brushes wide, brushes thin
paint with blood describe each face,
the language of our world is not modernity, but pain.
eyes cry tears, eyes smile joy
blink with lashes to adorn each face,
but every eye is hidden in the end.
oh- to whitewash each canvas,
and dig up jewels out of sleep!
maybe this dream ends awake...

When we ask ourselves who we are, we demand a point of reference to measure our existence. Yet this point of reference itself is defined by who we are. If no anchor is readily available to steady our point of reference, we are not free to define ourselves. Instead, definition becomes undefined. All becomes a swirling mess.

At the cusp of an avalanche. Watch. It will come. 

is love just a song of mind
contrived in meter, melody
rhyme to please the ear
and rythym to our heart?

or is it just a harmony
notes falling in a line
to accompany a mood
or satisfy ideals?

or is love just a single note,
ringing forever in our ears
so sublime to touch
but defined to taste?

i'd be content to float on stars
billowing seas of calm around me.
i'd love to sleep in her hair,
dark silk shadows, warm.
the flow constrained to cars
sailing in the dark
belonging to my soul, calm.
i'd long no more for stinging answers,
truth so sharp, it cuts into me.
i'd reach in bedrock never more,
without a weight, sound.
the singing of nebulae
and eyes shining
as they sail in the dark,
alone.

thoughts

have you ever seen someone and thought they were a work of art?
i mean... i guess we're all works of art.
but i like some pieces of art better than others.

torn apart, an iron heart violently yields to magnetic forces.
two poles of two worlds tug at the specimen's innards.
yearning for something not found in voices...
truth is the sun that eludes the center.

too many tongues salivate cesspools of chemicals,
these gasolines pump pistons in our brains.
tanks in a row trudge towards sacred Petra,
but the bedrock is no hiding place for the sane.

tired sunsets reward the dusty pilgrim with a darkness,
and no moon rises to redeem the fallen day.
machines and men alike make rythyms to move forward.
the way is paved with bones bleached white and rusted plates.