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.

All belonging to whom?

The rubber soled rhythm from my petroleum based sneakers slapping against the black top began to make me wonder. When was the last time I ran like this? Was it Right before my divorce, when I was chasing that child she called a man? Yeah, that was it. He took off with my girl in a new Porsche leased in my name. Yeah… that was the last time I ran like this. That kid knew how to shift though, I will give him that. He blasted down that acre long driveway so fast I barely got a whiff of that glorious perfume she was wearing.

“I know who you are! Don’t think I won’t find you!”

I can’t believe I did it… I really did it.

“Do you hear me? You are finished!”

I can’t believe I did it! I actually made it over the gate without dropping that bucket and snuck past the sleeping dog (god those dogs were big) up the long black top drive way up onto his front porch…and now… I’m back on the cricket field… If I can make it to the woods I will have achieved something worthy of my existence!” I said to myself as I heard the hard tapping sound of my sneakers hitting the pavement become softer as I transferred onto the pristinely cut grass.
I could see the lining of the woods off in the distance and realized how open the landscape I was retreating into actually was. From that CEO’s house up at the top of the hill I probably could be seen easily, like a grain of white rice on a forest green sweater. I began to fear that he may have a really powerful gun (NRA members always do) and could probably take me out at this distance. I began frantically zig zagging as I made my way across the clearing, towards the woods.

Sirens began blindly flashing between creases of neighboring trees. Again, I began thinking of what I did and whether or not it was ethical. But were the actions of the man shouting at me (his voice now an echoing whisper) morally sound? It was always about the next dollar with him.

“You can never have enough money Charles, never.”

That’s how my day started every day for the past twenty years. He was always talking about Herbert Spencer and, what I could only identify as a appendage, if not the entire body of Social Darwinism. And all these things were nauseating. I would have to nod my head in agreement to it all, just to keep my footing in the “Survival of the Fittest” job market. It was these words that helped me make my decision for this single action, on this single night...tonight. The last time we had our annual conference, after all the suits and ties left the room and it was just him and I, my boss said, and I quote;

“Charles, it boils down to this. Nothing belongs to the poor. They are poor because they choose to be. The only thing left for them is admiration of us higher folk, because they are small people. We and this company are one step below God, Charles, We really are, and the sooner you realize that, the more profound your life will become, unless of course you aren’t FIT to be here. You are FIT to be here, aren’t you Charles?”

That statement alone is what resulted in the sweet karmic action of leaning a bucket full of motor oil up against his door, ringing the bell and running off behind a bush. It was like I was becoming the teenager I never got to be, doing angst driven things like smearing fecal matter in mail boxes , except this was more like a physical Allegory. It was so gratifying seeing him open the door and scream when he realized the mess of an oil spill taking over his own personal home! I will never be able to express the amount of gratification I got from sticking my head up from behind that bush, shouting

“Pour some CoreExit on that!”

Even the dog bites and the possible need of stitches bring me an enormous amount of happiness as I think about my action. I regret nothing. I am more than willing to flip burgers for the rest of my life, it will be a relief to be with a class of people that have a sense of what does and does not belong to them. The man behind the counter at the hobby shop doesn’t ever assume he owns the worlds resources. He has always known they don’t belong to him. I want to be with the flesh and bone people, not the robots of the corporations that have a sense of god for an Ego.

I can now hear the sound of the squad cars coming to a halt at the top of the hill. The woods still seem so far off, I am surely going to be captured. I am definitely going to go to jail. I can’t help but realize that this is the first time in my life that I am running from a thief. I have chased a thief but never have I ran from one.

As I feel the first branch scrape against my face and feel the leaves against my sweat dripping brow, I feel the sensation of knowing through my action I have helped out a robotic thief who knows nothing but consumption, consumption, consumption.

All in All, Hair and Skin, I am merely repeated addition.

Happy Crow Update

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