Passive Deflection (day 2622)

Does this mean I love you?
Do your choices reflect my state of being
Or do I reflect your changing heart?
Do I passively deflect your approaches
Or do I embrace your movement of my heart strings?
For in these silent hours beside the fire
I have learned I cannot change
The heart which has affected me
Upon each midnight frame.
So then, I remind myself,
I am to be leftover in
Each moment evermore;
A fan until the end of which
I cannot say out loud,
But only in my searching eyes
I see the answer again.

Apples (day 2538)

I dream of an apple that comes in many varieties
One so diverse it can only be spoken of in gutteral movements
So loud it can hardly be swallowed
And so vivacious that even clowns turn their heads and stare.
And when this apple has bent down low,
A bounty shall follow as nectar flow
Fruitful seeds spread in spring rains
Cracking open splendor of new mirth;
Of each crunchy bite
A heart of gold emerges
Pallette of sacred union
As a cider by the fire.

River Bed Flow (day 2414)

Let the river bed flow
I want the world to know
You can hear ol’Gray Bird
Doesn’t matter what season
Doesn’t matter what time
I want the world to know
Shouting out loud
In a forest around here
Alive with rounding music
Hardly lonesome while dreaming
By the river bed swimming
I want the world to know
Carry me on, carry me home

Mae Rim Thailand

Silence (day 2396)

Sitting here wanting silence
Alone could I forever be?
A tree that nods, appreciates
Hear your call inside my heart.
Energy will not make me
Silence is less a mystery
Existential reasoning
And then I hear the call of mother
Who silences my broken string
And then I know each answer that
I’ve never spoken out loud.

Gypsy Slide (day 1907)

There are circles bouncing all around
Get out, get the animals calling loud
Running rhythm deep inside
Hallelujah ride my Gypsy slide

Soul rumbling to the left, begun
You are the guideline when rhythms on
Let loose all the fretting critters
Come and catch what’s rumbling loose

Calling all banana jacks
Plug electricity into the sky
Lord the fruit into sweet blossom
Hallelujah ride my Gypsy slide

Looking For Hope (day 1690)

From lines dragging down my wrists
I observed patience in a drop,
Dripping from my pointed forefinger
That rummaged odd bits discarded into
An old tin box.
I was looking for hope,
But instead found rusty nails
That left ocre upon my calloused tip,
Long ago since numb.

Dumping the remains onto the desk, I read out loud the words
That had been etched into the underside
By an uneven hand:
BOX 05 – EVIDENCE
These words sounded hallow,
And my thoughts once again followed
My wrists lines dripping
Onto the desk where an empty cartridge
Slowly rolled back and forth.

Lofty Wedding Plans (day 1050)

Could you Amaretto my incomprehensible stiletto? Deep soaked truths brushing up against the blue moon life story that shared Tom Waits and Miles Davis equally between the two top sheet stuffed mattress in a good lord rented room.

The walls were left bare; freedom and shit. Fucking expressionists and their lofty ideals pulsing rapidly amongst soiled novellas and empty chopstick promises. How did I get here. How did I find this spot from outside in? I left little spit smears on my way here to keep me from wanting to know the way back, to keep me from guessing at a way back, and to keep the collectors hot at my rented room door.

The walls never left me wondering for too long, they’d start dripping some smear mold juice as the clock told me late. This was after I’d fucked the last resort out of my head and told my mistress to make herself at home, to which she calmly replied she was at home. I was the guest. I was the visitor in this white washed world trying to jam my heart out in broad brush strokes and feverish memories. Not ones that were lucid, the ones that came and convulsed and controlled and regurgitated out my heart like lofty wedding plans standing alone with a big bill and an empty passenger seat.

Cause fuck brothers and sisters. Fuck their abuse and consumption and interruptions and impressions. I’ve got Miles Davis really laying me low when I need the time off. You’re not the legend I thought you could be, but I’ve sure left out a piece of the past like left over cum spots in a 17$ too good too remember night.

Daddy left me here. He was two dollars short on the rent cheque, he was two days late coming home when I held mommas starving and overdosed fingers, left the biggest hole in his smallest of hearts where I put an industry of lifelines and bagged political statements I had prepared for a two minutes long deposition. I wasn’t ruthless as I counted on my fingers the number of deadbeats I had written letters for, I wasn’t ruthless as I blew elitist smoke up the child-like innocent faces of the wide eyed yuppies.

Now dare tell me why my maidens eyes weren’t bloodshot. Why hadn’t the tears soaked through her indiscriminate and perked speedbags that kept me looking like wild Jack, wild Dad, searching for the red room. Red Rum. Fuck. Red room. What kind of luck should I bring down on such an innocent vixen? Such a loudly laughing white swan budding in my autumn garden. I’m not a troubadour. I’m a fucking junkie.

I Am Dance (day 868)

I’m the river and I am rain
I’m the song that sounds the same
I’m the lost and I am found
I’m the up and I am down
I’m the whisper that came out loud
I’m the suns forever cloud
I’m the light in times of dark
I’m the meow and I am the bark
I’m the sorrow and jubilee
I’m the thought and memory
I’m the offense and I defend
I’m the game and I am the end