goldocean, i have no more words to give you,
it smells too much like summer,
too much like home, but you are
a thousands miles away
Gaea wants to be Midas, the earth is in
a million shades of the ring
you left on my front porch,
of my mane back when i was wild, when i was free.
i remember when was your leo, you'd stare at the stars and wonder
what it felt to be molten but still burning
but you'd never know, never know,
because the sun doesn't taste like honey
when the well runs dry, it tastes like
                                                             death. (sometimes i miss you,
                            but i know better) :thumb476040630: NaPo XXIII. Magnum OpusI will not reach my best before I die.
Perhaps upon my passing, I'll confer
A greater worth to all my pen supplied
And maybe one or two will be preferred
By readers who come after. But not yet--
Oh no, I've miles to go before I sleep.
Four hundred fifty years, and they'll forget
I ever lived, for poems may not keep.
But maybe one will turn up on a page
Folded in a journal, faded ink
And read by my descendants in an age
When such archaic words will make them think.
I'll raise a glass of tea to that and pray
That future daughters give their best this way. :thumb475942944: ice fishing: circa 1982white bucket simple rods red bobbers ice scoop
clamber in 1977 slant six blue dodge
arrive smelling the snow like a dream
walking tall across the ice no fear
sit by the hole waiting
hands red raw burning smiling grins
eight years old north pole dreaming vast
tin pail ice scoop sitting granddad pipe tobacco
black ice with blue-veined cracks
polar eternity each ridge an adventure
old blue pickup granddad at the wheel
lonely red sun black pine shadows over snow
washboard ride to home quiet country music local AM
cold happy boots unlaced waiting to return like old sailors
hungry for their sea-bride
dampers opened fire kindling crackles lustily
hard salami saltines tap water mustard pickled bologna
roger mudd reassuring fidelity calm static commercial
granddad briar pipe carter hall tobacco quietly puffing fragrant reality
strength that will never fail beyond surety beyond question beyond imagination
of anything else
to bed to sleep at peace Overture and UnderworldOverture and Underworld:  
59 and counting, surmounting the sublime and divine
It has been a rough year, a tough year.
Heroes falling and lovers stalling
(waiting to see if they can make a better deal).
Seals cracked and blistered, insistence
shading into ambivalence, future tense
and the dollars and sense of best laid plans
making mock the monk and the steamer trunk
where the metamorphosis used to occur,
hinges now rusted shut and air running out.
Shout and the audience cannot hear, as they cheer
the lights and legerdemain, vain pavonine flourishes
nourishing nothing but overstuffed egos.
My father passed a day after the new year turned,
quietly and with dignity.
Awake to the end, aware and reassuring
that he was okay.
I don’t think I will slip away in peaceful acceptance.
I will not go gentle into that good night,
the light is too bright and I have work undone,
a daughter and a son or two to look out for.
Wars and whores and spores and sores and scores
unsettled an :thumb476252952: :thumb475962750::thumb476511806: :thumb476609555::thumb475244399::thumb452883762: 'Til Rome Burns Down'Til Rome Burns Down
I am a dishwasher
(Human, not machine.)
I work at a busy restaurant near Pike's Place Market.
At work, I talk to no one.
I sweat.
I jitter.
One day, they'll fire me,
but I won't know how or why.
I should work faster.
They're going to fire me...
BUT,
on an off-chance,
one glorious day,
when all boats beat against the current,
and night forgets to fall...
when the fish in the market return to life,
and swim feebly through half-melted ice...
when the Jamaicans that get high by the docks hit nirvana,
and all float soundlessly away...
all the buskers
and all the prep cooks and bus boys and dishwashers
will join me,
for I will win the lottery.
And I will buy my old restaurant,
but never retire.
I will sit in the dish pit and smoke
and watch the dishes pile
until every last customer storms out in anger,
and plates spill and break on the floor.:thumb474662289: On the twilight of sleepingSwitch is up, plug it with seeing fingers,
your bedroom´s sun.
The small skies on your wrist, the square ones
on your cellphone
(bedtable is clean, so no chances
of parents rioting their voices
one unexpected hour in the future)
Don´t think about the moment
when the computers defeat your household elders
don´t think that everyone always believes
you can do everything
everyone will understand how to turn on,
so, eveything will have to be solved by you
as your eyes grow more annoyed 
at the erratic rest your brain is getting.
Turn down your electronic cuckoo
tomorrow will be a happy bare monday.
The tenth hour nears, close the door and seal it,
hope for sleep and silence,
the sheets will rise
the thrashtrucks will sing the inverted morning
and you will cradle a pillow,
like a teddy bear you lost
now awaking you up
to quickly feast on odd dreams
odd enough to make quilts
wake up wondering
how curious was the party. solar plexuseverything I touch is a dream.
the ragged skin of the blinds
that scrape against my fingers as
I pass through them,
the leftover dew of late rain
that welcomes me,
the eyes and egos
that diminish at my arrival.
I see everything
but not everything sees me
and this is the definition of a dream.
I mark time for fifteen hours,
showering myself with apathy,
gazing at the stars below
weaving flowers, sweat, and life itself
as I wait to die again in this moratorium.
they all wake up
as shadows of bustling hope
crowd everything I've ever loved;
a harbinger for the festivities to come
a vociferation of vampires.
and I take their silhouettes
as a pall over myself.
I too, will awake to the truth
and blackness of space
until it is my turn to dream about
those poignant, breathing commodities
again :thumb476705282::thumb476750470:

Mature Content

The Philosophy of ExpressionWhat a liberating feeling it is
To use a tool of ink in your hand
To have the courage to scribble down
All aspects of humanity, good and bad
You possess the willpower to choose
To use your vocabulary to start a war
To change a persons perspective
To write a masterpiece that many can understand
You have the freedom to take a stand
It’s all been done before
But you will do it differently
Through mere words put together
You have the power to make a difference
You have the power to change the world by hand The Man and the Molluski don't mean to dig
but the mollusk makes me
  its pulsating mass
         a constant reminder
  that i host its growth
                 and weight
our slow-moving foot
flows into itself
  feeling its future up
  toward dry land
                to feed
up this alone of evolution
and discovery
         of just how quickly
     that lives
         pulled off onto sidestreets
         or propped up in bathrooms
              are forgotten     (lost)
and how best intentions
     often forget
     into which slot
          the prayers go
i don't mean to drag
but the mollusk makes me
    drag it down
    to stir the silt
         wel