failed with words

[failed with words (lost in
translation (stumbling over
temptation (feet first can't keep
his balance (his mind detaches
itself from the rest (failed with
words) and just like the rest)
swaying before the fall) frozen
in time) trying too hard) to create
the perfect song]
[failed with thought (the rain drenches
all of us(pounding thoughts
of sunshine through the thick gray
(voices needing to be heard above
all (bellowing through the 8th ocean
(failed with words) guidance brought
to a high point) from where silence held
a hand) staring upward in a cross legged
sit) still as a statue, inside moving
outside) trembling as the cold wind
moves through light clothing]...

one thought buried

[one thought (inside another,
aside (thought breaking—interrupting
myself again (tornado twisting everything
(branches from the same tree (one thought
buried) falling over and over) I thought I had
straightened it out once and for all) as long as
I am awake) break in some action) surfaces]

[seems strange (the muse (desperately
seeking the furthest star (looking for
answers (underneath it all (one thought
buried) we are all confused) flipping over
rocks)tar covering my wings, slowing
my flight) doesn’t see me) pushing for
the impossible to exist]

[return to the long hallway (wish he could
stand closer (inching away for fear
(totally paralyzed by the eyes (doesn’t
want to speak (one thought buried)
up to his neck with thought) crazy neck
feeling) it might be screaming) heart thumping
so loud he know it can be heard) he pokes
his head out to say good night]

[darkness arrives (with no hope
attached (cutting gravity’s fingers
(re-living memories for a glimpse
of total happiness (got it bad or
hopeless, just plain sad or
romantic (one thought buried)
descriptions received) laughing
at the thought) escaping) just a
simple end) too soon]

while others sleep

stumbling over piles
of books and pages
of thought with swollen
hands writing more
memories and thoughts
how many lost along the way
too many cold nights
and eyes finally showing years
of sleepless nights
while others sleep
while others hate working
the writer performs
deconstruction on the mind...

the emptiness

in a spot not so different

thoughts and memories

right here doesn't matter

who sat across the table then

no one does now

as night creeps away

from a thinker too much

on the mind studder

step to the door

it's closed and there's no sign

that help is on the way

off the point which was emptiness

in a spot so familiar

should have made it a point

to make more friends

they were here once

the tables had to be pushed together

to make them bigger

had to wait your turn to speak

so much to hear and how much went unsaid

doesn't matter who filled the void then

it exists now and a choice

sacrifice for the craft

not necessarily helping it along

in fact in someways impeding a flow

of new ideas and concepts...

lumps of paper

another end

lumps of paper

piled high

surrounding his madness

who will take the time

to get lost in what some

might consider banter

others might not have the patience

to get to the end

of another book of thought

just wants someone else to think

tell him what you think

or what you don’t know

or what he doesn’t know either…

fading in & out

but it's real and you know it too
and he hid himself for fear of something
that's gone now not that fear is completely faded
but it has faded others remain jaded
he will prove to himself
do you know it's real and you don't have to read on
but you are and he's got you
luring you in keep reading and you do
stop now you don't have to continue
but you do and he thanks you
what's real and what's not and what about moments
caught between months of comfort
is that pure luck he doesn't think so
how could he ask the flower why it was planted
here and now reading words who inspired
do you know that maybe not
anyway continuing now is mission impossible
will you let it continue or clear the air
he sits daily and empties his head like Jack
he's no longer here but you know this
and still you read as if he put it all down in words
he needs your help is his hand a useless tool
transmitting useless thoughts into forgotten pages
everyone's got better things to do
and so does he but he knows it's real
and his mind won't stop
he won't even tell you anymore
in fact he will walk away if he has to
but you keep reading
so you are running just to get to the end
skimming hoping to remember something
no test no one is going to quiz you
you can't fail he is completely flexible
knocks himself into asana daily despite destructive smoke
he is real right here regardless
and there are no nights when someone would
have to remind him what happened
he recalls it all despite the altitude reached
second floor summer night endless time
boundless thoughts outstretched where he has slept
two years discomfort dispelled
and it's real regardless of where you are in your mind
just a reminder stop anytime no need to continue reading
it would be a shame to think you may have drifted
to something more interesting by now
sitting in the warmth of the setting sun
this will get him to tomorrow
it will still be real tomorrow
and if you are convinced it is a non-reality he exists in
and it is not real then he wasted your time with all these words
but you kept reading until the end...

depend on nothing

depending on what is said

when everything else is put to one side

pushing towards something new

other side pushing too

fear unknowing

uncertainty self-doubt

fills the void

when there other side

of the table remains empty

day after day

depending on something other than

what is important

just a moment and reality

sounds a little funny

does it spit it out

what’s on the mind

thoughts trapped behind smiles

wide letting high tide

wash away the impurities of the day…

where is he anyway

knowing he was there

wondering now if he still is

so many smiles

just as many chances

needs to find that spot

again the one in his mind

found him alone after work

where is he now

not there

within the mind

an inspiring place

attachment has to be unlearned

brother’s warning

more awareness not for distance

for thinking rational

patiently taking each moment

in stride never really knowing

when eyes will meet again

where is he anyway

and what or who is on his mind

knowing he was there

delusion maybe in that fragile spot

don’t want to break or be broken

little worry though

at the wedding of a friend

enough fun to make up for lost ground

in the years that have passed

and been forgotten

days fly by like the minutes when he is there

on some level a connection made

never to be lost

knowing he is close to something special

an unanswered question he is afraid to ask

remains inspired how do you fit

into a mind you cannot read…

my closest friends are dead poets

eating reality sandwiches

and reading the planet news

there’s a perfect circle in my mind

Maynard drew it up with blonde wig and all

American spirit in hand

and smoke rises from fingers folded

the moments return as I burn page after page

so close to perfection even if the circle

isn’t perfect or purple and who cares

what the opposite of evil

really is no one is really there anyway

so close to being where I want to be

walking the halls of a museum

never seen this beauty

nothing’s perfect except imperfection

Maynard has got to know this

all of my closest friends are dead writers

or ones I have never met

eighteen and twenty-three

numbers staring at me

from books half a century

since friends were in this spot

where I sit daily so close to what I want

on the edge ready to jump

the looming question remains

will I make it will I survive another fall

regardless of how hard it is

and what it involves

there is a muse somewhere

instantly a courage comes over me

rise up to be reckoned with

let me know that I will survive

any fall everything will work out

in some way…

nowhere

a thought

too deep too far out

unrealistic

look around the room

nowhere

and it becomes

an instant somewhere

a thought

too deep without enough light

or time

nowhere

the somewhere desired

how can I begin

untangle the mind

muscles tighten and my right foot

is completely asleep

a thought…

from inside

from inside can’t see where I am

don’t recognize anything around me

on the floor remembering how I came to be

one night in Canada camping

don’t exactly remember

glad for that

from inside I hear the rain

lightly on the metal awnings

what an awful word

somehow below I hear

my grandfather snoring

the television is on as well

there is a muse

but it could be a hallucination

of some sort wouldn’t even know

in no hurry to wake

if it’s a dream

from the inside I constantly

question myself…

who was he

who was he before me

in line up everything

he might need a push

to get moving

in an uphill direction

left at home

or that places where he stays

under low light at night

you will find him

smiling at the moon

full and allowing his shadow to join him

late night conversation

with another personality

he keeps this man hidden

beneath the layers

clothing and skin

hardly keep him warm

that’s where thoughts come in handy

but who was he here

all along the way stopping to refuel

or refuse help from others

everyone is promising something

he looks stupid waiting for a follow through

everyone has shit they have to wade through

and deal with on a daily basis

hope that not all become ostrich-like

sand in hair and eyes

can’t hear the sirens

when someone has stopped breathing…

words heard

sometimes words fail me but not often
sometimes what I see isn't what is seen
by all the rest many times rising up
from a fall or too many thoughts reaching
no matter how much I want them to leave me alone
a supermarket writer on vacation
at a supermarket stacking fruit
no place for a writer or a good place for one
it's day to day though riding waves out
over my head keep on regardless of danger
not indestructible just willing to put it
on the line want my words heard...

nothing concluded 102

sometimes

wondering who

is he talking to

when his pen moves fast

skipping a page

just for the sake

of it and who

are his readers

what do they think

as the ceiling fan shakes

itself loose

and comes crashing

down might

end a life so incomplete

nothing concluded...

another tool

often stop to wonder

what he is really thinking about

thunder rolls overhead

dump truck above the clouds

he’s on the second floor

writing hunched over

a makeshift table

is it raining or are those tears

he is not winning the game

stares down at me

looks right through me

not even there…

no thanks

another day wasted writing

some might say

refusing to believe I am being selfish

one ‘no thanks’ after another

how many stacked before me

before it breaks my focus

another day with pen in hand

wasted with words unappreciated

how is it I constantly don’t fit

into anyone’s day no matter

how bored they might be

another day maybe

no thanks…

as close as i get

some come close

then others come even

closer not a selfish thought

desire merely to be heard

possibly appreciated

as a thinker a writer

or simply a compassionate

human some come so close

that it hurts to see them go

they may never know

why or what they even see here

no words then what do I hear

thoughts rush sit patiently wondering

when a close encounter

will have truth as it’s back drop

when someone will look into

these eyes for real

some come close

and realize they are in the wrong place

sometimes I am always dwelling there

thinking too much expecting too much

even expecting nothing at all

who are you who come close

show me your mind

still can’t understand my desire

to connect on another level

some close and I will hide

this time I am right here

dreaming about a random stranger

finding more there then

anyone I thought I knew…

meant to say

a dream song

to make berryman proud

never enough time

tell everyone listening

still there

until the end

what he really

meant to say

who he really wanted to be

whenever however

and who has he become now…

a thought that might not be

can’t budge the pen tonight

anticipation and a thought

that may not show it’s face

bought three cards

don’t know which one

will fit the occasion

so much empty space

his mind becomes a chalkboard

washed clean daily

ready to be filled

what will the thoughts become

tonight under moonlit sky

after seeing sunset alone

what will become of the mind

as the pen silently moves… 

help me escape

forgot already

what am I in for

call the official over

he might help me

escape

forgot before finding

the words

remembering only

that I am in trouble

need to figure it out

forgot though

what it was

I was trying to figure out…