"...That daisy chains have no place in the balance of house and home"
"I wander all night in my vision"
Subterranean ideals to likeness involved in solemn request to packing and leaving it all behind for dreams,
Wading in the in-between of prism shards and sparks,
Counting the corners of the boundless mind intrinsic,
One, four, three, maybe infinity but who will alert the rest?
The pure daughters of inquisition, the periwinkle daughters of thine covet,
the vivid rays of saturation to the humble blue of sin.
The mergence of that which was created and that which is formed in the black holes of midnight lament, the creases of the skull behind the wondrous mind, the blanket of bullet holes stained like war wounds by the armies of Cupid.
"The night pervades them and infolds them."
The fall from grit into a pit of grace, the warm air that flows over the ears and around the ankles like a memory of jazz, sex or soup, the ascension from tick tack tenements over Rajasthan to the silver edges of the Alphabet city.
Take with it the eyes so they may touch the fabrics beneath the core, the smoldering hairs end that dance, the suffocation of doubt into the vast together that hearts cascade into the inglorious notion to color and all that dazzle.
*written in dedication to "Sleepers" by W.Whitman
Is there a condition to those who wait for that which is inevitable?
Peering over the olive cracks at the ledge of the river lethe I trace my steps in question,
How did I get here exactly and who’s fault is it if not my own?
It seem as though I am unable to trust myself in the most human of circumstances,
I too often speak of the morning as if it were a sprint to pursue as hasty as one leaves it behind,
and the truth is anything but.
The morning is no match for the million moons to come that seem to last as long as the longing; etching remedies from left over wood and canvas to make matters a pallet worth embracing
Ever fearful I will be found out, and the museum in my mind where he sits will relinquish my endowment an cast me astray to speak for man with no voice.
In the waking tides of change I am decesended by two blues into the waters of my own making. I have cut the strings that lead me here and now the three eye’d shrews have deemed me one of their own.
Laughing, they plague me still. knowing that the son of cupid himself hold much allegiance to Hades and the wicked ways of a wayward arrow.
"i was reminded of the power in the raven
in the shards that dust the claim of winds change"
I stood firmly involved,
feet planted to the root of mine own
Crater to the exchange
of sun + moon I lay transfixed
shocked, dismayed, stupefied and numb
Words left to fumble like jazz across the drum
skipping beats across the frame
where my hand remained steady
this whole short while
Head knocked to sway back back
forth to fourth position on relevé
wearing at the tops of trees
trying to see something more blue
than the eyes that lead me here
to the present and future past tense
What is this that booms?!
the windows are open and for the first passes of Time
I can smell the coffee in my own home
For what was once a stagnate lodge of separate rooms
and equal ties be now shattered by the prism
of hopeful spring.
A downtown rhythm only the cobble stones make bleak,
In a city flattered with grey and bottled up beats,
Took a trip to time travel on a Wednesday morn
And felt the fringe of destiny, and the taste of before.
The moment you stop to think about all that fades
Is the tangible within Time we all admire;that second after the hands strikes back
Drowning in a foundation of faith submerged, subterranean to the subculture of truth beyond expectation and above the possibility of fear
It has no place here; that murky tune
Here, where cheshire cats rule the iron throne and the Alice's resists the temptation to follow white rabbits into debating debauchery
Here, who calls the night a friend to take in warmth from the opposing forces who dare dream
Here, that all upright words hold themselves accountable in the like of lackluster pleads and sex on Tuesday afternoons after tea who increments satire the storm of winter winds in solitude
You see, it's all the same
Night and day
Saturn and Pluto
Lavender and lilacs; perspectives many tangents to the absurdity of colours yet fathomed to be anything but truth who in face, fact-reality and plunge into the dream with no concern of morality or ethos
The same same same of man who ritual union create the togetherness of choice over chance and daring into fate
I judged myself my own foe in the wake of mirrors first glance en train to something better than this when this is better than something
I wondered what the white sheets would show or call it's own from distant wades to frequent tazyms, but still all that remains to bring happiness is me.
I can live with that.
Door unlocked and open are only as safe as the ghost who still in night pass. Through the enclaves and corridors of the prism who dim to the persuasions of fact and foe. Remissed from the sanctions of the just and holy in palmer's fate does the sparrow wipe its wings with the candor of the other, in idle grimace to to a shower just so I don't have to hear the changing of the guards at intellect and some, ok maybe much heart.
That truth is truth yes and man is only man when humanity is to blame, but nevermore fearful of the clanks and bangs that go bump in the night. Seen from window’s edge still dripping from the wade of melic confess do the stains of stolen Time shard, nad and joyously poke to remind; sensing the fables of lavender skies turning to plum.
Marxist to effects of the imagination and the lengths of pages in Time it takes to circle the empty chamber and run with it blindy. In debt to the morn and her sun beams charm who drunken the skin to quiver and make notice the ripple in dials glance. Who now stretch the arms of possibility to barren fields. That daisy chains have no place in the balance of house and home.
"The fall from grit into a pit of grace, the warm air that flows over the ears and around the ankles like a memory of jazz, sex or soup"
Right now the sun is trying to kill the moon
and I am here to bear witness to the charade
plum blankets stretched + fanned out
dipped to the fading white that spark
Hold me by the waist side
so I can see it happen
how the sky in blink can turquoise
giving order to feather song + shuffle
Processional down the aisle in cubic increment
where the tea has fallen cold
because here I'm faded in Blue.
"Have you come to kill me or just take my limbs out from under me-keeping doors unlocked and open... "
Isotopes of clanking dreams and the mergence of such into a realm of suspension into the belief of the dissolve that reality as I know it has yet to slow down and rather spring forward.
The spinning spinning, whirling shrieks of the the bits and particles that electrify the morning haze of our whim into the wine soaked fabrics that hold my lips at bay when our hands choose to jump.
The spherical x-rays of time that exist on both sides of your nose like bullet holes of sex, joy and confusion in one glance or look or even the stolen nods at diner tables in plain sight after downtown PHD’s drink MFA’s under the table and a harlem tribe of misfit beats, hips and yo-yo’s made the upper east side their very own Gaslight for the night.
The boom boom bap bow zing of the beat who wave the strings to pull at the temples where third eye rested calmly now hastily jolted to rise and step over the deep Blue and guilt into question the intent of all its jazz sailors.
What are you driving at? What is your mission? And did you so choose to accept it? Have you come to kill me or just take my limbs out from under me-keeping doors unlocked and open when the thumbs of third wheel bang in closet door remised.
When father is away the remaining romantics will pay- but keep your distance! Dont touch! Keep all hands inside and legs closed while on for the ride! Dont want to spoil the flowers that one the windows of the skull!
Eyes plucked from the sockets of passing neighbors and nay sayers while friends and lovers love deem relations just under crayon rule to rubric the fall as not to land so harshly but soundly keeping all parts and members afloat who stay suspended in tangible to the air that surround them.
I like the band, in circular notion no matter the taille to whether or not it can bend the itch to squeeze and sqeak, freeze and be but scolded by the dirty windowsills and fresh sheets.
I'm about to bust the corner, cutting close to edges turn with hands moist to crack the name brand waist band upon itself, go west and find a stretch of pattern to take and favor fashions a new.
I take feet in front of the other, who gentle slide knee apart echo between the space on soft pull, closer now to the band that daydream alike made sense to begin with.
So I say "no,
keep your underwear on."
I was reminded of the power in the raven
in the shards that dust the claim of winds change
did these wings so long, black and candid wrap
who brought onto me the touch of skins crawl
to the best of natural expectation, left nothing
no sour taste of pebbles thrown
neither regret or disdain to the sun
only the flow of gravity who pulls
etching beneath the clouds a new wake
where the brilliance of each flight make wise
in those moments above cemeteries of dreams
have these roots climbed to new heights
and became new they have given shade
fostered by the hope of hearts on sleeve
to the last days of fading nights in new memory
did such a bird begin to sing in the swallows
where still movements in Manhattan winter make warm
against two strangers whose skin knows well the touch
and if only forgotten, to be reminded by the raven tap, tap tapping at my window.
This moment has come in the still breath of January winds when all but lungs have the capacity to foster the cosmic, let alone the force of another beat, who beat afloat the torso of truth's standing armor.
The heavy bricks who stack and placard the frames of ideas and degrees of measure that one single imagination may have it to be chained, is nothing more than fictionally a wondrous disaster in the high heavens of atom bombs inside skin cells where hands make like sandboxes who new mind so curious in the like of the same and in the passion of the individual hope to future tense.
The palms would have two to believe that neither force nor candor could be the blame but the mercy of the gods who chisel and axe did create the two the same friction to the foe, who same atomic ability make like pieces to beauty the dust and the evergreen that holds them in sheets, who same pull does render the air with infrequent with the breaths taken in exchange of tongues talk or mouths open.
All of these above have their sounds and their things to hold them and fable daydreams outside Harlem windows into pipelines of saturated romanticism and rust, retrospect boogeymen of the constant run from sun to moon with no light in between, the taszym type cluster of throwing it all over the fence and down the river not knowing whats across, but having the chance to swim and be seen in that light thought to be lost, whose pacing from question to answer to lip to tangible could be moving in motions too cosmically hazed so the only solution is to follow the pace.
STARTED IN LOS ANGELES, CA IN 2012 TO WHAT BEGAN AS A WAY TO MOVE FROM PEN AND PAPER TO THE KEYS, THIS BLOG FEATURES OVER 300 POEMS WRITTEN IN CALIFORNIA, NEW YORK, FRANCE, SPAIN AND THE UK.
FROM SEX, SIN, JOY, FERVOR AND CURIOSITY INTO THE REALMS OF THE HUMAN CONNECTION, WEERDVOMIT ILLUSTRATES A POETS JOURNEY THROUGH THE LOT.