I woke up in the back of a Taxi. The smell of cigarettes met my senses with a deafening roar; tickled my eyes open and sewed my nose closed. I coughed the dry air -- blinked the sunlight out. "What... where am I?" The car didn't slow; a voice in front of me spoke in a low staccato: "You're in a cab son, donchaknow?" Dug my elbow into the seat; lifting my body erect, I slowly let the color drain into my view. The Driver dug his smoke into the tray. I looked away out the window: "Wh- where are we..." A gruff laugh from the miser. "Oh we're going my friend. And that's just the thing" No locks on the doors... "Don't try anything -- funny. I'm not much for jokes" He was wearing a wreath built of cigarette tokes; I couldn't see his face. Sat up to the glass. Both my legs were asleep. "How long have I been..." Nausea met me. I reeled back in defeat. "You're awake and that's what matters" the Driver retorted. "I'm not sure what you've been doing besides sleeping and snorting; but at least you're awake after all" My fingers crawled down the window -- trapped like a leper. Quarantined in a box with Death as my driver. He coughed: "You can't get what you want. Not at this point my friend. You've been chasing your tail like a puppy and now... you've caught it" I balled a fist and slammed it into the divider; I heard something rattle -- the cab took a corner. "I wouldn't try to fight if I were you son" the Driver waved off the last lingering wisps. "Fighting is for animals or if no other solution exists. How 'bout you accept where you are and not think with your fists?" I scoffed: "What do you know? You fucking--" A jolt. "Hold your tongue son. No need to be brash." I choked. No words came to mind, as if my brain'd been erased. "Don't you understand son? You're not going away. You're just going and going; this is your second wind. Soon you'll be back, to dreaming; back with your friends. Back to your girl; laughing alone in the dark." I stared, speechless ahead. "You don't know who I am -- and you know maybe I'm not. But at least I'm still driving and haven't yet stopped." I shook my head 'no': "But when will we stop?" A chuckle; a chortle: "You'll find out soon enough."

I woke up in my bed. What a dream I just had.

hurricanes get nice, unassuming names too

Silhouette

If I told you what slices back and forth through my brain,
you probably wouldn't change a thing.
You'd smile and feign at the thought that I think
and thought of us building that bond.
I couldn't care less about the way you are dressed;
the rays of light lick past your eyes.
A sweet smile spreads 'cross my mask. I am not vexed;
just taking a break from the test.
A photo of heaven, held by my fingers,
gives me window into what could have been.
There's a thing about wishing: it kind of spoils living.
Bliss is best when its ignorance-based.
Take heed my young sailor. Your plight isn't failure.
We all live on into the great unknown...

Smile wide, my friend, smile wide

When I feel powerful I do what anyone else does: ruin it. But isn't that the beauty of it? If perfection was rampant then nothing would be random -- can you find the purpose in what we see as accident? We trip, grasp hold, lose it all, gain the world; and maybe this list isn't complete. If you dwell on the past, keep up the grudge, you won't be the one that makes it past the last step. Everyone is judged -- just not in the end. Before death we are evaluated by family and friends, society and pre-made plans; judgment is doled and the Judge hangs his hat. Regardless of this, please be who you are. If you're as crazy as me wear it proud/cross your heart: a patch or a button won't do. If you are like who I know then I know who you are. Like perfection, although false, people strive to be...us. Realize this, and you'll see; that media's a mirror -- and beauty is cheap. Put prices on facial structure, body weight; believe: people are people and they all believe in greed. And belief is as dangerous as a blind grenade toss. Throwing cause to the wind begs for fresh graveyard plots. And isn't that an image of how many survive: monochrome methodologies built and buried in effigy. Will you remember me when I'm gone? Can you make a mark on the world if it truly doesn't care? No one listens, so why bristle at thoughts of failure? I'm not saying we're all equal -- that we're lost -- too far gone...

No we're not. And I love you and hope you'll do well. For yourself and whoever gravitates to your life. In and out I will go 'til I feel I can rest. I'm tired but tweaked out -- freaked out by science. No. Violence won't harm me, just the fact that you smile and dismiss me as just someone you'd rather forget, in favor of favoring someone else; yet, I can't be jealous so I'll just never forget. Turn you to song; assimilate your mood. Your face and demeanor speaks volumes. It's true. You're a novel you won't write nor let me read right. Will you call me tonight? Text me tomorrow? Follow my life or refuse to allow my name to cross your mind...? Meh, I wouldn't follow me either, I've drawn my own lines. I agree we're all human and I know we all die. I know that you'd love me if we gave it a try. So smile, my friend, smile wide.

Last Night (Was Nuts)

My mind says,
"No. Don't turn down that road."
"Don't flirt with disaster"
"Take the money and run!!"

But my head has separate intentions.

...
I think that I picked up a hitchhiker.
My memory is hazy in the morning.
But I can see his face - blurried and frosted.
It was cold, but I didn't notice.
I think I took him past Main.
But I didn't have a car when I woke up again.
Nor did I feel trust or peace refrain
within the four white walls that house
my sanity.
He knocked it out of me.
Pipe probably. Swung laterally through the dark.
It had to be small. Light but lethal hard.
I felt the warmth, and yeah I noticed:
when picture bled to smear.
In the end its desperate separation that helped us meet...
I was delighted you were there.
...

In the end I think we all meet, although we haven't yet.
We know everyone and no one all the same.
How can I hope to pierce your skull and peer at what's in your brain?
It's gray all the same. I know that much.
So maybe we can meet again - some other time
with different circumstances.
Maybe that would play out different.
But that's just maybe.
And I have a headache.

Do/Did You Think?

I am free-form, without wings or paddles please push my raft into cold current, white waters. We all breathe from the same source, waste words on sand, grains number our plans. You've been in the air straight levitating state, affairs of Earth-walkers ember your flame. It's not too late, breaking stride, dig a ditch, fill the void, make amends, rebuilt frame, circle slowly, nest again.

Psalms of the Begotten V

We speak in words unmarred by verbs, syntax, voice, pronoun, or phrase.
Otherwise silent, I'll beam you my subtext, nestled between our brainwaves.

It takes time to make time just as it takes words to make rhymes.

Psalms of the Begotten ||||

(Yeah,) You flip your hair when you get nervous;
scrunch your nose when someone notices.
Fend off questions with your prowess,
while the world revolves below us.
Is perfection truly worth it?
All flawed, we're disconnected.
You'll live forever in my subconscious.
When I say forever I mean until I'm focused

on someone else.

Psalms of the Begotten |||

Do you ever dream you're with someone else?
I'm not suggesting you'd rather your love be false.
It's just one of those nights where you know for a moment
and a moment in a dream can imprint some importance.
I've dreamed I've dated people I never knew,
I woke up this morning not married to you...
But this is the truth; I have an excuse:
I day-dream and night-dream too few.

Psalms of the Begotten ||

Sunshine; warm light,
bathe my pain in the dark times.
Soft shine; in due bright,
we'll lay and watch the planes fly by.
It's these times, where my heart races,
breathing ragged and strained;
where I look to you to be the sight in my eyes.

Psalms of the Begotten |

Have you ever met someone and you were like:
wow, you are really cool; it's nice to have met you.
-And then you lock eyes and part ways?
That's how I feel about you today.

No One Knows Your Future-Tense

Have you ever accomplished much, but it seems so little?
Baby steps... baby steps... baby steps.
Maybe that's how we learn to achieve...
Step by step by cautious search with your foot in the dark.

No one knows what happens next.

No one knows your future-tense.

So how about we just fade away slowly into the backdrop;
stop all the clocks with our space/time warping whims.

Or we could just sit and watch as the world walks by;
buying things that shine then corrode -
bottomless desire for things that don't mean
anything but what the manufacturer intended.

And that is our lives; focused on Television-
solid in our resolve that if our clothes fit just right;
if our voices sound this sweet,
it's ourselves that mean anything.

Patchwork Promises

Take a photo for your wallet, hold it; let it go.
Burn the edges so they’ll never get frayed, no;
push the pencil ‘cross the paper 'til it reads so well.

Life’s a bore when your road runs out of turning points.
Dot your art; you’ve got to twist your mind around it.
Outside the box is a world that’s so damn mean…

Who will be beside you when you leave?
Will he be there to build you up and nurse you when you’re weak?
Did you ever dream that boy’d be me?
I believed it once then put that dream to sleep.

Skeleton, yeah you’re structure without substance.
Gorgeous girl, you’re convinced that people care but,
turn back the clock, you’ll see it’s just the car wreck crowd.

We’re growing up, growing out of what we’ve lived through.
It’s fun and games until someone calls you out, so -
just sit back and watch as the party barrels on.

Trade a glance with a person that you didn’t know.
Caught the eye of a stranger with a plastic soul.
Took a shot, now you’re one of the crowd now, glow.

Done your part – you’ve met each one of his friends.
Made your mark – smiles all around, but -
science stings when its love that we examine, hush.

Who will be beside you when you leave?
Will he be there to build you up and nurse you when you’re weak?
Did you ever dream that boy’d be me?
I believed it once then put that dream to sleep.

Hello you,
yes, you.
The one that sticks to my head; such old news.
Just turn your head and let your body do the rest.
I’d turn my head but I’d have to stick out my neck.

The Editor

We went back through high school,
through hoops on the playground,
past dreams on the slide.
And there in the first steps,
in plastic-sheen purpose,
were toys that none would forget.
Then back out through pages,
flipped by fingers, frantic
to see what the end had in store.
Although here at the ending,
our prose still precedes what
truly defines our existence.
Exist though we will,
climb down the ladder,
throw the toy airplane to the sky.
The Park. What a nice day --
the air charged with sun,
between trees and benches, don't sway.
Made of gray matter,
fully-suited in leather,
the Editor sits, calm and in vain.
The dirt falls much faster,
when earths' eroded beneath it,
sinkhole swimming, your fall means _____.

There Was Always a Choice

Oh, how things change, and have yet to change still...

I've been working, pressing bricks made of muddled friendships
mixed with stones and sticks from 'friends' who've thrown them.

It's true, I think of you daily; back bent in servitude --
except that I'm the master, and the servant both in two.

This dichotomy won't bother me as long as you're around.

You're the carrot dangling 'front of my nose.
You orchestrate where this horse-race goes;
you're what I'd wall up with bricks that I've baked.

You're the burned in shape inside my gaze. When I try to look you run away.
Settle back into place, into faux-fairytale bliss, and there you go --
pass by again. Blur into life riding the white horse of pride,
helmeted head held so high. It is quite a sight.
We are both audience and I.

True, most watch the race to see checkered first place or the crashes that pause, mar the way.
Others will gamble on what's governed by random,
and others will gamble still.

Do you ever look through old photos?
You won't find me in those - just wait.

Our Aversion

Spread thin, but still thick with intent;
remembered names so soon to forget.
Blank pages beg for ink and type;
the hands, the clock, tick-tock then chime.
Champing bit; too strong for leather
restraints that tether - "You've been much better."
Built of building blocks, so easily sway;
in midst of tempest which gouge out graves.
STAND FIRM OR BE SWEPT AWAY.
Like sand grains and time frames;
under silver sky, submerged, we pray:
STAND FIRM OR BE SWEPT AWAY.

for the Muse

Heart beats beat me free -- it made a soldier of me.
Traitor! Traitor!
Where did your armor fall?
Failure! failure. Was this enough?
...to break the broken, lost, misspoken;
the scrapbooks' open. Photos are stuck in,
patchwork privvy.
Turvy-tipsy.
"It's all art splatter!"
'I couldn't be happier."
This song was much sadder.

- and this made a Man of Me.

Marbles

Let's say we're marbles --
mirror-spheres spread
ad random 'cross black free-form abyss.
This is the tabletop
where life erupts
and then folds back from the fray.

And the table does rock,
as shapes trace through space
formed by silk twixt the dots which roll on.
These threads weaved by days
and memories made,
glow up and are etched into place.

But these bonds can break,
when pressure applied
distorts shape and contorts the rays.
- Where marbles collide
and rebound back
in an inevitable pinball charade.

Facade aside, shifting,
this spiderweb construct,
connects the world taut at its base.
The blackness was made
to facilitate change
and the magnetic attraction between;
but links will still shatter,
when forced to bend farther
than the line was defined to endure.
And when marbles cease
to weave through the bleak
darkness, they cut out on their own;

revolve and roll on
a free-form ballet
to attract or repel as they may.

Contorted but stable,
starred sky paints our lives,
until each marble rolls off the table.

...and they all do.

(Untitled III)

He told me he knew someone who tried to make him feel bad; like the past wasn't past and instead should be dragged, back through his head until he couldn't forget, the sound of Her voice and his pulse pumping dread, so sick to his stomach -- wasn't it: She will never let go. There's messages daily so the whole world will know, and that's what he sees, that She's a disease, now he's falling ill, and She's falling for me, tells the world She's sooo happy, he found me at night, took a knife to my heart and, stared burn-circles into my eyes; I didn't think twice, I opened my veins and spilled out all my truth: "If this has happened to you then you'll feel like I do." This happened to him now he feels life anew, a feeling so few, have felt this until, She forgets all about you, and maybe She will. But maybe she won't, and aren't you so lucky, that the catalyst sits atop a mountain of bodies. He told me a story, but I knew how it ended, because there is no ending, when its Her you've befriended.

(Untitled II)

Now,
Don't call me worried; I'm just a bit flustered.
I've used all the patience I've mustered.
A feeling best described watching people walk by.
Then there's a reaction; add this subtraction -
a feeling of warmth when you're near.
This inkling I've had has invaded my head:
who are you to betray - double-cross - enslave with your gaze?
We all know beauties age. You won't get away.
Cyclical self-preservation meld down to a girl.
It isn't you. It's probably this world.
This place. Where tradition's at stake.

Here's to my hope that we'll meet one day in the rain and orchestrate -
I still have hope in the hopeless, a rope for the rope-less,
the off-chance you'll notice: I would be true.
Off-meter you've made me; now erratically awake - I wonder
was I wrong all along?
or is wrong relative?
when white lights flash
flaws emerge in the negatives
I'd guard against being proved wrong
but my fingers'. been on. the shutter. all. a long.

(Untitled)

The was an artist once, who did what he does, best placed in the race, behind best laid plans, alone on the street, alone in his craft, but he still keeps his peace, there's still life in these rags, torn and tattered by weather, hang lifeless and fray, he still keeps creating, whatever come what may, scorn does comply, with the weight of the world, by the blades of the weak, and the sneers of the small, of heart there's no equal, in rear view he's liquid, understood but rejected, mis-respected in the cold, oh! the aching bones, but there's hope in the fold, break ice but salve wound, if only you knew...
but you do, don't you?