Standing Up

When you’re struggling and there’s nowhere to go

Besides the place where you think you know

And the world has left you red and shown

Faced with swell and eyed with crown

We share the malt and fest the pear

And walk the mile, & smoke despair

While lies abound and eyes defray

The partial sweet and half decay

Of life amidst the suffering

Of compound pain on compound strain

Of lashing out because in pain

Of years and years of allowing chains 

To bind me to your rage, your shame.

I see you, Monty. I see you, Caine.

I see your fake, sorry, and I’m not gonna stay

To watch you rake my face again with rays

Of blight




Determined and uncertain of everything

until the clear appears

and the



elevates me


and I remember

The Truce.

Wanting Winter

Is it safe?
To go back to the memory
of the place where we are always together?

Can we pull up that sun again (please?)

Plug in the cords that way again, please?


if manifestation fails in the face of change,

Then we will pre-


our garden

before it grows,

for freer to suffer after the snow.

i am animated.


I have been here before.

Where did I imagine this?

If they’re waiting

I am waiting

I am seeing the red river explode in front of me and it is glorious.

In flame, my eyes are one with the fire, plasmatic and belvedere.

Attempting to manufacture deja vu, to validate the nostalgia of our idyllic moment,

my image of you inside on the air deck.

chopped wood and slow water on the iron.

soapstone soft and waxy

holding my stay

are lion, pegasus, rhino, and carpenter ants,

the latter always plural.

my basin ringing

my pelvic bone resting

my memories conflating

I will never leave.


Blessed is the monk who decides to move on and remain in the world of suffering

The misunderstood Boddhisatvae can never claim h1r claim

instead, portrayed exclaiming,



is what






am animated.


let’s get straight to the point

whenever love walks in

the scene changes.

jazz twinkles and rumbles on the speakers.

finger snaps begin in the back quadrant of the room.

The walls grow gilded

and the trees remember how to dance



we forget that jazz is improvised, like life, when we are hearing it secondhand.

do you know if your fish has been frozen?

are you living your life secondhand?

The electric organ holds the answers

Percussive, subtly but assertively, it won’t let us forget

that when we cannot touch hearts,

we lock eyes.

a crack in plato’s cave

I was confirmed on a dark night of the soul. As the force of my feet shook rocks capside, my ultimate self nodded softly and sadly in agreement to that phrase: “not in this lifetime.”

and we all wept.

The man in the mustard fedora faced away from me in a night terror on my birthday, telling me something in a silent language that only makes sense inside of a sphere of onyx.

while my body remained locked immovable, my spirit became hyper-aware as the blind can sense a sneakered starer from twenty feet away. thirty if they’re watching.

i woke up out of a dream one morning two months later and felt the miscarriage of the fantasy child that i didn’t even know i had. and then like an elephant

or a crow

i cried a little as i felt my cat’s little cool feet walk across my body

and her moist tongue washed me back to the morning.

at the root of a coconut tree i was left to my lonesome by my comrade, like a mother justifying.

“this will be good for them.”

or like a guru, “through suffering comes truth.”

or like a son, “this is for all of those times you abandoned me before.”

but mostly like a gull, who, not having to tell his brothers that he loves them, is deeply integrated into that rule of self-sufficiency.

he who finds the oyster first…

and there’s no malice for the speckled from the smoked.

the raven told me i didn’t have to cling to grim death.

his eyes shot a grappling, a striving toward the donkey wheel into me.

his feet held steady and his talons stung my arm like a tattoo.

he told me that the lesson would be worth it and i was reminded of the fallacy of heaven,

that ridiculous empty promise for martyrs and weakened dreamers.

but Strength fell onto the table and told me that after giving birth to cubs a lion must know that work must be done before they can hunt together.

Elected Uncertainty Leeching.

Creative Return Breaching.

I am not done with my preaching.

Not till I’m done with this bleaching

persisting the christening

while my backside,


projects Joy onto you.



I am terrified

while spring bears witness to grapevine virtue.

We know not where we wander.

Just meandering.

On this prehensile fabric we tread.

with buckets of water and filth

wares on our backs

sticks in our grip

moving forth we endeavor our visions

manifesting our toes to the grounds

our drive directed

we push forth,

for what-all?


What do ye seek?

Why face morning-call?


Through body and farce

chrysanthemums and weeds

aligned with sight we condense our dreams-

into tiny packages-

and bless them with seeds.

present them to all

and no one.

memorize them as creeds

to wish fare better on future

and to remind ourselves to breathe.


Reverence is my love for you, fellow traveler.

I wear my vulnerability like a billowing veil

and my steadfastness like a mounted pole

or a well-rooted bush



O to look upon you, beauty! you creature of mirth!

Your skin a pillow

for the air.

your posture,

a missing mirror found.


Blessed I face you in warrior’s trust

delicately holding your pain and ecstasies through my gaze.

Forest meets rich ground.

We are Illuminated.

Lush eyes moist,

gushing your insides.


hereafter I hold your laughter in the way of a coddle

and your weeps in the way of a rock.


Following a non manifesting period the fury of stagnant inertia transforms to the self-motivated oroborus, the serpent eating itself in a desirous auto-cannibalism of spirit.

Evolution comes eventually.


as we still cry for a Revolution.

Vaulted high, sizzling perfect lines are crack-whipped onto the page and artfully articulated at the symposiums.

But we are creators that DO. A blend of starry-eyed fancy and spitfire catalyzes the quill. Fronds weave wyrds in the air.

Listening in kind brings new association.

And admitting for good that the symbol is dead undermines the premise upon which we are acting.

What I say, what you respond, becomes to us mere clatter.



reflecting a moment that passes by like this one.

or this one.

And we are still here

playing show in tell

pretending in dim light

making beautiful things out of the pain