nothing concluded 105

stepping on his own toes

getting out of his own way

back to when the memory

served well

as well can be

floating away from

a distracted eye

thinking merely of the funds

and how to spend them

they control the pulse of the world

how many get by on what

is necessary as opposed

to those who let desire

controlling the entirety

of the situation stabilized

not quite calm

not disturbing the peace

worked hard to achieve

only to destroy

in a moments notice

the minor details

proving that nothing

is conclusive

as if something different

might decide to be the same

as everything else

no one really sees the whole picture

no wonder there are conflicting

tales tied in knots

nearly impossible to straighten

all the tangled lines

thinking internally at times

not writing it all down

for future generations

that may or may not appreciate

words on pages

it is all life

just different stages

of the game some play

and some take serious

a situation

now with nothing

to look forward to

can't look behind

nothing concluded...

created for creating

suddenly in the dark alone again
waiting for something to clear the clouds
of smoke a haze created for creating
and the guru returns for a stay
in one place never
just passing through all of this
with a smile stretching
a turning that some may never see
nothing but a colossal waste of time
and paper and ink
stained arms and back
to the point in the lonely direction
never really fading from view
it from another angle
and it all might appear a little different
thoughts stretch over the skull like a second skin
on the inside of course
covering the mind with the same clouds
created while creating
something not many will take the time to read
and appreciate as anything more than scribble
scratch nonsense and babble
Christmas just doesn't have the same feel
as it did way back when wrapping paper
and plenty of food were available and consumed
not as exciting still feels great guru being around
each minute ticking corner taken too fast
will result in the shift of thought
from one spot to the next...

nothing concluded 104

nothing concluded

after all this time

for a review done

and undone ideas

appearing out of thin air

and it's hard to hard

to breathe through

all the smoke

swirling around the mind

making more words

appear dark on white

pages stacking thought

on top of thought

besides what else

would these idle hands construct

building bridges of thought

painting portraits of thought

some quite abstract

nothing concluded

of course

wondering which window

to look out for dangerous ideas

of material success

come from inside knowing

he does what he is supposed

to be doing too much at once

there was a young boy

making random notes

appear to hold no tune

the dial to now

and see the man

with so much random thought

his arm hurts and so many

stare how many care

nothing concluded

needing an expansion team

to move his words in front of eyes

who could care

about a mind steady thinking

sinking deeper into pen meditation

nothing can break the focus

two eyes closed

one eye wide open

so many would never see

the importance of the written word

ideas bouncing off of paper

ideas blinding the 20/20 seers

and even penetrating ears

of the non-seers

nothing concluded

smokes still rising

from the remains

of yesterday knowing

he's been good enough

all along getting only better

most just fail to see

that which is most important

forget what is appropriate

and who cares

what the others will think

words

and scattered thoughts

random and

nothing ever

concluded...

do no good

almost out of time

enjoying every minute

and illustrating

it all with words

would do no good

stuck up in the mind

this writer without words

is nothing more than a guy

looking out the window...

no one is ever home

leaf print carpet
inside just as cold
as the other side
of the window
wishing something
made sense today
he struggles to see the point
he doesn't want
to be a part of the rat race
escape the maze
and understand the truth
the point of this existance
his desire is to do something
not just to something to make
the moneys that keep the machine
moving it stains the hands
turns friends into enemies
and money makes society move
it has become an addiction
and a necessity to survive
no one is ever here to help the worry
go away even sunshine
can't break through these clouds
every action calculated
every minute of the day
is carefully scheduled
and he tries to figure out who decided
that this was a good idea
the sound of cars never stops
it's an all day all night thing
no one sleeps or even rests anymore
how will all survive at this feverish pace
is there anyone who knows how it will
all turn out if it'll all turn out
or will his plane just drop from the sky
no one's ever here
to notice the race being run at all hours
for what--money can't keep you warm
when you are cold and alone
it can't reassure you that tomorrow
will be a better day
no one is ever here
saying anything it's not quite
four o'clock but the sunset
sky is an amazing sight
he wonders how many others
noticed the colors...

living for a living

he's always accidentally
overhearing the audio autobiography
everyone carries in the back of their
mouth are the portable resumes
he's always hearing what people
have done but what are they doing
working for a living only means
doing what you really don't want
to be doing in order to make
money but how do we escape
the circle the tortures of society
as a whole everyone's enjoying
the recession media blitz war on terror
working for living and worried that there
will be nothing left when you can
work no more suddenly the clouds turn
purple as the night darkness
starts to threaten it's approach
fading into black like the end of a movie
but how many don't care
still working don't notice
he's trying his hardest
to make ends meet somewhere
in the middle so that he
can continue to be living for a living...

thought and ink

racing toward

the end of another thought

interrupts and doesn’t mind

kicking him off his block

block of thought

sitting on the couch

still able to visualize all the time

memory captured beautiful breath

reaching up high from down low

tide revealing the most sound

heard when mind is quiet

wondering where his thought falls

back towards a bag of leaves

blocking the driveway until strong

wind blows them in all directions

the mind faces itself again

stepping out of bounds

and leaps as well right off the page

or stays hidden in opposite ends

of the same rope tying hands

would be the only way to keep the pen

still strikes when it needs to rest

will not let the eyes stop reading

one continuous thought

there might be a break but broken

thought will not repair itself

might become two new thoughts

two directions one mind

in this thought without stoppage

seeing reactions some may have it all figured out

frozen has two meanings as well

and won’t soon be explained

as the mind is written out in long hand

hoping someone is listening

with eyes that can see the thoughts

paying attention to detail hidden deep

within the recesses of a mind swollen

and spilling out onto the page

until all the books are filled

how many before now

all we have to do is look forward

and as one direction rest the other

keeps spinning all it’s got without

the realization that most readers

might be lost by now

but someone should understand

that explanations sometimes get you nowhere

interrupted again a disturbance only comes

when running out of paper

with still too much thought and ink…

self destructive

sometimes feeling

as though this generation

might be one that

is at times too careless

not enough focus on

things of real importance

everything surrounds money

how much you can make

what do you need to make to survive

all life is measured by money

time and freedom tied to money

individualism needs to be encouraged

and maybe money will never be

gone as something to worry about

but can’t help thinking that our society

is living life self destructively…

truth in disguise

in the disguise chose

no one will see or recognize

the evil before us

an imperialism maybe George Lucas

could explain it better or has already

in the disguise of protection

privacy will be continuously violated

from now on they say it will

tear at the roots of terrorism

might also tear an important document

to shreds of what it was meant to protect

deep beneath the greed of the rich bankers

controlling the government and the enemy

aiming war machine at innocent people

unfortunate casualties not the same to most

we have to look with different eyes

and know we are not the targets of real terrorists

it’s our government who is the target

and the war will not end until the enemy and terrorism

are uprooted and the war machine will march on and on

it won’t stop in Afghanistan it will go on and on

let’s just hope more and more people wake up

before we lose more freedom

and more time with the war machine pounding

terrorism wherever they tell it is next

how many wars in my life time alone…

known & unknown thought

meaning ever since

contacted by eyes different

worlds apart

inching closer moving upward

the only direction known

and unknown thoughts

resting behind eyes catching him

daydreaming again no more

as months reveal opportunities

now he waits for sunrise

and the smiles that might follow to that spot

rest unparalleled reading words written

as if the only words ever written

explain the miraculous nature of appreciation

dedicating all of his time to the thoughts

some would ignore some look to the sky

see clouds, sun, night approaching

he sees a magnificent painting

almost beautiful enough to compare

sunrise smile to sleeping peaceful rest

final thought on his fortune

in finding some meaning beneath

the madness of a day

and the light the sunrise brings

him every morning… 

standing like a tree in a silent forest

the darkness arrives
just like any other night
it would be one where loneliness
is approaching too
like a ship to dock
it’s been years since
seen anything like this
close the book on things that might distract
taking time away from what is important
the darkness doesn’t
have the same sting
twenty-five killer bees
attacking night after night
they couldn’t think of killing the idea
arriving on time as usual thoughts
for an unusual man so much time
with pen in hand
darkness forcing it’s way through
the seventy degree October afternoon
where so many thoughts stand
like trees in a silent forest
smiling back at the road
with no end in sight…

angry man sits

angry man sits quiet

actually quite patient

he does need that first cup

of coffee or he might

seem angry mumbling

profanities barely audible

he needs to catch the waitress

on the way into this spot

he proudly picks his own seat

can’t and doesn’t wait

doesn’t say anything to the waitress

just sits angry waiting

he needs to speak up

after only five minutes

standing up speaking loudly

that he has been waiting

for twenty minutes

can’t understand why some

have coffee and he doesn’t

little angry professor man

not used to waiting…

solo

one by one they stagger in

the regulars at this spot

most are older men

all visiting this spot

solo one by one

they take their seats

as if they planned it this way

coming here solo

only to sit with others

in the room doing the same thing

all seeming so desolate so low

none of them speak

except one who can’t help it

and his desolation conversation

is being documented separately

so low in their seats two chairs

left then one

waiting for anyone who

wishes to speak

or spare the time

for a smile and they won’t

feel so alone

solo only for the moment

no longer so low

in some pit of despair

where these other lonely

souls hang no gallows or clotheslines

just empty tables now

barely even used by the solo offender

again only assumption

never seen them with anyone

only solo dancing in seated position

and if the paintings could talk

he would listen…

he's not sleeping

closer than skin

but that’s not possible

so if they ask

just as close as he can get

under the blanket

burning candles

opposite side of the room

too much of a good thing

all he wants

and it couldn’t possibly be

too much of that good thing

definitely the right amount

the day passes slower

when he is alone

don’t ask why he is sleeping

middle of the day

he isn’t sleeping

he is merely trying to reach

back into his dreams…

erupt onto the page

seems as though

he has written so much

that he couldn’t

possibly have anything

left to say

still awe struck

as he looks into

the night’s eyes

he notices that the words

keep coming

as if someone stays up late

preparing all the thoughts

and soon they erupt

through the pen to page

seems as though

no one will understand

this ramble as it extends

out like a stretch of highway

with no bend in sight

and no destination

no matter what they say

with words wailing and

wind whipping

still wondering when

the night might

hold him close again…

lucky to be here

lucky situations

handled with mindfulness

wanting to erase mistakes

knowing this is impossible

progression keeping on

moving through mistakes

second and third chances

speed bumps at high speed

do some damage

carefully approached

and guided over can keep the tone low

mindful never getting

out of control

salt rivers might flow

until a calm is reached

the rest of the world

melts away and only a moment exists

it will exist as long as desired

how long can he keep the balance

and how far does he want to fall…

what's important

what’s important

is not the 9-5

and not the $$ or status

one might gain

what is important

is how well we learn

to walk through the fire

of everyday life

the lie is what this society

hopes we live

looking into the glass seeing

reflection’s eyes

and the self

this is important…

answer with smiles

it might never illuminate

the masses looking beyond physicality

bravery under armor worn

bravery in armor removed

ask why and answer with only smiles

ask how but might never know

don’t ask if you understand

gaining momentum daily lifted

hands high in thanks gone back

to words unwritten might never

gain acceptance he reads and rereads

night is dark waiting not unlike

other nights when illumination undoubted

sun has risen lighting his night

rebirth somehow daily

and maybe simply the illumination

of a dream looking deeper

bravery in words etched

bravery in ink stained reminds

ask why answer with only smiles

ask why if it’s truly unknown

don’t ask if you understand…

Thursday morning

a chill wakes him

it’s nine am

and it’s the latest

he has slept in over two weeks

collecting the thoughts

in the morning

always a little harder

but they don’t weigh as heavy

thoughts are positive

putting them in order

always a little tougher

a chill hits him

stepping out of the shower

thinking now

only of being warm

all of the ways

the past few months

have made him warm

chill hits him when he

looks to the glass

sometimes not recognizing

who is he supposed to be

not negative thoughts

understanding that which doesn’t

change stagnates

chill follows to the car

blast the heat

while waiting letting mind drift

the smiles he will encounter

the chills sticks around

breaks the thought

how many wonder

why a en flashes from every pocket

and a thought for every action

conquering finally

the unease of the chill

trying to organize

all the things need to be done

Thursday morning…

practice not preaching

and this might sound

mean or insensitive

but he really might not care

someone will always find

a reason to disagree

some miraculous event

makes them believe reality

is somewhat clouded

thinking they are better off

because faith puts their mind at ease

somehow calling upon a two thousand

years old name from a book

or maybe it’s faith holding

it all together but practice

instead of preaching from that spot

where real spirituality is made fun of

especially if you don’t give

credit to someone never met…

if confused, congratulations

it’s as if

not a word

will materialize

right before eyes

close for the last time

first words dropped on a page

turned into a canvass

for some thought paint

someone will have to decide

what colors go where

if they want it to make sense

and if confused congratulations

may have solved the riddle

confusion is a good sign

means thinking may have started

and taking something from the page

might just be important

not simply racing with eyes

until the words stop

some will never consider it poetry

but no one can argue the random

thought aspect and some will continue

to poke fun it’s what they do

because they don’t care to try

to understand and even that is okay…

midday

middle of the day

sunshine with wind

whipping words across the sky

who knew it would all

happen so smoothly

sliding into a comfortable place

sitting with this temporary

peace he has found…

wishing well filled with clouds

a glass of water

and a cup of coffee

and a filled mind of thought

or mind filled with thought

thinking for a moment

that none of this could be real

he thought he could touch

the thought and make it real

spreading like sunshine

when the sun first cracks

the night away

far from the wishing well now

and there is no water to see

only clouds…