Look On Face

drink this tea down
look on face
all the weak elephants
don’t make it
and oh how a mother elephant cares
I feel like my love like that could surpass
the simplest forests to the
most complex of jungles

in more loss
the poem remains true especially
this line remains true

may tea
open safe passage

for middle of the night
asthmatic sufferers

Jewels of The Family

bar
writing
talking less
until I’m drinking more
then I’m writing less

see saw

exit sign
in case of fire – run!
emerge from the building complete
and in tact
all faculties about you
use as tools to build and stand
as a real man

talking less
thinking more
careful consideration goes
into loosening up
the whole being

all cars are bullets
shot through and can end the pedestrian dream

you isolate?
in the amercan dream pyramid scheme?
but on the treadmill you forget
to exercise the muscle of compassion
so when it’s said and when it’s done
you’ll be hacked up
unrecognizable
packaged in boxes

writing more
for now
how it goes
scream from the lung-top
no harm done
to the rattling shudders
see what I can do
see who I can be
not your murderous worst enemy 1-2-3

ready set go
shiner after shiner

time lyrically
so popular like on Beatles albums
time beating your ass
whooping your ass
ripping your wife away (good!)
time is on my side
for a second

in the split seconds
slow down each breath

the whole day
the whole night an opportunity
to undress a hot and sweaty vulnerbility
maturity means the neediness melts away

you’re a good guy
you’re a good girl
I think you’re ready
for more, more of the world

go get some more without apology

drunk or not
preferably drunk…
shed the day’s skin
from your back
and ponder a big dipper larger picture
heat sinker little dipper
small sister older brother
struggle of the single mother
check the adverbs
revolution from the bricks of
Brooklyn DC Houston
Writ Capital W. session
sincere and steady
yer never truly single or alone
though it gets lonely inside these problems
stand up peach fuzz
I gott good buzz goin’ blinded by the sun at night
haunted by the moon in my pocket
it smokes and it billows
signal signal
symbol
activate
all the great minds at the sundial refused to talk to you
‘cuz you were being an asshole
hard to rock a big baby
easier to rock a crowd
(with ears to hear)

maybe you should
stop paying taxes
from year to year

isn’t it all really about energy?

all the groins kicked feel it fully
all the jewels of the
family
spin on the canopy

Translation / Transaction

the joy of writing, of sex, of bread, of earth – joy in different measures. in pursuit of joy. the effortless acceptance of joy falling through the skylight. these thoughts barely making it to the page versus the desire to grandly translate. write something about the overall struggle-of-life. trying to articulate the heart of the struggle is a lifelong pang and growing pain. simply try harder and be honest. both honesty and dishonesty seep even into the most unassuming article of clothing about you, so why not be different, absolutely yourself? the joy of writing is punching the pattering sounds pitching the ball mauling the long haul tampering flattening ironing out the finest inklings into potentialities. haiku, senryu. scratching at the word pad, peering at the dictionary, the gate is open for the rain to inundate. that is, the joy of creativity is inviting. writing about writing. the mind is a creator god. so have faith.

remember the middle of night blues with asthma jam sessions, the word pads? getting up with the nagging wheeze and smack at the keys? that was me. how could I forget? I’d discuss the baggage of life. I’d offer advice. like I knew better. or not better, but finally got it. I get it. do you get it? get it yet? does it fall through the skylight? does it translate right, tangibly? “IT” – the needle believed to be at the haystack center when actually taped along the side.

the joy comes when the struggling subsides.

before, life was stalling, as it tends to do. fingernail snags along the way. others just don’t know get it, what it is, so they joke and sling terms to pass the time like “tree hugger” and “hippy” while we say squares at water coolers and car-salesmen-like folk are damned to cubicles to think in boxes and represent the dullest ideas known to man. they talk a game but ignorance puts them in their place and are denied a richness of experience. smugness is the disqualifier.

no shame for the damage caused, they’re more concerned with fashion crimes… their crime is that they’re fucking dull and without joy. lacking the potential for anything meaningful forever or for far too long and remaining the same as they are without salt and grit, seeking entertainment blandly as a way to purchase opinions so to have something to talk about, filling empty time – they fill the roads up, fill the malls, slowly start to realize they shouldn’t’ve supported these wars based on lies, after it’s too late.

everything got all fucked up. everything smoothed out. I think I’m happier. I’ve been rebuilding. I wanna be brutally honest, the kind not to pull punches, letting it fly, struggling less against the immovable, then moving the immovable. take it or leave it. translation/transaction. satisfaction from anger is of the most fleeting, bleeding out.

it is about my joy and your joy and the planet which sustains joy and delivers joy in new formats. the syntax, the craft, the pad, is not passing fad. this is it. you get it? abstract.

so I come here and write every day. my teachers are far and wide. me and mine, we are people watchers and rememberers, sponges, philanthropists, activists, humanitarians, vegetarians, vegans, anarchists, artists, great cooks, skeptics, agnostics, atheists, gardeners, bikers, prose/poem crafters, bird watchers, spiritual people. we live in a giant blender.