Clear and Distinct

My shoes are beginning to feel unfamiliar,
my gloves seem foreign
my skin, like a hollow shell
or a shadow,
Lord I pray for it to be a shadow.

I want to know myself like kant said we
cannot, like a thing in itself.
And I am trying to find what
is casting my shadow,
but this velvet darkness is suffocating
and the LCD moon scarcely illuminates it.

Discovery is all either or's now,
position or speed,
charge or direction,
soul or life.

I have to be more,
than a daydream of the universe,
my only wish is that my spirit could be
clear and distinct

Doldrums

ha, ok, I am not writing this out of any personal experience, just some random ideas, also this song:

oh and i stole the last two lines from a different song, Ill take them out eventually, but I like them right now

Right now, I am flat soda
or beer actually, static sweetness
boring honey, homogenous and plain
and you are the glass,
at once amorphous yet solid,
somehow keeping this amber liquid
together, but who knows.

Saxophones slash through me while
you caw wormwood nothings
about leaving, about lukewarm yeast
and the excitement of the static
that snows across the tv while I sleep.
Dryly droning about how I deserve much better.

I tell her I am not bitter,
just compressed, and curious
whether I will leave a lasting residue
on her crystalline surface,
but no, there is no condensation on her cheeks.

So now I am poured out like water
from the chlorine tap,
used to wash dainty hands
then drained away and recycled.

You can leave now,
no more explanation is needed,
dont you worry,
I'll float on alright.

Restart

Have a mint!
have two!
Feel the glorious reset,
the senses brought back to a comforting
plateau, like salmon
colored ginger and quiet engines.
The almighty zero bringing death
and creation with the savory regularity
of change. The release of the off
button and the pleasantness of a black
slate, clean and clear from distraction.
a tabula rasa if you will.

Kill the phoenix, let it burn
that it may have new life.
So cleanse your palette!
have a mint.

Novocain for the Soul

There are maps on the ceiling,
cottage cheese maps, that tell of lost landmasses
and childhood memories.
They had trees and villages and continents,
but now they are all noise,
Just white noise I stare at during insomnia,
trying to sleep, trying to dream,
like I used to dream and think
like the ocean eyed children.
Their thoughts evolving, synapses visible
in their furrowed brows,
interpreting good and bad
and chocolate ice cream.
Learning to trust in the consistency of human
fickleness, the ebbing sea-change of adults.

But everything has lost it's clarity,
I now enjoy inconclusive endings and
bitter humor, and the dulling experiences
continue to eat away:
Each withered flower
joining the ranks of dead
and each blooming sunset becoming one of many,
the golden clouds slowly forming noise.

Our town

Darkness does not fall,
does not descend in this town,
It infiltrates, through amber clouds
and strobe skylines that never dim.
Through artificial stars and
the flashing glittering and enchanting
presence of the angler fish's bulb,
lighting the night with half-truths,
the nutrition of rat poison.

Faces dyed in wax,
hiding the decay beneath.

The simple omission made dangerous
with each alluring glint,
with each invigorating drag,
with each pressing step,
towards the center of it all,
the teeming throbbing glaring,
heart of darkness.

Constructive Interference

this describes a little how i feel


I've found it!
my frequency, my spectrum,
my beat, like the footsteps
of New York or the engines
of LA, steadily pounding seeming cacophony
into the periodically throbbing asphalt,
It is strangely harmonious.
It is the whistling wind that whips
through bows and caverns
and apartment complexes,
that is breathed from the oceans lungs
and the hustling iron beasts,
now naturally recycled, and
flowing through my veins
and forming a resonance
with my heart.

Beyond the Sun

What happens when your clock breaks?
falls from the sky and shatters into twitching components,
what happens when the sun stops
and the rain-laden, slowly drifting clouds
disappear and only a khaki never-after is born.

Does time really stop when all experience can lead
to no other conclusion? Or was it all
a horrible lie, told to us by our senses,
the sundial merely perpetuating the illusion of
free will, of another second, another chance to change
an asphalt future through the molten present.

There is no time like the future:
it's exponentials turn grains into mountains,
hair into memories, and one grave into fields of dead.

He told me: "we all die in the long run,"
but I prefer to think I will live after time is stilled,
beyond the sun.

Tattoo

this is another one of my more reflective/emo poems, I do apologize for that, I try not to be too emo, and for all who know me, I definitely do not look or act emo (or even listen to emo music)

Tonight I am tattooing all
Of my faults and inconsistencies on my back
Martin luther style,
Nailing them in, inch by inch into my temple.
Letting them all stare, who cares,
Like that ashamed girl who came for ice cream
With the sins of the world painted on her face
And left without looking a soul in the eye.

Or maybe I should shut all the windows
Close all the blinds, let this corpse rot in peace,
Don’t bother the neighbors with inconveniences,
That is rude right?
Let the harmless worm of a coffee stain grow a little,
Just don’t let it out of the camouflage mask
That sits next to the door

But I am addicted to clean sheets and hot showers
And orange scented soap.
Lets get a breeze going, get this filth out,
Shed this dead snake skin,
Chameleon no longer.
Nail my sins to my back and leave them there
Behind me.

A Mothers Day Poem

I know it is early but I want to post this now, Dad if you are reading this, make sure mom sees it on mothers day (dont want to ruin the surprise)

Mother
For as long  as I can remember, you have smelled like home
Like watercolors and elmers glue,
like the acrid smell of hair chemicals,
And the familiar smell of old pillows and comforters.
Like the warm, salty santa ana winds
That blew in through the house
And out through your hair dryer.

Every bloody and dirty wound saw your painful antiseptic
And your comforting bandaid;
Every sunburn felt the oozing cold of aloe,
And every night there was a story to tell,
As we, with wide eyes would listen for what happens next
What does the new chapter hold?
What new danger will they face?
Will they be able to escape the temple of Toco Rey?
Will they escape from the dragons throat?
Will Jack be able to slay the giants,
Like he did last week?
Will they be able to hold on much longer,
Or will the story turn into mumblings about the workweek,
About real life, subconsciously interjected into fantasy,
By the half asleep dad.
And you would gracefully take over reading,
And continue with some innocent euphemisms:
“and then he got her good” instead of
“and then he cut off her head.”

But there were some things we did not need
To know about yet. Those things take time.
They were not for the days of the wind
Filled with the sea taste of the ever present beach.

Your lap was the best pillow,
Your arms the most comfortable couch,
Your prayers, the best assurance.
You are my mother

Happy Mothers Day!

The Bishop's Peak

Tonight I am climbing a mountain,
ascending my troubles, dodging the roots and rocks.
We began in the foothills
where the gnarled ancients spread their woody arms,
where the wispy stalks of weeds wave in currents
thereby elevating them from annoyances to art.
The dust from our sandals forms an effusive mist
and nothing is as it seems.

The raucous frogs drown out my thoughts,
shouting the perils of discovering oneself,
but the cacophony is stilled with each advancing step.
Our heads are down, plotting and plodding our course
but when we finally raise them,
I am rewarded with the city lights diffused
by frosted glass, the undulating street lights forming
organized constellations in the mist,
the cars mere travelers across the
profound darkness.

They are like airplanes and
single serving friends,
who you appreciate but will never see again.
The full moon tints all the landscape in a lying pearl,
a deep gray giving way to a titanium white,
what peace.


The wind silently caresses my hair,
as if I am her child,
I lay my head on her cool stone lap
and wish to never leave
never wake up.

But now the clock is quietly yelling
responsibility into my globe.
It tells me that experience is fleeting
that work needs to be done
so despite my protestations, I leave,
we leave.