The Endless House

2009-04-05T16:36:00.000-07:00

Hoping, Helping, Reaching

carefully revealing, only self at only the one only spot.
whistled fumbles, tendencies toward melodies that grab and jar:
chaos and dimness brightly creating more than order and well-lit motion-making.
son of the only daughter or star of the dampest dust, gushing earth stuff,
whimpering down a lilting canon of a night-
we lay our hands on all that we lay our hands on
as we cup the formless invisible nectar of self-possession
glancing wearily toward the oncoming lights. being bold with knowledge
is far too much. knowledge, long out of date, is a cowardly remark
on the daunting task represented by really existing. being bold with
coldness or righteousness, growing soft in theaters and ‘round new graves,
meeting expectations, growing up just fine in the house of the father. hoping,

helping, reaching: simply needing to go through, to pass over,
waiting for that weightless waste welling up in the soul full of water
spilling. the trees have waited too- this long -to finally hug each one of us. but
who among us has noticed well enough the simple science divulged by
the great koans of the innumerable trees? what we are reaching for is still
only our hope. through the space between the stare of man at centuries
and the stare of centuries back at man, something happened right at the start.
a hope for hope was born into a soul
that couldn’t dream of being of itself and for itself. so sweaty and pink.
and then so long for so little. fiction and reason. finality and control.
devices,
limits, copies.
hoping, helping, reaching for a light sometimes seen spilling out from between creases
where these three dimensions meet each other.
war and bulletins, memorandums and tearful telephonings, concerts and murders.
we’ve become what we’ve always seen staring back at us.
deep matter dissolving at the touch of a pulse’s thickness. energy rings. hoping
to help and reach. touching and growing, falling backwards and clawing up,
freezing and rupturing with deepest warmth. hoping, helping, reaching inside you, friend,
for something we can use against our final darkness. it has always been there where it has always been.
I have always been here where I have always been.
here we are as we have always been. and what will we become?

one? the many? blackness? redness? greenness? war-opened? forgotten?
soil fibers? gods of our own design? the pure diamond of emptiness?
above? inside? throughout? lifted? I can’t sleep when I think about it.

2009-04-01T15:33:00.000-07:00

trying hard to metabolize dust into energy
we weary walk naked, scarved by determination
encumbered with apathy and boisterous laughter.

keep eying the sun directly
until we have worn holes in mental ozones plenty and
we will reach into the black space of our one heart
and meet the deadline evolution shirks.

2009-03-19T09:15:00.000-07:00

testing the chemistry of the move
i make into your weight.
when the seal is broken the roof of hammers comes down
to drink from the water with the most upright fishes.

2009-03-05T18:55:00.000-08:00

the dark which now contains us is perfect. a deer-footed troop walking felt paths into a comfortable away. I hold you now and you hold me, but nothing is perceived. one sense overlaps another. this room may only exist inside our beating hearts.

_____________

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2009-03-05T13:33:00.000-08:00

mid-somethings

passionate naiveté,
twenty-four years and some lays,
a few drinks, i'm bukowski,
ambling through night like john wayne.

i breathe reckless, restless sighs
to not drown on lack of sleep.
still learning how to defy
second-guessed essence mystique.

those trees are budding early,
thinking february's spring.
we don't exist as purely
with careers and mid-somethings.

please don't confuse my happy,
i prefer my voice to be hoarse.
fireworks in a bright pink sky,
bursting for better or worse.

i remember her blue eyes,
the confidence they gave me,
the frankness of the first time,
the genuine quality.

we said i love you early,
to prevent being a fling
we didn't last so purely
as we approached mid-somethings.

i threaten my sanity
with obsessive memory,
ambitious images of me,
passé ideals of empathy.

someone turns on the TV,
maybe to tune the day out.
there's your singularity,
vicarious exceeding real.

those trees still budding dearly,
willing february spring,
we can't exist as purely,
with our loaded mid-somethings.

2009-03-05T07:38:00.000-08:00

to have and have not

i could never say no and would wait forever
for you to just say yes.
i wonder whose ego was hung up on never
waking up second best.

i tried on the broadest shoulders
just to show you that i could fit.
it wasn't hard to play bogart,
only to realize when to quit.

2009-03-04T10:13:00.000-08:00

you are the only one i'd let re-arrange me.

2009-03-03T10:51:00.000-08:00

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2009-03-03T10:11:00.000-08:00

the youth erasing the target, replacing the truth.

the media misshaping the media and withholding the glass case,
the roses,
the insanity facing the face at the heart of the only postmodern hope.

shrapnel still left from the vast renaissance of metal and plastic,
the codes to the unmoving fingers are random and
poisoning is now the noblest way the die into yourself
without the aid of endless sirens or candidates.

2009-03-03T10:05:00.000-08:00

like a lake open to a red moon
i am open to the wealth of you, collected in spirit
at the silent home of my knowing.
i separate you strand by strand and stand alone
only to reminisce with your indivisibility.

i knew it would be you reminding me,
from inside, just what i'm like.
that golden-haired little boy
has waited to hold your hand and sigh.

forgetting is such a weightless measure
and remembering is so tearfully heavy,
but truth is the only light bright enough
to keep away the chill dark of dissolution
which threatens me from my edges.

2009-03-01T16:31:00.000-08:00

Pete, Jane, Frank, and Laura

Pete’s hair is a long, tangled mess of avoidance.
he thought not combing it would make him pure,
but just another insecure
rationalization.

Tried to beat anxiety with doped up wuwei
and ended up with a disjointed lot
of revelations turned juvenile
understandings.

Still a bum kid staring down whiskey in his veins,
swerving in between home and fucking up.
He’s relational and estranged
just like everyone else.

Nothing more embarrassing than being alone,
Jane feels like the reason they make these ads
for singles and flatter stomachs,
but she won't deign to click.

She finally read the Word of God in college,
from a tiny book with a green cover,
most often surreptitiously,
desperate for a way out.

Always seems to be a chasm between her lust
for attention and her need to be saved.
She’s relational and estranged,
just like everyone else.

Frank’s flock is made of mostly irrelevant thoughts,
hypotheticals that he never chased.
That's quite a brutal way to die,
dreams replaced with complaints.

One unending soliloquy from mind’s pulpit,
he would tell everybody he loved them
if he could only find out how
to phrase or frame it right.

Sunday night hypertension with weeks to dawn and
universes to down and then piss out.
He’s relational and estranged,
just like everyone else.

Laura stomps in each day, saying ‘I hate my life,’
cutting her school lunch with a plastic knife.
Sadness is the old, bad habit
that she could never kick.

She can’t remember which helplessness to unlearn,
whether some bitterness is well deserved.
Orphaned into a false, mundane,
mediocrity sect.

Took up running for all the symbolic reasons,
and found only another way to ache.
She’s relational and estranged,
just like everyone else.

2009-03-01T13:37:00.000-08:00

CONFESSION AND FOREWORD

dear, i made up all that shit about meditation
you came to love me in a moment's hesitation.
i didn't lie, we both speak in approximation.
all the words you know, quick, what's their definition?
i just want immunity from my intuition,
except that's purely childish selfhood and tradition.
let's not go and google our zodiac perdition,
ascribe to what's inside more poetic inscriptions;
but, run, galavant toward our whimsy's ambition,
we can live beyond lost pride and failure's derision.

but what's that, which kiss did i like the best?
we try to entrap each love to confess
a blush it can't quite comprehend or wrest
from the blood flow between our brain and breast.

there's old gentle sighs dubbed with musical knifes of light,
sometimes waking up cries of dust and adjusted sight
and other times you feel ordinary and your mouth dry,
thinking you'd die for the freedom to laugh and defy
heartless alarms and careers too early and contrived.
i stomp to the shower to the tune of the reprise,
i'll carry that weight, i'll open sleepless blood-shot eyes,
exorcise tiredness with coffee and a smile's guise,
edit out crusades of gripes to die for decent pride.

though fighting bleak won't make you unique,
what love, what justice from feigning meek?
some feel richer for what they entreat,
others slave over what makes them weak.

the bible 2 won't eschew any such avenue,
but rather accrue purple, green emotional hues
in a gone pasture of humanity courting truths.
the conundrums won't soothe much of the hurt that we outgrew,
the thinking is inherently blue, not meant for proof
of black, white, heavens and hells, to celebrate or rue.
i saw angry in hungry, deep in grief, drunk to lewd;
yet, i did bloom and still depend on these diseased roots.
how long must i polish sin off god's most holy tooth?

we never knew dreaming up a soul
made of an ancient bottom-less hole
would be so vital to feeling whole,
we think in why's for sake of revolt.

we try not to wonder when we'll stop letting ourselves go,
if a body is a vessel or a temple, no,
no judgment for a world hazy and wreaking of smoke,
no lust tainting energies of potential and hope.
tried not to feel remote when i awoke well below
great vague expectations of what i should be and know.
a spiritual winter cure global warming type foe
enlists, misguides passion with its apocalypse goad.
i clothe myself in myths of transcendence, but just crow.

i am aware of being aware,
i heaped a blank stare here, there, nowhere,
praying, maybe, for words, thought to bear
a continuity we could share.

2009-02-22T07:43:00.000-08:00

i laugh, they file in all defiant and hazy,
only the internet for imagination,
teen angst plagiarizing past generations,
ego being the reason and life, the movie.

my bed's full of wondering how much the week
is sleepless for the weekend.
sisyphus is recalling stealing time from hell with will and reasoning,
my foot's when driving home,
inhaling blends of nicotine and gasoline,
easing my boulder through rush hour traffic,
unsure if it's burden or friend.

keep dreaming this repeating a redeeming free,
been practicing a mirror sunken-eyed with truth,
in between wrinkled optimism and raw youth,
i play arcade bob dylan in my life, the movie.

a poem is everything at 11:59 on friday night,
after having left the impossibles to glow at the indifference,
when a narrative spun some long hair memory yarn
critique of existence
greening in january just to match neon signs beyond wrong or right.

i scratch memory for holy simplicity
soothe addicted hypocrite history regret,
a perpetuity of highs and lows we get
for the realness of recasting life, the movie.

there's an expanse of white mountains dangling
from the ceiling by prisms of light.
stars are penetrating the blinds for minds made up
of shadows and doorways,
inside out logic for words, eternity's to honor immortal malaise.
no, you weren't even you, dear,
but an erstwhile composite romantic height.

a philosophy for every futility
to null punch lines crafted by tragic beauty jest.
geneva liked maria's voice, they're both a mess
for paradox excursions in life, the movie.

i wish singing in my room would spread energy electric becomings
and that omaha girl could hurl her hurt into the pacific ocean.
she's pale for california, so wears that sundress eddy of emotion
and a blank face colored with piercing eyes.
her everythings are her nothings.

i love you's a belief that transcends clarity.
i want to rise above the conditional
happy we tried to tip-toe to to be loyal.
souls belong somewhere someday if life, the movie.

2009-02-21T07:56:00.000-08:00

calisthenics for the spiritually restless

i stretch my arms overhead
and rotate 360 degrees
purposefullly, but carefully
as if tiny universes
are enclosed in my hands.

i can't remember if i'm trying to go to sleep or wake up.
i massacred myself with a milieu of maybes.
i got to get rid of this incessant crick in my neck.
i took for granted a stable heart and breath.

i used to drink and sing so bitter red.
i don't know if the dilution was acid or base,
but my insides made fine orange drapes
for music to spin off and stay in wake.

2009-02-20T08:01:00.000-08:00

she was dressed with blue nerves and
just waiting to fall for it again.
it's her romantic fabric
and irony against an ocean's
worth of teeming innerspace.

the world and her trade off in
forgetting life's an ongoing art,
it's always a transcendent
dance in a real elegant ballroom
until someone has to drive.

never got rewarded with
the privilege of a morning-less night,
in spite of tireless efforts
to defy and thereby beautify
wars between sleep and good times.

she nestles a shoulder with
a vulnerability that can
seduce its way onto an
altar of raw energy and soul
beyond any thought or head.

that's the weight of an early
sunset in november tugging at
the break-neck and broken hearts.
ends up that conflict is what makes it
easy to feel true and honest.

2009-02-19T08:07:00.000-08:00

beto's

poetry nachos,
jello shots and poetry,
no, no, wait, I got it:
poetry on jello shots.

craig can play bass
and overwhelm us
with his faux-cajun charm
and those crazy red locks
of unbridled drunken fury.

hamming it up is the new american past-time.
every kid wants to be a pop star,
forget being an astronaut.
wouldn't you rather be adored
as oppose to drifting
in anonymous outer space?

there's this famous quote,
something to the effect of
"one must strive to
be absoultely modern".
funny how these times,
defined by national TV programs
where fat people jump through small holes
with hilarious consequences,
can turn truism into
an absurd, spiritual deathknell.

my hair dripped one bead of sweat on my forearm
and our overblown nature hurricaned my senses.

2009-02-18T09:14:00.000-08:00

advice, rules, manifesto, my allies at the bar

to write of fear and pain,
confusing it for love.

when the drear became lame
and the edge seemed a bluff,
it soon turned smart and sane
to simply smile, shut up.

posture is all about
timing and confidence.
with no desperate pout,
faces become limitless.

suddenly, HAPPINESS...
just as stout and immense,
in looks once called pretense.

holy fucks just make too much
loud to make a phone call.
not a matter of luck
involved in staying enthralled.

it's the music's layers
that make the walls seem thin.
neighbors prefer gaunt stares
at the television

because then it's easy
to live amicably.

the psychic energy
(if there is ESP)
isn't suited to pleas
for do-overs, reprieves.
whether molehill, quagmire;
vain attempts to appease
impossibility.

a keen sensibility
of sensitivity
almost implicitly
requires a firm belief
in tender humanity.
yet those wholeheartedly
concede that it's easy
to feel flatly bereaved
when beauty is perceived,
almost daily, in grief.
but say 'better to be
contradictory than
indifferent and empty.'

unrealistically
pleasant philosophies
sound so unappealing,
but peasant mentalities
of longing can sometimes gleam
genuine vitality
from just hoping unflinchingly.

we want our religion to be
unrelenting positivity
with as much humor as humility.
it's not that judgments are so cheap,
just that we're way too many discrete
opinions and attitudes for righteous conceit.

just dare bare-knuckled openness,
to be beyond tongue-in-cheek.
forget about all this silence
and solitude that you seek?

though odd to adore and abhor
clumsy acts of drunken camaraderie,
the sheer bliss of rapport can't be ignored
even if only evoked conditionally.

it's hard not to go about this dismissively,
but people tend to defend their own promiscuity
as if obstinancy proves ethical fidelity.

fluidity in identity is seen as true heresy
and we forget to be forgiving of the endless bumbling
and insisting of existing amidst this shared tryst of reality.

please, dream of waterslides
and a lack of objections.
smirks, perfect alibis,
just justifications.

few like looking for a home
in the endless expanse of mind,
but who could resist and say no
to the dizzying soiree of night?

the tenuous periphery,
on the verge of being seen,
contemplating, playfully,
duality and what it means,
how it draws us to this scene.

though, mostly a defense
are these human critiques,
questions of quintessence
can charm with their mystique.
observations, mad providence;
there's so much meaning to entreat,
everyday is an abundance
of curiosities to pique.

don't try to take responsibility
for us needing our litany of needs
being conciliatory
can't quite achieve inner-peace.

don't use the word ambivalence
to muddle true transgressions,
looming is the sad consequence
of choosing isolation.

emotional intelligence;
a skill or an obsession?
wise wants instant convalescence
from her fits of perception
and all the ambiguity

threatening 'big' consciousness?

larks teeter atop flowers,
impetuous enough
to peer underneath
expectations
and petals,
desperate to discover
the endearing value
of what is waiting
to be seen.

strong lights up a cigarette
just to fill his lungs with smoke,
eyeing the pretty coquette
sitting at the bench alone.
he mutters something like 'hell,
hall of famers fail seven
times out of ten' and stands up.

2009-02-17T19:34:00.000-08:00

many wombs broken down smearing weekly wear on store walls
over the nearing stare of copulating gazers
who despite tazers
are sharpening their cage hands and blades with razors.
but I think to worry more about the top where a flip-flop
ceases to be footwear and the agenda is in good care of
corrupt logic and biological hegemony and oligarchic tendencies
offending many many in the nearing starlight
where silly reflection sits
gaily disturbed by we:
a disruption!

I’ve never never not performed a function
or gone head down into towering guilt built on the fruitful fits
of the rich gone mad gone disillusioned and ballooned
careening down monsoons no sooner come than gone
away with a rusty treasure just now sought and understood un-bought
by scores of savage plots begot at the foothills of Satan’s armpit:
left side,
at the hideous heart of selfishness and witless wishlessness.

2009-02-16T19:53:00.000-08:00

TO SLEEP ON THE COUCH WHERE MY MOTHER SPEAKS

I’ve followed the white lines
stretching into the deep noise of night
and been frightened out of my unnatural ecstasy
by rumors of a light that always returns.

I’ve emptied out spaces
wider than the fat line of historical memory
and frowned into mirrors sadly
paler than the ocean’s fizz.

I’ve burned the word of god
to keep warm in the storm
and fallen through a field of swords for my trouble
enfolded in a labyrinth of melting diamond,
the center of a heat that could only make me laugh for memory.

I’ve created stories about a man made of shadow
because I fear the truth of my depth
and in the afterwake of my opening
I hear the muffled sound of me
speaking through and to the dark at my heart.

I’ve held the whole sun in my smallish chest
to see if the burn might last out a gasp or two
and ended up putting it back for the love of the living tree-
also perhaps another whim.

I’ve followed myself over the edge and been frightened
in a place of my soul that is neither light nor dark
and I believe in a revolution of light in this horrid nongrey trap,
where the pedestal is too small for anyone to fit on
but we still try everyday for all the eternities.

I’ve seen the same sun
reflecting in the eyes of millions of different people
and been overthrown by the way time holds itself
in the manner of a child
hating away that which would love it the most.

I’ve dreamt of a shining tomorrow
while a today still died at my feet
and rejoiced at the gift of sleep
when the voices of the awake became black dots crawling through
a black world of peace and waters
cool and silken
like a velvet mist of beads under the skin.

2009-02-15T13:08:00.000-08:00

jenny and simon

she's so sexy with her rhetoricals
and tiny fists full of fearless protest.
she's not afraid of sounding lovesick and
is coy, casual as she interjects
about seven or so spiritual takes.

there are no quick fixes, no alibis,
and i'm so afraid of choking on sighs.
apathy is a sickness and belies
that childhood glimmer worn down in our eyes.

i'm not sorry for trying to describe.
simon keeps his closed in the living room,
still shy, never having formed that healthy
hatred for the obscurity of soul.
i sit indian style and feel happy
for the gentleness and the irony.

2009-02-14T10:00:00.000-08:00

WHAT THE MOON DOES WHEN WE'RE NOT LOOKING
__________________________

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