"So as humans often do after the slaughter of ones own lasting shield to honest defense, I fled."

GREEN EYES (Preface) 

 

I said something because it was what I was feeling at the time and it was just. I hadn't thought of the testament itself or the pages and pages of text in mind, yet rallied around the carnivorous daydreams that altered the motion of mouths to move towards truth. Unbeknownst to the facing side or the beat within I spoke. Telling the fates that this here hand is mine and mine alone to deal. Their scissors have no strings here and so they released the ties that bound. Wishing me well they pushed. Hovering over what already had been transferred my toes touched the water and  the periwinkle kissed me. Not to my skin but deeper. Running past the forbidden forest of Alphabet City tenants into a cataclysm of much too much tobacco and not enough sleep. 

So as humans often do after the slaughter of ones own lasting shield to honest defense, I fled. Packing what was left of me into the army duffle with as many passport stamps as the hopes in which I cloak myself. Allowing the garments I wear on my sleeve to imagine no county where this could ever be illegal and anyone would choose this complicated melody. Lacking inhibition beside the crashing sea where the eyes of Montana still hold dominion the water reminds me still. The mountains of course are different and even the coffee tastes pungent and yet both facts merge erroneous into a seamless wander. The peaks in the distance fall back to the hair that raises at the nape of the neck and catches the morning's " Mmm-morning you...". I tried to change the habit and drink tea which has also been poisoned. "Damn you Darjeerling?! What gives marshmallow root?!..Did you really think I could live without hot water?!" 

Complaining will bring no justice to the senses or resolve the matter left to sway. Confusion has always found a home here and I do not think that Apollo will stop making his rounds just because I wish not to write anymore poems. If anyone is to blame, I blame the blue. I curse the myriad of emotions in which we have yet to define with words and I only know through colors. Tasting the wet of unstained ideas that I will one day illustrate and mount, or write and re-read over and over again. 

And just like that it fades. For another unthought-of moment, the art in Time takes over leaving the scent to which I pine & perish to the graces of the Caribbean Sea. If only for a moment, I shall take it. I will place it in the holy palm and clutch dearly before giving it back to the holy waves of the much adorned. Who shimmer in the dark plum blackout type bass. 

Hearing the earth move to a new kind of wake up call. When the sun rises over nothing but a vast horizon of deep royal the transparency of human behavior grows benign. Lackluster to the splashes of lavender and coral that decorate the frame. Something of sorts to be painted and saturated, honest and rippled. Leaving  graves of traces where demons now lay word has become sword. Where titans fell to the mercy of awkward stance in kitchen afternoons and impromptu gatherings does this heart melt for jazz, the future idea of sex and more soup. Where the room with two windows and vomis d'art  on the wall becomes the haven of smoke, song and feels did I relinquish the hinderance to deny. Dragons have been slaughtered in my own name to save the only thing that can live to tell this fabled encounter with the Dream who dwell so close to mine own pillow. 

Me.

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GREEN EYES ( Epilogue)

At waves end do I stand with the desire for more. Rock the boat and cause the shiny white to shamble. Sink my decisions into iron clad ideals who promise the future of breath and heart beat everlasting. I watched the moon crescent and descend it's like upon the clouds that slowly danced across the canvas of Time. It was truly a wonder to which I took and made mine and mine alone. The odds were ever in my favor and no one else was awake that night besides the captain of passing dreams and his crew of merry men. 

 

I toyed with the stars and made them speak in a language I understood. French of course. Dreams always sound better in french. English is too bland, German is too brüt and I don't speak Spanish. And so they spoke, well above the volume of the siren that loomed. With arms crossed at edged fence I dazzled the black with my eyes and allowed the plum abyss to do the same.

GREEN EYES ( Part I )

No such thing as too much Time, 

Oh does She have her ways,

Only when the dial strikes close can the many fade into few

Seeking the river Lethe 

Like a fermented grape 

The same nectar drips

From the lips of her edges 

To the brim of the chalice in hand 

Making all stand still in ideal threat

 

The devils playthings they say

Giving no thought to the mind that controls 

Lurching around the bend 

Like the legs of daddy's long threat 

Finding prey in the daydreams 

Prisoner to no land in sight 

Watching the sun rise and set 

From different windows 

On opposite coasts

On same beat to hearts discontent

 

"Packing what was left of me into the army duffle with as many passport stamps as the hopes in which I cloak myself"

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ITS WHATEVER (AGAIN)

It's Whatever

I'm finished, 

There are no more waves to sing me to sleep and the lullaby of siren calls below have no mercy here. It is beyond space or time in the matter of relinquishing the ties of emotional candor to the cold I've always known. The ocean has had its fun and now the time has come for the dazzling moon to take its bow and exit. Only the day can give breath to logic. The plum and periwinkle skies have no discipline and no care to the mortal realm. The strings of their melody wish for nothing but but to play me into oblivion and such a voyage I wish not to take any longer. 

With my desire now rooted in survival to fly or fall I place both soles on the uneven ground of the pages yet turned and deny the Fates the approval over Cupids deathly orders. For he and the three Eyes shrews have forsaken me and left my lust afloat off the coast of counties unknown to rot and fester between the lines of my own words. Lost between worlds my hope still remains while hitting the wall of logic over daydreams, current time travel facts over emotion. Lunging forward into the deep blue not of his eyes but of my own brush. To canvas across this reality with steady head and the ever wayward essence of all that splash.

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DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF ME

I awoke from my dream not because of the waves that rocked but of the reason that had risen to the notion that I can not be the only one whose days dwindle into shreds of Time, taking character to unknown intent made clear through rapid eye movement and the literal sounds of the ocean beside me. 

The players and their dwellings were all familiar. If not the structure then it be the emotion that fills the space giving merit to the invisible hairs that connect one life to another. 

So much truth is never spoken in dreams. The embarkation of hopes turned to after dark scenes of minds timely wonder have danced through the frame and made every  tangible dimension envious of the possibility that fiction can in deed turn to quick fact and no I do not want any more salt with this. 

To the rocking waves of open sea to which I am a passenger and to the waking fables I write with eyes closed to which I am also a passenger. I can hear no voice and speak every language that lust and curiosity have to offer when "What do I want?" falls north of idle time in open windows on quilts made of love from parent sibling so far away.

To wanting to honestly jump ships at the creases of the prism and lunge from within myself to holy hands giving sway to holy lips in truthful account every moment every lived before this thing that has yet to pass. Taking shape like a black hole inside the alphabet soup of Manhattan

So Far Away

Time away from anything that isn't the moment at hand is wasteful. "Waste not want not", they always say. But who listens to the "they" as fact over fabled fiction into social norm? Do you blame the distance or the circumstance? Should we have met the way we did or has Cupid played another sour hand of menace at the table of fates? What would the frame depict if the colors grew closer in range? Changing hue together as the seasons often do together and never away.

The calm resolve of nature plagues the logical mind that humans hath created in the name of sinful testament. Be here and now and never estranged. Reach forward with mild energy and feel the harmony of the long mile just the same. For I have lived the days of nowhere land and resent the idea that poets can't handle. Stationary to the claim of romanticism over fact am I bound to my word as sword in the fight for sleeves honor.