How Does One Place Title When One Does Not Know If The Title May Be Misguided?

The sardines are plentiful; fleeing most likely into a harbor of half raised hands. Bottle nosed are the intelligent echoes vacant from depths, now locked with rotten rubber stiffness of tiny teeth on the shore with plentiful explanations. This nebulous world is intentional. Hazy I stood, nearly a year ago, with my hand's clasped within another and another, chained across the sand as a bay copter flew overhead. Misguided eradicated from language, as the center has vanished from the pin cushion.

Ti

The diamond cutting blade dulled. Oh, what can be divided? Oh, nothing. The poet friends are now palms swaying in distorted winds. To sit with pen paused is against the nature of his craft, so I will no longer wait, to say, to speak the internal. Hold that pen thought to my ear and listen! You are not to be remembered as a fictitious legend with no faults. No! The faults are the balance we often speak of, between holy and unholy. The butter on the dinner dish that has melted into a fatty river. There you are! The silence, disturbing and pleasant. The expectations dwindling in this moment of embrace. Come to me, visit, judge and don’t judge. For all is ok, spawns. So now I say what I said hours ago to my brothers: Bring forth the pregnant eternal time and place the meal on our tables, the saliva drip of hungry mind wants to be fed, regardless of substance, knowing nothing of previously meditated portions. Consume the heart of it all, the vitality of the written word and judge it only as what happens in the flash of brilliance.

A moment delivered

To be present at the birth of a tantalizing tickle inwardly unseen. My dear birth of education, a holy experience of wordless utterance, Breath heavy! Motherly sea, great mother with canal, to bring forth and dump on the shore, Wet, what cannot be described, what finger cannot point out or be seen in the shuffle. Brothers of the ages, what sits on the curve of your lips? You cannot say! It is new! Paradise, bring forth what a paradise that one only imagines with what has already been seen. Of Earth only. Of Earth only. Familiar amniotic floating never to be known again in conscious plunders and wonders. Oh mothers, great mothers, be present at the great…what? We are here! Embracing with soft palms, relaxed shoulders, the delivery of anarchy, The delivery of the pathless, the guidance of nowhere. A new! A new! A new! Moments of new, Produce!

That which is never unveiled

I want to see it opened, unveiled.
That hidden light undefined.
I feel the presence of the mystery.
Know the clues reside in darkened places.
Like insects beneath the rocks.

As ready as I have ever been,
To be introduced.
In the shade chilled and picking my nails.
Awaiting the first warm dance upon my skin,
So that the tiny hairs become translucent.

What then,
with my feet out in front of me,
Instead of beneath me,
Can be done to agitate this birth?
I do not know.

It is Nameless.
It is sensed but has never been discovered,
Only imagined,
It can at best be known to me,
As a different shade.

Already experienced!
The explorer that imagines the sands,
From unseen lands,
As blue like the waves,
And waves tan like the grit of the sands.

When I look through past life,
Thumbing the deepest seam of those pockets,
I find only the lint of waiting,
Of hoping.
Perhaps, that is all there is.

The Smite of Time

Sitting Sickened, near the sea. Feeling a loathing,For an industry. This means war. Time will smite you. You'll die by your own hands. If not by your victims. And oh, is that your greed floating upon the sea? A crimson sheen! You are crumbling wet sand in my hands. Your erosion is a bow at my feet. Its an art, to craft my days. Always mindful, of your crippling ways. This means war. Time will smite you. You'll die by your own hands. If not by your victims. And oh, is that your greed floating upon the sea? A crimson sheen! You are crumbling wet sand in my hands. Your erosion is a bow at my feet.

The culture of small mouth big stomach.

The culture of small mouth and big stomach.

I drink its nectar and never feel nourished.

The masquerade I devour like a blind culprit,

who robs many trees from the forest.



A trial for the poisoned land.

Standing before a jury of ancient wisdom,

to be found guilty to a blowing applause.



Now aware of the ruin,

I curse the sentence given.

To die amongst the worlds calamity,

that my very hands took part in.

I now curse the culture of small mouth and big stomach.

Cured by the Sound

Calluses on the mind. The hardness of memories.
Prevalent from much erosion and much form.
Time Pummels to a Pulp.
Collects to a mound.
From the floor to my heels,
With eyes viewing only the life within ovals.
No more. No Less.
Combing the outside with lengthy gander,
in search of ethics.
Through exploration, a fatigue can be cured.
Cured by the sound of a new heart beating.