This line This word Made we

This line
this word
turned and wrought emotion
wrestle free
my thoughts
I know not but
it is all of me
if only a piece
a part of
some time
once was now
not honed
just so and
now
yes now
make permanent
with form just so
structure sewn
that you
yes you
may grasp at an
I
that may be
you
we can
shall
will
see each other’s I
separately
lined
worded
turned and wrought
as thus
this line
this word
made
We

The Urinal “Lovely Pee”

Ah, the Urinal. Sweet swishing.
White porcelain the backdrop to rusty mineral deposits.
“Just Say No” Your captured audience sprays the message with THC laden evidence. Nancy never the wiser.
Yellow and blue make green, but what of yellow and pinkly fresh deodorized crystallized roundly marketed Bulls Eye.
Hitting the mark, missing the nonexistent lid. Oh happy man, jealous woman.
WAIT! Have to clean that splatter on the tip of the shoe, the back draft on the hand. YUCK and YUMMY.
But what of the wet spot? The uncomfortable quarter size non-shaken drop leftover.
Shake once, okay. Only proper hygiene. But never shaken enough!
Shake twice, little fun; hairy palm secret pleasure. Yum, yum.
Then, the sprinkle on your pants, “what the f__k!” Do I need dippers?
Cover it up with a splash from the sink. Yeah, right! You pissed your pants pissy.
Yet, the experience, the Urinal, all worth it. All mine.
Tall urinals from floor to chest. What a sight!
The torso ones; a torso with a dick cup just for peeing.
The baby ones, Urinals for kids making men out of boys. “That’s my boy. Proud of Ya. For peeing while standing up? Yeah!!!
The Grand Slam of them all, the communal Urinal made of shinny steel with constantly running trickle, trickle sound of tinkle, tinkle water. Sometimes mosquitoes tapping the tip of your spray, shoot em down, no matter how old you are, playing Army with the Urinal. Push it out, let it out, steaming HOT.
A trip or hopping of bars produces the steadiest and most gloriest of Urinal sensations.
Long, hard, metal like piercing power released after tying a yellow ribbon round the tip. OUCH! Simply cross your legs and don’t listen to the taunting, “Visit Niagara Falls” “Want to go for a swim” of your brother.
Quick stop next to your friend even a stranger becoming your friend saying, “How’s it Hanging?”
Opps, caught a glimpse, took a look without wanting to be seen.
One penis to the other, “Lovely day for a pee.”
Nothing beats the Urinal Marvel of plumbing for peeing.
Thank Mister Craper for my genetic ability,
Thank the Urinal standing there awaiting me.

Epilogue or PS
Wait! Hold the hose, stem the tide.
Peeing in the shower, standing up in a Urinal,
What a nice surprise.

Stack of wood

There's this
stack of wood
over there
I like to look at
get lost in
with its browns, and hues
and round and rounds
Put together, just so
meeting some purpose
use
And I, I can't help
but think
That's me
That's them, my friends
That's us
I'm like that stacked wood
put up, there
People are like that
pile of shapes
yet round or so
It's me
It's us
And I get lost
in a comfort of uses
Wooden variance, and hues

This morning after - A poem for Japan

Bitter, good coffee
enjoyed
this morning - after
others sit cold - unsure
this morning - after
warm thoughts cupped - offered up
this morning - after
for you, me - greatly affected
before - this morning
sip the good
enjoy this morning
after

I'm Tired

I'm tired
At first, it was the pressure.
Comfort lost through great pressure.
A short burst of anticipation followed up by
Tubular anti-delight and headache.
Oh boy, or girl, isn't so deterministic as
We are all headed out
In the same direction.
Sorta.
The prospects and promises are exhausting.
I'm tired.
Now, follow that up with
Nutritional matriculation
Of the cultural variety.
At some point I'll,
I'll rebel loudly saying, I didn't ask for this!
Like it was never said before a hundred
Thousand times.
The collective scream will fall on
The collective deaf and tired.
Trying to make their own new found way.
Here's my ticket. That's the ticket.
To a life's labor with little
Love or desire.
You must take the ticket and ride.
Another tunnel you've prepared for
Without little knowledge of except
A faint memory. Oh, yeah.
The headache. Let me have that ticket.
I'll take a stand. I'll love my labor.
And go home
tired
to do it all again
the next day.

You may ask

You may ask,
who is he?
To wit I reply
I am not.
You may ask,
From whence he comes?
To wit I reply,
From nowhere,
Everywhere.
I am as am not.
You may ask,
What sayeth you?
To wit I reply
I sayeth not.
You sayeth for me.
As always, yesterday, today,
And evermore.
It is as it was
And will continue
With me and any other
Like me.
Like you?
No, like you.

My daughter wants a tattoo.

I woke up.
My daughter wants a tattoo. Something that reads
Chicks are tuff,
Strawberries are cute, or
Fuck you.
It’s time to make a decision.
Okay, I woke up. Now what?
Sitting in this wheelchair at the top of the stairs
I heard they closed the corner tavern.
Troubles a stirring.
There’s no taking care of business
My designs were washed away
As the Etch A Sketch® was sold
During last week’s garage sale.
We were able to buy grandma's medication
But boy how I miss that toy.
Kids these days!
They grow up.
They take over and
Design the newer prosthetics
We all become so dependent on.
I remember when I only needed
A crutch.
Now it’s hovercrafts and tattoos.
But it’s nice when they ask
Can I say fuck you?

Transmagnamodified Technicolor Sensationalism

Stumbling locutions and non-confabulating copious word lexicography striving to reveal a rational juxtaposition patronizing soul-searching connectiveness and boundless inappropriate boundaries. Boundaries? Hah!

Lavender phases mixed with purple hazes; new perfumes dancing within the hues. Bi-polar elation magnifies opposing certainty. Behold the Jabberwocky for The Allure of Madness is seen in mirrors reflecting mirror images making the nonsensical sensually sane. Schizophrenic internal preoccupation lying to an altered state of consciousness. Electrified Cool Aid Acid static electricity moving the uncontrollable contorting convictions of black and white conflictions touched by gray.

Sharing and caring, jarring and marring, an archangel sending in his hoards to watch over and comfort the vulnerable, weak, and weary. The smells and the bells of dream state church attendance. Reading the missal of The Power of Now marks a New Beginning with the Buddha sitting, laughing, smiling, contradictory to the nature of suffering. Vanity of vanities, time being in the wrong place, place being in the wrong time, a dichotomous duality heeding hedonistic Epicurean delights, never a “…release from the captivity of concupiscence.”

Suspended disbelief, believe in the moment’s delusion, to live the circular nature of
Surreal discourse. Walk away, up the down staircase, swim upstream against the tide of unyielding dialogue, descend into the depths of the inferno, a Paradiso of intellectual, spiritual, emotional, and physical passion. Is Milton Right? Are we lost in “The dark decent, and up to reascend, though hard and rare”

You say not for you but for yourself. Selfish want and need needing to be needed and wanted within unrequited love. An enigmatic sooth-saying elixir said to reveal the nobility of life. A Placebo (FDA approved Rx Obecalp) that produces extroverted expectancies within the struggling soul searcher; the Shaman within. Countdown to extinction through a Catalyst not of our own doing, not of others doing, not of our control. A Catalyst for what? A change for the better, for the worse?

Fight on brave Saint Solider. Thrust thy trusty sword into the fantasized mythical dragon of passionate sinful barren hearts laid waste by a moment of honor. Infinitely caught in a blaze of the bright and the balmy effulgence of a modern day rotund Shakespearian amphitheater while circling the heavens and skirting and prancing along the event horizon. Duel on, Knight of old, Eternal Champion, canonized by the forbidden pomegranate offered to all but experienced by two within the world of lotus eaters, naysayers, and hater-ations.

William Hurt’s modified monkeyness caught within the primordial swirling why-self; a void of fulfillment and sustained awareness. A moment of profound clarity and oneness with the whole when life suddenly grabs you and you forget about yourself and just are. The Circular equation of pi where “... those who claim to discover everything, but produce no proofs of the same, may be confuted as having pretended to discover the impossible.” Since there is no squaring of the circle, since there is no end but the middle Tao, since the vision quest within the tent is but a construct, a massing of smoke-filled opulence, is the moment deluded? Is the solution solvent with the suicidal thoughts of a boy’s never ending story. A lovesick neediness poked by a needy undefined love?

Without a doubt, doubt says it all, at least No Doubt, singing a song of conviction and knowledge of certain uncertainty. Reaching inside the honey pot knowingly wanton sticking to the glow of amber chromaticity and dominated by an embodied revolutionized meta-morphed modulation. A linguistic grouping of two where so much has been said, so much can be said, and nothing else can be said. Amare me vocat. The unabridged 13 volume dramatized romance adds to the common place Romeo and Juliet lexicon through Transmagnamodified Technicolor Sensationalism.

A radiantly sublime climatic emotional oeuvre indeed.

Still

Still
It's that after sex
After a mad dash
After a days hard labor
Where you're quiet, content.
Still
Hints of a Pounding
A deep quivering thrust
Then a
heart beats last giant push
Like A
dying fish's last jump
Moving agaist the water
Lovingly
Still
It's not for not.
It's a cool sheet's touch.
It's a walk in the fog
Knowing your way
Waiting happily at the end.
Still
That low murmer
Like a babies sleeping rumble
Or a winds wrestling a rock
Or a pedals loss of color
Still
To be still and all
Presentable

Standing in front of an empty auditorium

Standing in front of an empty auditorium,
a blank movie screen,
the grand canyon,
naked, hard as a rock,
yet looking down,
nothing.
Looking out at
a blank stare of forever.

There's that quietness,
late, late at night,
that's so comforting
& coldly numb
You hear the distance racing by.
You feel a star's solar wind against your bare skin.
You close your eyes to see better and
attempt to move but
trepidation.

You've locked eyes for ten hot minutes,
wanting,
go in to kiss and
puff!
The moments gone.
Desire never happened.
You're touching that one,
soft part of the inner thigh.
Dared to move up,
asked to indulge.
When you move,
it's like corse bark
on the log left out of the fireplace.
The heat died out and
eveyones been asleep for hours.

Bucketlist advice be damned!
never waste a Boner *cough*
In a lone apartment,
with the trains rushing by,
I grab my resolve,
and I
Scream and Yell!
And I
beat at the walls,
and I
push through the door,
into,
nothing.

It might be a long,
yet likely short,
tunnel where I
and a bunch of
echoing me's
want to go running out
to escape these frigid confines.
But where's the light?
Where's the embrace of knowledge?

I loved!
I fought for the fuck!
I moved from beginning to end with
sprinkles of relationships,
smatterings of emotions,
and for what?
This baby set adrift?!
Damn the torpedo!
Wasted hardons them all.

For as I lay here.
I seek that quiet.
I wish that moments nonmoving
with a bodies emptiness,
and a hardness that's soft.
Now, to share that struggle
might just fill up an empty auditorium
and I'd see more
than nothing.

Been a long time since I Blogged and rolled. That's okay. I had lost the motivation to really add anything here. Life for me seems to move like that. Ideas come, I roll with them for a while, and then just I simply stop. The will is gone. Well, I have a reason to write again and do what I wish to do. Let's see if I do anything with it.

Ping Pong

someone close to me said, "if ping pong is an olympic sport, than foosball should be too."

well, why not?

From the movie, "The Killer Elite"

The 6 P's:

Proper planning prevents piss poor proformance.

If interested in the film, go here: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0073240/

My favorite part of "One Last Thing"

The lunatic on the street says,

"When you're born you cry and the world is happy. When you die, the world cries... and you are happy. "

What a cool way to look at things!

Cool poem I read related to the VT shootings

Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning’s hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die. -Mary Elizabeth Frye