Rhymes with Crass

Liar.

You brittle sword blades that play at being soft,
with your fucking allure and goddamn velvet looks.
All supple and inviting,
green and enticing,
even though I know you’re full of bugs.
I’ll lay down,
Sucker for your edges on my skin.
That’s Spring,
time for lying shoots,
stubborn goofs.

Gigi

Dogs love grass.
Friends until the end.

Crazy dog on a leash nipping the beak of an Alpaca,
a little bundle of terror–so damn happy.
She’s out on four paws in the noonday shade,
fucking with a goat-kid we saved from the grave.
Throws herself carefree in the still biting grass,
rolls until she can finally hit that perfect spot in need of a scratch.
No shame in her game as those jowls go flapping,
smiling like the devil inside,
bounds off into the hills,
roaming free now,
ignoring all but her truest calling.
Glinting light off one scarred eye,
covers up the mysteries of whats come to pass,
it’s always in the past,
and we’ll know not why.

A Tiger in a River

Chalk dusted finger tips with an adrenaline jolt, zip-lined neuroses adjudicated by the moment. Lost in torn pants with a carabiner thread, socially anxious and awkward but alone and without the dread. Gripping on with rubber soles to shaky rock faces that feel so full. Flashback moment to a Tinsel strewn river, if I could take it back I wouldn’t pause though time chases me forward and I don’t know how to abscond from it’s endless quiver. I’m still fletched after return though I know somewhere I missed a target, if wishes were fishes I would have at least saw it. It’s easy to murmur the words to myself, ride the curve up where it’s easier to stare down at the gulch. I know that it’s simple to stay on a track, ask not the questions that are staring right back.

Creature comforts exchanged for a soul, I suppose that’s one lesson I never learned right when I was out in the cold. It’s wicked out there, in the beauty and grease. Amidst all the foragers of life, love and what to wear while we bleat. If the greatest of tokens was untouchable sadness with no way to atone, then here on a hillside covered in muck, I’d whisper to the shadows that flicker “thanks for giving a fuck.” Without their whistled movements to cast contrast to light, the trees would feel lifeless, faded out, make for a lackluster sight.

Like a mother or sister with love beyond knowing and well beyond any deserved grace–the world is a horribly beautiful, baffling and gorgeous place. Down into the valley where only choices dived, it’s lonely despite the crowds and our homes have to be built deep down inside. Doesn’t change all the furor one fucking bit, but I’m choosing to believe that this messy adventure of a life can still generate more than just wreckage and shit.

Shadow Boogie, Starlight Feast

Baby, give me gasping galaxies of infernal heat to warm the vacuum where once I lay. Cut dusted fragments of the stars from my body and my mind–it think find its soul which till remembers the last whisper and caress out there where we made our nests in nebulae, powdered our faces in fractal fission and wept at the insane beauty that stretched to the unknowable ends. Give me whetstone tones of tenderness to grind on down these rough edges, I know you will. Fine tune my harmony to match the orchestra, I know you will. Love me gentle and love me brutal, I’ll do same. But, on the nights I go to bathe in the shimmer and glimmer of dead Giants birthing monstrous infinities while listening to shadows hum their lonesome shaded songs….on those nights, I am forever free.

The Middle of the Story

Where our main characters find themselves journeying apart from each other into adventures and places unknown in the hopes that they will reunite as realized and complete individuals on the other side….so we begin in Reno, NV…..

S & H at Taco Loco

Transcribe the hope I feel
into optimism and other such essential stuffs.
Imbibe the flow of sweet spirit
that drips from off our lips and out our mouths.
Believe in dreams meant not to fade
even if the road has twisted uglier and uglier still.
Hold tight to goals we shared
as our footsteps drift further and further apart.
We’re still in love,
and this journey which so profoundly changed us
is not at its end yet – just an interlude.

Missing Flow

Loneliness Sunset
All image credit to this beautiful article and author.

I’m looking for a flow to spew,
to vomit pained fire in words and lyrical nonsense,
drench virtual paper in a cascade of feeling,
wishing for the release of a moment where my fingertips press
onto keys melded into an outpouring of something greater than myself.
I’m looking for a rhythm and a cadence,
and empty hollow to rest my eyes and heart within
where my brain can’t intrude or interrupt
where the language is something not of word
but made of a noise that comes from deeper down
primal and totally absent of definition.
I’m looking for a tapping of keys that harmonizes with my feelings
and that calms waters boiling over with discontent
where monsters lurk and playful creatures breathe imagination
as though it were the purest of air
carefree in their joy and hungers
contented to be their own masters and demanding nothing from anyone.
I’m shaking the trees of logic and thought
demanding that they un-fucking-root and get on with the business of dying
so that chaos can wash over me as a wind of compassion
letting me know that the madness is so very real
that anything else was a facade and an illusion
that its okay and I’ve come home to rest where I belong.
I’m lacing myself with poisons to calm the nerves
incinerating the memories of dreams never to be realized
in pools of chemical passivity
bleeding oil into my disquiet shores
where the glass and sand are never polished and always cut
though they shine like diamonds to lure you in.
I’m hunting for a flow,
that special moment when time collapses on itself and there is oneness
understanding, immutable confidence, and a distant stare
connection to more, recognition and awareness, centered peace,
consolidated thoughts, pacified emotions, acceptance, and satisfaction.
I’m looking for a flow,
one that tells me loneliness is temporary,
and that the universe is there in all its infinity and splendor
ready to skull fuck me back into joy when it feels fit
that reminds me there’s no point sulking and being miserable
this is the human condition in all its shit stained raimants
and that I could be grateful for the ability and opportunity to experience it.
I’m looking for a flow,
but right now I’m just writing, and there’s no flow to be found.