Memories

these are the memories
lives are made from,
living in days
chasing the sun
until the nights set into fun.

but this is destiny,
is _this_ destiny?

tracing fate
on tree rings,
relishing their rapids
and cascades
of cause and effect
to fall upon the knots
of existance,
the limbs of persistance
and leaves with buds of color
that gift the eyes
and gift the grounds
as our lives
spawn lives
widening our minds
and those who surround.

winds like telephone cables...
feebly, ignorantly passing fables
becoming tall tales:
to be a redwood at youth.

dan's poem

nature's opera raged
against rhonda's
angry, asshole ways

but there
despite lacking titles
of
prime minister,
president,
or just asshole,
daniel's pink boxers
stood.

unfazed by dilemmas at hand
beer cans collected from the
fridged, ice cube emulating pool
in hand
mother fucking weed
burning
in hand
carrots being munched
passing
hand in hand
"that's what she said"

boxers don't make the man,
but pink boxers man,
are you fucking serious?

Truths

but see,
i like to tell true stories.
but i don't know what's true
because i don't know if the sky
is really blue.

someone told me
as i
tell myself
...daily
that i am me not you.

what does that actually mean?
does the sun shine,
or scream?

Paper Smiles

i will write
with broken pens
broken wrists
my mouth,
toes,
whatever it takes
to put words down
for you

they will descend
onto these trees
that have given themselves
for my shabby words
to you

whatever it takes
to turn paper into a smile.

balled
and in the trash can,
aeroplanes,
cranes,
poems,
or coffee stains.

whatever it takes
to turn paper
into a smile

Car Windows

in being gone
and being lost
while in a pass
looking at my past
through a window
as trees pass
like in days past
as i have always done
wondering...
wonders of the trees
and their abscense,
the mountains
and their ruggedness,
the cars
and their passengers,
those passengers
looking at their pasts
through their windows
as trees pass
like in their days past
as they have always done
wondering...
I wonder,
are they lost as well?
lost in thought, time or place?

nz

from the far west
so far west
that I lay low below the east
completely in peace

World of Clouds

This is a world of mysteries
mister myster
misting great fogs that hide teh strong and fallen logs
of the trees of knowledge;
obscuring the depths
of the self
in the canyons
cut by our experiences,
hidden despite the great canons
we pride
they are,
after all,
just snapshots,
polaroids,
or Amsel Adam's take
of foreign lands
that may lend a hand,
but that no more describes your rapids
than a grain does great sands;
than a human being being just a plan.

These clouds bind mountain tops with skyscrapers,
encasing stories of living stories within.
our modern ontology of:
Trump tower to business to
condo to commerce to
Dominos to unit 2012.

In this world of mysteries,
we need our sister mysters,
and their high pressure
to bring the sun
and let us catch glimpses of ourselves and others
before we are done.