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We risk what makes us human, Squeezed and squeezing what contains us, Spinning, forcing us to be what mold we remain in, Giving in at first but changing Based on feeling different when we are but all These silly billions, flashes and reflections On the stream, forming in swift current Around the rocks left standing As we push and bubble upward, Into the air and where our source, Of whom we are but mirrored, Guides us outward, Pointing us by darkness’ Great clarities toward where we come from. And yet we remain these children, Craving our motions made in moments When time was but this allotment we could fill With what we wanted, not wh

the classifieds are so sad when read from perspective of intention's goodwill; "They need a good, safe home," rings so softly as to be passed by reader, but is the hardest line to write.

Enter: Him, the lone surveyor, His hands tightly clasping an object of no significant value. Him: Why do my hands wrap so around this, as though, through holding this, I may somehow grasp and grab and have and melt into its stillness, its calm?  I cannot. This object, this, in hands, I know not its worth, outside the monetary (momentary) gain from which I have given another, and, yet, I know its worth will, in me, as I now hold this, steady, with no means but letting go-- Perhaps, if I allow it to, it will fall, or perhaps it will stay, if I am falling. Enter: They, the jester's mimic, aping in their motion, holding no

the dream    of you in floor of seat,             having said you lost ... something              all in show of being level with me                                               as i sit infront of her,                                                     the one you brought                                                                   in hopes to push me off ...                                 just a little regret/                                                a little action needed to reclaim me...                                                             I am                                                              alr

i sit here, motion'd but moving-not, alone but accompany'd. who follows guide- lines hoping for a path to per- fection-- longing! a knowledge not of Quiet's retreat, but of water-walking.

what a way when the wind wïnds waste of trees/leaves of 'phalt to shield of haste on painted path 'pooled and personal, the last bastion of freedom aside from field or forest or sky or sea or expanse/the last destiny we, the current, shall never see 'til day finds need of lighters' offerings, those reasons left to static rather than 'namic philosophies-- who rules the wind? whose laws abide the sea? who's serpent squanders serenity in sight of stability/the crutch of the complacent/humility's worst nemesis, idleness/the hands let wander body in place of Curiosities, true finders of the Sciences

for all i've done, i know you wouldn't know how many cells in this brain hold memories of you and not of being there, not being able to unlock these chains of in-security, obstacles i never thought about all that much until you brought freedom to this servant of thought unlit and shining with reflections reflecting from you,    you,        you, i blame the sun for breaking one day as all; i blame the moon for showing change can come, go, come, go, wax, wane, wax, wane, rise, fall; i blame the breeze for showing tranquilities are commonplace, daily, forgotten until left or leaving; still, i blame the trees for waving without w

how round those eyes the roundest eyes that arm jerk-twisted and showing those ribs those ribs cleaned and caving those eyes how round those eyes swollen and stationed

out came the tide from her swollen eyes                                                        and there i was,              hand over pride to break the surf              and i just kept telling myself                            "she'll forgive me sometime.                             she'll close her eyes sometime                                                        and dream of someone else."

on a cemented pathway i walk, unabraded by carhorns constantly stumbling to the left and behind-- a biker becomes a mailbox with a newspaper slot underneath-- a single party-goer balances before a doorway, on a step, gesturing toward his feet for reinforcement of ideas left weighted with solidarity--