment.

I pray my words speak to the

Blank face of the page,

 

Just Chance to be Chosen

To be scrawled upon.

The words hope the page Listens.

 

The Blue Ball of Coincidence

Hopes the Universe Listens.

 

I Listen to Jazz to Talk

As I sleep and try to sleep,

Hoping I remember.

 

 

For the Lions, Nature is

Perfect, offers each born a chance,

Each prey a death, each predator a meal.

 

For me, Government is

Perfect, offers each born a

chance.

Each prey a death, each Predator a

meal.

 

But it isn’t so.

The Lion’s habitat and

My government

Is out of balance.

 

From corruption and

Conservative deconservation.

 

The Winking face of the Universe

Laughs

At the Blue Ball of Coincidence,

At the Lions, at their nature,

At me, at my Thoughts,

 

At every night I hear the din of

Jazz to Talk

I look at the clay red sky,

At the coincidence, at the

Universe, hoping it will

Listen

To my Thoughts.

The Somnabulist

I wake up from slumber to approach another Sleep

In class I lay my head down on the hard desk like Bedsheets

My thoughts half heard, half spoken in questions 

Not answered as I'm awoken by the teachers questions asked

I know nothing yet to lay my head down, to forget what surrounds and no more

Will I be willing to participate

Since I'm only hushed when I'm awake

I'll just somnambulate

Walking through hallways of beige and brown and loud sounds

That barely rouse me

My head swimming livid with the quiet around me

and when my teachers want to hear my questions

and when my teachers can answer my questions

I'll awake gladly, I'll lift up my head

But until then, I only give them a head borroughed in the crook of my elbows 

A bit of drool coming from lips, no longer words

That they've bound me to, I will no longer participate only somnambulate

Until my desk bedsheets are ripped from my head

With their cold embrace I will take to the whiteboard my full eyes attention

But until then I stare at my elbows crook, refusing to face the real crooks

of my intention.

Unwind

Time is spent in life well seen in eyes and streams of counscious things

I have been over to the wondrous stew of never seen things I have on a string

Can't one see? Coan't one see possibility? The ability of all that is yet to bring?

Winding down the low down truth that is yet to speak and yet uncouth...

There is yet no where to bring no where to sing my life I bring yet on some string

A piece of twine and can't malign the spine of mine I can't aline 

With What? WIth truth I can't design...I can't design...

Is it intelligent? Get bent, you mean evolution...

Is it God? Jesus! What about JC?

I piece of twine thats strung my life that I can't mind...

But just dance, thats all I do, seen in romance novels from france...

And where I go is somewhere between two unlike things

A bag of chips several days old and paid programming several hours new...

And there I am somewhere between two unlike things seen

Like my life dangling on a piece of string...Strung by twine like mind

Like my spine I can't aline, like my hair that doesn't malign

Like this feeling of weak morning light like this unfinished business yet...

I can't find. This feeling of museum dwelling of Bee Spelling of future telling...

So I reside in what I presume in self-made plumes in man-made monsoons...

Smoking away, my mind an ashtray, my own environment a green-house gas.

There I find my existence given to plastic bag resistance

Weighed down by Idaho Russet Potatoes and wonder bread what else god knows

And seen before some things I can't sing but heard like lore that once some string...

Broke...

And life was not what I spoke.

And time was not I could cope.

And There was nowhere I could...

Finish, compete, no closure given to the tendencies and lilt of semi-conscious, early morning, late night rhyme. Time to start. Unwind.

Happiness.

It takes.

When we look back upon gone neighborhood layouts.

ex malo bonum.

When bricks laid upon bricks

and families were only layers of mesh apart

appreciating the destruction is one thing, but believe

ex malo bonum.

That out of bad, comes good, out of life, springs forth

Unyielding for time, for opportunity

Bound only by physics and want.

By reason and resistance.

Embracing this motion is harder than one understands

Than one can grasp

Than one can ask and

I can't see

Can't see

Past my Fingertips

Yet I still

Strain my eyes

Quivering with might

Asking. Why and I am answered:

ex malo bonum.

And I realize that out of bad comes good.

Life breaths what Man breeds, and pays for what Man exceeds,

Bounds. 

Is a life of struggle in debt, in cubicles, in technology

More laborious

Than a self-sustained farm off-the-grid-and-possibility?

Ask, and evaluate.

Maybe then, and there

When and what more than we will see then is determined by how many Pronouns are placed, and the computer screen vibrates as the Pencil is sharpened next to it, wary of its once glorious past, its hidden ancestry, rooted in cruel possibility.

I lost my notebook, my thoughts today.

I can't loose this, even though it has been years and forgotten.

Slipped away and permanent, tucked beneath keystrokes. 

Where is this going what will be gained?

Yet I still write and still think but is it analog?

Yet I still write and still think but is it dialogue?

Yet I still write and still think but is it catalogued in extremes, I censor myself. Is it life giving reams of paper of poems that I crave more than I seek, but is it right to wright not bound by blue seams and red margins?

I seek what I cannot understand.

Poems no longer bound to the geometry of of eight and one-half by eleven.

A meter in its own right

I time sought.

Sticking to teeth like sorghum molasses,

Running red like the water of my stream of consciousness

Yet my creative juices are not too by farmed for, picked like the fruits as though they're

Grapes of Wrath.

Even when my mind's a dustbowl.

Even when my hairline is in a recession.

I find time, my self, and rebellious mind.

Thinking outside my own body, my own boundaries, and I can't find what's next, what connects.

And that is okay.

And that comforts.

And that contorts.

Oh. Oh good wordplay there.

Is this therapeutic?

No.

This is resuscitation. 

This is CPR in the writing persuasion.

This is my life revived by jolts of keystroke punches.

No longer lost like my blue bound book in my pocket, lost like my mind, like my self, and a blank one, the same type, the similar one, stares at me.

Will I open it just as I begin or will I could I consider a new life,

a life not written? Only typed.

And where does it all go...who am I writing for? Pressure is mine to keep

and I see the nexus of what I seek...

and...

ex malo bonum.

...

Happiness.