this mind rain washed
flooded thoughts from
rust-stripped
ignition switches

blue thought nostrils breath back
to fast-paced glances
of grit and graceless happenstance

not lost behind
this new-born nuance flaunts
the subtle saturation of
a lost generation

color-blind and camoflouged we hide the
human values of our youth

with an entourage of ambition
we dilute
and wash underwater, the solace we’ve subdued
to find a phrase, ego-bruised for
all intertwined lives
this muse may solve

these are the backyards
fresh minds of the forty year phase
we’re one of the times
when this essense of thisness
finds our omniscience

such character, the leaky faucet…
always dripping

sitting across the kitchen, on the table, a delicious cup of tea…
always sipping

contemplating, subjective, reality…
always gripping

and the morning walk, wearing those untied psychedelic shoes…
always tripping

O my
Sigur Róssian Cycles

Stag nation regrets alone
and you lose your selphone
cigarettes

expatriots

walking comas
drones with headphones
deaf glaucomas

feeling the volcanic rupture in the phoenix womb
the ocean tomb
the pacific rim
iceland

omni localism

An experience so epic, so incomprehensible, so beyond words leaves me feeling torn between two emotions – being completely content and being completely lost.

enjoy

love to all

alliteration nation

some conundrum tickles my tendrils:
if fire flickers and forms to its own fancy
why oh why does it whimsy to whisk away upwards?
when water spills it walks down winding walkways,
but boldy unlike water, fire flickers like a flagellum.
“gosh it glows gorgeously” i gawk with gaping mouth.
a candle can cuddle the key to keeping confidential discourse
as it alludes allegorically all things allowed altruistically to all.
For our friend the flame flaunts its fragrance flagrantly.
Swirling its spikes and sparks so sensually skyward,
why oh why does it not burn back downwards?
constantly carefully catching the quick updrafts unanimously,
el fuego erupts ever so extraordinary, not erroneously.
and here i sit, my face all fire lit,
wondering and conundering,
how did my pants catch on fire?

Primavera bleeds into this bliss
Traften lake receives a meteor shower
of sweet water swimming
With nothern lights glowing
And the beginning dimming
Into the horizon eyelids
And the blinding of innocent
Exploratory winter slumber

***

It’s a shoreline
it’s a fine line

we must cross

but as humankind
we lie on rocks
and grow as moss

What you are seeing
isn’t human or being
it is isness
it’s the act of existence

it’s a shoreline
it’s a fine line

between pain and pleasure
between boredom and leisure
between forgetting and amnesia
between dreaming and truly seeing

brain strokes on overload
tempts the memory to never know
the words I am saying
are in essence
the non-sense of being