Here a Some poems i wrote a few years ago

Gulping you down with chopsticks

Christi is Latin

Monday April 17 published
I threw my hat to the masses  Koo-ra, I listen I speak
do you have a mankind to stare?
then let us return to the beginning
our origin and mean foundation
sandblast the sullen faced punks from the face of the true earth
alright make me your own I breath and all vibrates:
What is your Plexiglas reflection managing to convey
through the smokescreen torment?
Koo-ra I listen i speak I bow
somehow i bow amongst my poor thorny pasture
I find you i crouch i bear witness I am in you and through you
my ground must be your hair
my ears touch must feel your lips
my tongue is on the back of the kingdoms of the earth
my spine is on the cliffs and their many foreheads
my skull is drifting along with the sync
Unknown records forgotten barrels of jazz scraps
and you I am broken and hollowed
hollowed be thy name
i hear that echo in my marrows
my brain bone and crumble and ferment
Blow that skeptics pulse far from me
find my failure, be good, be good boy little boy
save what you can and see that you do not throw your elf into the fire
hah fire heat eat I eat you my lover
you are my grainy bread
the unspeakable or soon forgotten
or newborn fragile polka dot vest and vase
its dear its peculiar
its inviting
Raccoons and lounge chairs
clown being is found being watered kept
and i don’t think it notices the chair in the front of the lounge
that is, unless by some chance racoons king and queen
made it guessed it their throne
i ine line derivative if pineapple
i jest clowns can't never wear topes they must wear curly bush wigs
and like it and live longer because of it
Enough is enough see how the moment rolls and rolls flat the clods
i need a few perhaps more um tiger statues
some granite other sandstone one knee-high
and i would bend stoop over a bit and smile at the well crafted ear
and kiss its dry stone or metal chin and apologize to them all
for my pride is not their pride
my lion is not their smart lion not even a mangy man-eater lion which is not beside the point
enough is enough no more human laugh attacks for me
my hands tell me I must dwell twice among them
the lions i refer to
and memorize their movements
eat the tall grass hide in it stretch sway and never laugh
but smile only for a laugh is like a cough
but a smile is perhaps a little more hidden
we are not men we wary not tarry
my paws are thread

Assorted Poems:

Amongst wrists pressed
Intoxicating loneliness,
Is the effectual night

Bare hands
Entranced by the wind
I marvel

You man take up your bonds
Amongst wrists pressed
And eat their music

Gather stones, make an altar,
Prepare your palms with blood
Come to me when this is done
Ready yourself,

Breathing deeply

Sketch of an old man

Oh what a piteous sight
A fellow comes to drink
And lacking strength fails
To depress the button

Then returns, hunched
Will now greater
Thumbs in furious might
His elbow wavers
With what for others
Is done in ease

So frail and ungainly
I think it peculiar

Sapling thou art fair

I long for thee
Greenest wisp
Belong not to another
I long for thee

This scraping I felt in dreams past
Now surely falling and fast
By trembling fingers

My strong bite pains clamp
Hungry, they appear hungry

Your mailbox
Smashing by twilight
The hoodlums come to
Strike you down
And also your mailbox

All is missed
All is gone, all is missed
I so far and shaking
A little cruel, cheating
Funny I am thrown
Not to come back
I am bone

In farthest skies
Pray for thy soul,
Also pray for the stars’ light

That not to great
A sacrifice be required
Though it shall

The aged and heavy men
In farthest skies
Hope for encounter with thee
Not afar are these too cruel
Monkeys’ brains

Peer through
Thy enamourous glazed eyes pry
With tender arcs
To find a bloody end
Soon turns toward dust
Bedtime gone, notice
We all grasp at macabre
The many moons
All hover, behind
The tracing melted globes
In his mud
Our muddy decent is filled with joy

Washed in his mud
Cleansed by his blood
I am only serving
I am only returning to the mud

In these fields we call your name
For often we have felt the shame
Born to man

Lord your love makes me whole
I understand I owe all to the son

Please wash us in your mud
And cleanse us with your blood
So we will see now

Keep my feet from thorns
So I may hear the horns
Of your coming

In the mud we seek you
By the mud we see

The only road that leads
To your eternity

Our relation to sleep
You are all too often unspeakable
His friend an anguish
Believing with your teeth
Will be throwing him
I would guess down
But I would not guess where
And in this further view
We did not choose to see
But believed only in hell
As a hole in the scenery
Seeing the mist as its door
Cursed it, unbelieving
For the sake of some
Vague laughter
Because it’s not about
This bastard anymore at all
No, without even trying
You unraveled the
Wrinkled leave bed
It was fit for sleeping
So now what helplessly dance
On your own grave
Or - do a handstand and count sheep
No- this will not let you dream
Do not- cut your wrist up
It will- leave the leaves creased with blood
They may- blow into his yard
Leaflets- of a letter
Fallen from- the pocket of a broken soldier
The leaves are stained
If you had not watched the other people
If his anguish did not fool you and tear
If your shoes are removed
And bony toes are willing
Then kick the leaves
Scatter them in a chuckling storm
The back can only be turned
The path of the leaves being sacred

And the end of this poem

I stand exactly here
I am what I am

Echoes of the absolute
Pinch my brain cavities

Then staring I chuckle
Here before me lies the world,

Symbols rake and inspect
The ridgeline of my back,

Contours on my two hands
One writing, trained, my left

Holding the paper down
In the wind,

Not letting it close,
Not letting it curl back on itself

The hand of another judges
The spread of my belly

All is known and given over,
This is what I predicted

And the end of this poem

Sometime past
In the autumn
This creek runs quicker
And widens,
For the sun to be lying
Somewhat mangled across its surface

Sometime past
I saw one feather
Stirring with her current
Passing by a raw stump
Its shade unseen but by me

Downwind a bend is
Sure to lengthen, widen
See how my trust wades
Pulled along in a subtle way

The land slopes, Upstream
My shoe points clearly there
Toward The top heavy places
Where it’s leathery
Soul was born
Next to the beginning

A whole Indian tribe
Would not trample her leaves
As much as I have
Coming here so often

My feet are hollow
Cloaked in honey
Driving the bees mad and feverish
They sting and pierce my skin
And in the chamber
My thick bones smell of blood
Marrow and honey

I heard you coming
Something tells me
I’ve breathed long enough
I have smelt enough

I have been alone
Watching and counting,
Scribbled lifeless word pebbles

Wore tattoos of lanterns
Tin lanterns and jackals praying
I watch them in supplication
How they stare at the trees
Of their separate gods

I heard you coming.
The wind trips
As it stirs round you
I tore at my garments
Asking for a sign
Or a true mirror to keep watch
Of the jackals’ ways

I whispered out unto the deep
There comes one greater than me
One who loves and has known your ways
As one higher does

I held out my ears to the deep
Saying still quieter
Listen and tremble
Listen and tremble walk
Be born again,

Hear the wind stumble
At the feet of the one
Who is coming
One who hears us
And loves us even now
in the higher way
I reached unto the deep
And extended word
Of your blessings.
In the pale blue I stood
Folded the waters
And witnessed it come to pass.
This pleased me.

If I can kneel I am not worthy.
Or painting a time tragedy
I am not worthy of it
I sit.

5. Wind
What does it mean?
Sky color to eye
How does it feel?
How can I be in it?
What is withheld
From my perceiving?

My knowledge of you
Stirs within me
I worship you
I call you out
Of the deep
To come

Burn my knees
Trip my ears
Cry my skull
Stone the water
I perceive to be falling
Bring your forgiveness

Gulping You down With Chopsticks


Go off and think that by reading my poems that you know me. Especially if you havent met me. Some are even real old or written when i was in love or had my mind worng. Just look at them as works of art that might or might not have all that much to do with who i actually am right now. Thanks for checking them out.