London's Monument to the Slave Trade

patchwork plantation mosaics
painted parliament,
purveyors on belay...
profits purchased a poem.

All is Calm

be at
safe with tea
of valerian.

your life vest
is under the sea,

fastened to your
welts.

Cenial [sic]

Traffic makes for cenial days,
dawn at night.

A sunrise's sunset drifts idly
below the surface of light fractures
with reds dampened,
spawning one-way mirrors at twilight:
picturesque diamond dust reflects
like fresh daytime snows below blue,
or dew mists
on smiling Arboretum spring leaves.

Aren't water drops just Escher's eyes?
Doesn't poetry have pleasant
sometimes abstract thighs?

Age old dilemmas revisited:
What came first, dawn or starlight?
(Who came first, mother nature or father time?)

Age old civilizations revisited:
All of our cement lines are our cities veins:
some of these are white lines for the forever vain,
yet anxieties always manage to get the main.

But a day is just a day.
Dawns at night should be
deep breathes and
retreats from lights spites.
Don't except, cenial-- is melting treasures.

To Jes

the silhoette
of a broken heart beats
to the sorrowful windsong
emminating
from the cracks of
"cannot be closed" windows
boiling thoughts
despite a summer's winter
condensing
apon the clouded panes
collecting
into tear drops
trickling down
leaving trails
in the mists
of love.

but you still breathe.
your breath still dances
with the unseen swirls
of the air's landscape
ebbing
with the bittersweet currents
of your hurricane's
close cousin:
a lucid dream
on a fresh, clean
canvas.

Dinner

i think i
imitated away
all notions of real
as i sit eating
imitation, cheap meals

nutella on dry
wheat bread,
why?
feeling cheap
feeling lazy,
has the basics;
this is the "faked it"
dinner.

Lox Bagel

Supposedly,
the bagel
and cream cheese
is an excellent avenue,
street,
boulevard
fucking highway
for smoked salmon,
red onions,
and capers.

This is suppose'ed,
because it is supposed to be
EPIC
yet all to often,
it is a fail bagel
of
food color added,
oceanic confused
farm raised fish,
a disgrace
to greatness.

Sand

these grains
of sand of grains of
sand
draws sand
sand
these grains
draw sand
draw dunes
draw time
these grains
these grains of sand
form beaches
and deserts
sand
in the stained glass
of the sacred
is the sands
draw sands
draw dunes of the lands
grains drifting
inching slowly
these grains
of melting lifeless mountains
of sand
burying our ancients
dispersing their memories
in grains
of sand
in waves
leeching shores
in bombs
from our wars
are sands
are our hands
sifting the lands
these grains
drain through fingers
to land
into the dunes of our hands
becoming our sands
our hands
draw dunes
draw time
these fingers
these fingers of our hands
form love
and make
hands
made the stained glass
of the sacred
with our hands
draw hands
in hands
of comfort
in fingers
through art
in the shake
of peace
are hands
are but fingers
are but sand
are but grains
of the land

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.

WaLLS

I draw on my walls
painting the unthinkable
confusing M.C. Escher himself.

Green and brown
are my colors of choice;
I like nature settings,
so I leave blanks for snow
and noise.

BUT THEN I HUCK A RED CAN OF PAINT AT THE WALL

Next thing I know
I'm sitting in a bathroom stall
wondering
whether
Betty really is a good fuck.
Her number is there,
I trust the writer to be trust worthy
because I trust he didn't pee on the seat.
I trust that when I flush
my shit doesn't just land in the street...
I sometimes stare at my feet
as I walk on my walls
leaving muddy tracks
from when I wandered through a rainy forest scene
like the seattle music scene
of Mushroom aided Alice type dreams.

I once fell asleep at my friends band practice.
I had been playing the roll of:
"Manic Insomiac"
and crashed.
In my dream
I was screaming
as I shot holes
into bleeding walls
just to view the inner structure...
the inner structure...
the inner structure of dreams,
the foundation of spark,
the flint for the heart.

I draw on my walls
with food color infused butane,
but am only now
beginning to realize
that I cannot
run
from my ashes.