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.