Taps of pure delight

Your finger taps the screen with pure delight
I hear you laughing from the living room
I think you are engaged in virtual fight
or turning back the tides of withering doom
As to my struggles, you are blind,
your ears are filled with distant clangs of war,
which sacrifice, is paying me noe mind,
even as I leave, and shut the door.
Did you not notice where your true fight lay?
It was a against your own soul, every night,
where eyes were turned against the trapping screen.
Did you not notice my complete dismay,
as I wondered who of us were in the right?
As I wondered, what our unity had been?

A direct compliment

It always, well not always,
but lately,
occurred to me as crass to give
a direct compliment.

But, people seem to like it, so,
what do I know?

I would not insult you
by saying,
my tastes are even too refined
to tell you you are beautiful.
Implying, thereby, I think
that your taste
is inferior to mine.

But I would think it privately,
and be ashamed.

So here I stand,
to tell you,
you are beautiful.

I have seen death

I have seen death.
It's nothing,
it's an empty world
draining you,
spilling you.
Your soul diffused,
spread thin,
so thin
and turned away.

I turned away.
I looked god in the face;
he was playing on the floor,
unaware of godhood.

His soul diffuses out,
but does not empty.
The world is reflected
in his light.

It crushed into me,
shimmering like a lighthouse beam,
but I am not translucent.
Wherever I turn,
it will cast shadows,

I'm handing you the keys

I'm handing you the keys
to the gate to the way of truth

Three times two they are,
and then their eye at last.

First these two, who and what,
I think you will find useful, 
in pointing at correctness.

The I'll give you how and why,
to give them life.

Thence when and where.
Now they are affixed.
Too affixed.

For how to search, if you can't
ask an if.

He had fastened

He had fastened,
he thought,
to himself.
To himself,
he thought,
he had fastened.

Supple bough,
was sapped,
and creaking joints
were poised to snap.

His mother
he recalled
had weaved
when he was small
flower patterned
vines and grapes,
intoxicating fruits
affixed by thread.

He laid his hand on life,
on patterns older than himself,
and thought;
"I am finished, weaved.
My thread runs low.
My knotted mind is spent,
and frayed.
Now let the weave bet cut,
my life's pattern finished, layed."

But yet he sat.
He thought,
I'm fastened.

What are you looking at?

What are you looking at?
What are you looking at?
Did you really think, 
you were looking at me?

No, what you are seeing is yourself,
painting before your eyes
the image of your friend.

How does he seem to you?
How do you seem to you?
Sometimes all is ugly,
all is grey,
and like that the word pour
from pen to form
a net.

A you. A me. A meyou. A youme.

What am I looking at?
What I am looking at?
Only myself, where you stand
like pillars of gold in the sun
like autumn birch
self luminescent in minds darkening,
to fall, to autumn, then the red
and gold of christmas.

Be good.

Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good.
Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good.
Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good.
Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good.
Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good.
Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good.
Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good.
Be good. Be good. Be good.

A fallen man, right there, in front of you.

There, right there,
in front of you,
a man has fallen,

He is dying,
you can see it,
but, don't worry,
you can help him.
Just, lift him.
Go on, do it.
he'll be okay.

But maybe you won't do it,
maybe he is too far away.
To far away to help
from death.

I think he is thirty meters away.
Would you do it?
No, maybe, maybe he is about
a kilometer away. But,
you can't walk that far.

In fact, you shouldn't help.
It is too inconvenient for you,
and besides, someone else can,
do it.

Oh, what was that? Aha, they
have other men to help. Well then,
got to be you, doesn't it?

Did I say a kilometer away?
I think he is actually ten miles away.
Now, you definitely shouldn't do it.
Too far, too far.
Just let him die.

I turn on the TV. There they are definitely dying.
A man has fallen, he is right in front of me,
and I can see it, he is dying.
But, he is more than 10 miles away,
I'm not going to bother.
You see, I'd have to send money,
With my computer you see,
I'd push those buttons, and then, I would send
a little money, to that man, or, someone like him,
I think, but, he's just so far away.

I mean, he is more than ten miles away. And, 
I wouldn't even walk that for, for myself.
It's just, no. No.
No, just let him die.
It's alright.

The stuff of poetry

What is the stuff of poetry?
The stems of birch,
The light of night,
the person going
around a corner
far away.

The sounds of fall,
and of winter.
It is, I think,
and I don't know,
because who can know,
that marmalade is very,
very poetic.

Back pain is not

Eyes of life

Look into the eyes of life
and say you love your future
spreading down the generations
your eyes and mine together
mix them brown, with sparkling destiny
and you'll be kissed with love


Those little marks we make in books
a salutation over time over time,
that punch the mind to volumes
refusing to remain silent.

Sometimes I'm a marginalia to the world
punching through and judging
with a black line intersecting you
that I like what you're giving
or condemn, and sigh.

You haven't read a book,
until you've done so with a pencil.
Now, can you read the world without
one either?

Impossible dream of love

Impossible dream of love
the longing rush
seeing lips, full, pouting and
white teeth within with beautiful words.
Who cares, but womanhood embodied says,
attain me.
And I know, that you are a dream I do
not want.

Conditionless love,
my craving, and there is none.

Children playing at your feet, stars in
your eyes, power, like a
lighthouse shine,
then on the shores, a brittle past.

I, polished stand, lay with longing lips,
seeing futures fade on our common path
she, standing there, whole.

I, of many colors, black recedes;
and ivory politeness shields - though
cracks are there, to show myself,
a longing, hiding self, morose - and,
unlike the me I wish to show,
a desert, dank - pale, bleak - that you
get lost in - to fade yourself.

Climbing up, yet going down

Also I am capable of happiness
I know                    I remember it, 
Like dew on a leaf, lined in light
tough fog, silent, covers all.

I am the moist moss, bending
though not from wim - but heavy sorrow.

And I am the fog too,
only hanging forgetfully.

And I think I am the ground, too,
soil ground, worms are my dearest
friends. Those, that like satellites blink
to me and say, what, I cannot hear.

But I used to be happy too,
maybe I'll remember soon.