this must be a joke
a punchline gone under-heard and under comprehended
maybe my irony is your irony no more
maybe the plastic ware really is the joke after all

because by the time i'm gone, and you're gone, the Earth is still Ours.
We Own It.

so let's, my demon friend, let's.
throw it down, stand tall on it's ear, on that soft spot that dips in so deep at the slightest pressure.

it's an elbow to the ribs, just under the slightly jagged line of sweat ever-so-noticeable

some days, it's a pit of anger in the fire-belly. the kind that sends an wagering fist tough into the drywall, ending with disappointment (the brunt of the damage goes to knuckle #3)

Demons

in the form of fast-flowing sunshine and stellars hopping

chasing them away may require an art form level of chaos, despair, unreasonable acts
bring on the lightning and the chords off-key, because it's time

time to wipe away the cover-up and sing-songiness of bliss
just get them out of here
make it appear apocalyptic, but bring the smile internal

i'm ready for a storm

new days and summits

she said it right
new blossoms bring new flowers
but freezing rain comes fast and near
flee quickly and quietly
to avoid their hard-hitting blows

let's get there
uphill - start walking slowly
we can't run or we'll tire before the summit
we'll have a better view from there
and possibly build to a higher place yet

still waiting and wondering
if i'll be there
or you'll be there

What does grandpops know about candy? He doesn't have any teeth left for the candy to be stuck in like we do.

What do you do when the whole world could crumble with one wrong step, and you’re telling everyone not to take the step – but there’s candy, that their grandpa said would taste really, really yummy, so they just can’t resist, because the crumbling of our Earth means less than listening to ‘ol grandpops, so they all go for the candy. And there’s nothing you can say or do to stop their craving for the candy – even if you know, and have excellent oration skills, that the candy tastes like poo. Good ‘ol, traditional poo. You plead and cry and sink a bit inside when they are conjure up their plans to take that step towards the candy that tastes like poo that they’ve been told tastes like yummy and you sit motionless, waiting for everything you believe in and devote yourself to to die die die and you try to control the impulsive convulsions. What do you do next? Do you keep trying? Keep trying to talk them into taking a step backwards, looking at the potential consequences of that fatal step, into realizing that their grandpops’ taste in candy might be a bit old fashioned – like Mary Janes or Sugar Daddies when you’re really into Gobstoppers and Blue M & Ms. When asked, you say you really like Mary Janes and Sugar Daddies, but when you’re alone you always pick up the Gobstoppers and M & Ms and would admit that though you like both, you think that the Mary Janes will stand the test of time, and the world, with more truth. Bullshit! Kids these days don’t even know what Mary Janes are! Shit! We only know what they are because our parents and hipster clothes may have shown them to us once or twice. So you’ll believe your grandpops, over me, one of your own generation, of your similar experience, and take that step to end our world? WHY WHY WHY

less enchanting, more real

it's the bumbling rumble of black clouds' approach
it's the nose itching wishing of coal smelt too close

it's the do or don't shouldya of teens' dated days
it's the punch in the arm to scare away strays

it's the duo whose dueling has dragged us too near
to global atrocity afamed in our ear






-
our teles our phones our pcs and drones
calling and shouting to each of us own
to take it in each of our scouring eyes' hands
and throw cast drown kick until each does land

and take it a step in direction said naught.
run away pun away but remember the take away
message
from me, your confidante, your truth and light,
other than Truth and Light.

I've told them today. Told them time heals hearts heavy.
I've told them today. Understanding is mine.
Can I lie? Can I mislead them today?
I can. And I have. But conformity and Hallmark
have got me by the throat.





_
have i made a picture for you? have i created something
beautiful?
i miss beauty. i miss capital letters before words with
full intention.

i have a source, yes one. just one. the simpleness of
one is less confusing, and albeit less enchanting,
more real.

a pebble/an arrow

it's a pebble, sitting on a post, stuck in the sand
a small wind feels cool on it's shell and is welcomed on a sweltering day
it's the briskness, though, that throws it from its hold
back to the piles and miles of meaningless little pebbles
soon to be sand, walked and polluted, rarely polished too clean

so blow with ease, and fair your audience
keep close to mind that each walks a blind path, unaccustomed to sameness and
expectedness

we'll take the arrows of the world, send them forth
watch them wiggle in that soft breeze, switch hard left or right
but left if it's mine
we won't see them land,
but it will give us more solace than the bullseye
the arrow would never choose the bullseye
no more than it would choose the suit and tie
and grey/brown cubicle too close for contemplation

when the game is played by the frequency of sound,
there is no ending, nor beginning.
when notes are pounded until racuous blazes of bass come filing out in no particular order,
when flips are attempted at too short a height to land on the resting note,
when shouting of songs sounds less like singing and more like being
that's when you'll find no point
no dot on a line
no click of the timecard punch

and it's all for the better
for a good piece of this world

to my brother, drew, who danced his life to the sound of nobody's song but his own -
rest in peace.

The long march

When the rain rains, baby
It pours
And brings me to my knees in wanting

As I kneel, drenched in cold, pure water,
My eyes squeeze tight and my head falls back

You’re here with me, I know
But not enough

So I am off.

I’ll trudge through the field
Of mire and high grass

I’ll crawl through the opening
Left gaping in the fence

I’ll fight off the demons
I’ll play the role

Until your fingertips see mine
Face to face

I’ll fight on
And on

I am almost home now
No there, still,
But almost home
Not wanting.

The long march

When the rain rains, baby
It pours
And brings me to my knees in wanting

As I kneel, drenched in cold, pure water,
My eyes squeeze tight and my head falls back

You’re here with me, I know
But not enough

So I am off.

I’ll trudge through the field
Of mire and high grass

I’ll crawl through the opening
Left gaping in the fence

I’ll fight off the demons
I’ll play the role

Until your fingertips see mine
Face to face

I’ll fight on
And on

I am almost home now
No there, still,
But almost home
Not wanting.