big how-you-say

...when the mind is undistilled
fumigated and fermented

there lies a place
before rationalization
before the thought

inklings drip drip past

too much ink...
...down the paper it goes

...thus i bite the desk
the bar eats me

strikes and gutters...

The Cyclical Market...

We bottom out.
Millions of fingers furiously
tapping and typing destiny,
or dreams of reality.

some poet said, the center could not
hold; with no knowledge of consequence,
we trod that path letting a dim light
lead us in the dark woods.

Shall we falter?

writing a poem on the back of gift wrapping

in the motionless rattle of our days
events appear like music

disappear like music like
birthday wrapping paper

simple presents choke attention deficit
distraction sends mixed messages

the descended ether blinding voices
fog suffocating the fractured universe

fearless appeals for ears
sideshot glances and dusty humor

like a speaker on a shelf
buzzing a tune on repeat

eternal halloween

at first i was a spinal chord
bending and kicking

then a newborn on my back
wiggling and crying

then i learned to crawl
and learned to talk

the world was mine
then the world was gone

i learned to learn
and learned there is no end

and learning made me grow to understand
time in my hand is just sand

and realized the futile truths
are disguised lies

the world was refurbished
but a world undone

i saw the masks
at the masquerades

laughed at the sadness
and cloaked my madness

the world is a ball
and the perpetual last call

it is eternal halloween
the best one you ever seen

Line Without Curves

eyes on, thoughts off,
squint then open, dreaming

state before sleep
half limbo in the fall

is the bed attached to you?
are you attached to the bed?

are you in bed?? ...probably not

______________________________

the line on a page
is like the bed under my sleep

its life is purely in myself
its body in a digital desert

my line is owned by you dear reader

Floating Anchors

Lost at sea, in a mental squall,
I could burn this turf in complete
solitude.

Without a soul to confess,
I read my dreams into my
duress.

The calm of the waves post-storm,
a reminder that life is a silent
bomb.

In the front of a monitor

Nothing can be done to stop the
sly movement of fingers across
a plane of letters..

..or the avalanche that follows.