I Moved to Detroit

I've heard this same song 100 times. If I could write a book that could take me out of this world and into a new one, I would do it. If a sweater could warm my spirits, I would wear 1,000. Don't settle they say. It sure is hard to live a travelers life. Lonely, they don't know? Keep a knife (or dog) by your bed. We have to make compromises and spend hours. This is not a vacation, but we don't know what to do. Its hard to make friends while bound in the #2 position. I quick pray-"I don't need anyone but myself." The light looks like the gleam off of snow--but it's September. How are my toes already cold? Its funny the things we remember when we remember them. Its funny how habits can die in the blink of an eye, while others commence for years without a passing glance. What does it mean to be a hipster anyways? There's no use fighting or pretending. Sweaters have holes for a reason. Dress with paint to fit in here. Did you miss the memo? Its ok, someone will drive by and laugh...then you'll learn.

Wise Moments?

what is your first love?
trees and new notebooks i suppose

where do you create?
places that feel comfortable. wombs.

what do you want to do?
i try to be honest. i don't know

who are you?
an attempt!

Get On Ya'Goggles!

Exploring like an explorer about GENUINE CONNECTION via internet.

can you hear my soul sing through your computer screen?

can i hear yours?

if we cannot feel or hear or touch each other, how can we see each other?
(really see each other, that is)

Notion of Fragrance

Notion of Fragrance

Tina Cody

English Breakfast

the baby birds are chirping like crazy 
but it's not a good day for flight because it's already drizzling.

Nectar Beginnings (aka Fall of the Greeks)

And so the morning begins. The room smells of milk and honey and Nietzsche. I dreamt of the fall of the Greeks. There is no agenda this day other than living with open eyes. We will search to be prophets and learn that we are all God's children. Magic is the key to the sparkle in your eye. A rainbow, inside of a cucumber, underneath the bough of a fern. "Yes"... a nod toward the warm milk and honey in the rising morning light. Squeaky floorboards reveal a clumsy workout routine. The birds are awfully quiet this morning. Perhaps they're waiting for the neighborhood Home and Garden Tour and when the daffodils will reveal themselves or perhaps they too are blinded by the scent of milk and honey on a fresh beginning of a morning.

He is beside me reading a philosopher who says, "What are you doing here?" The sheets about us. Someone outside on the street below startles, "Are you kidding me?" An early Sunday morning there is only peace to be had, ya hear?

I sit, searching for the words. Searching for moments that make me feel valuable. "Why are you here?" Oh how that twists me up inside. I will not go back and read my own attempts at uncovering my existence. I will not stop touching this pen to paper.

The Home and Garden neighborhood Tour is pretty much what it sounds like, minus the honey bees. Minus the honey bees because we don't know why they've disappeared from our suckling flowers. Perhaps they've found a better lot than this flock of plants. Needless to say we will dote around the neighborhood and listen to deep laughter, pride, and dripping kitchen sinks. All will be well under complimentary tea in fine china with thumbprint breaded cookies. The Home and Garden Tour forgot to advertise to the honey bees this year so they will not be stopping by. The neighbors will frown because we will have coarse sugar in lieu of their absence sloshing our tea cups.

Ah, but the mirth of milk and honey upon my morning. Where could that fragrance come from with the absence of Mr. Bee? How did I get the scent and not the neighbors of the Home and Garden Tour?

Lover? Is that you?
Philosopher?
God?

Milk and honey I ask you,
"What are you doing here?"

February Office Quote

"Set aside a certain number of days, during which you shall be content with the scantiest and cheapest fare with coarse and rough dress, saying to yourself the while: 'Is this the condition that I feared?' Seneca

February Office Struggles #3

excruciating
the normalcy
stagnant breath
you dead skulls
rotting brains
the rats fear you

how can you take away my vacation days?
you slime slimp power gut
they were not your days to take

how to get thru
without the numbness
cell phones and distractions
i don't want to do this anymore

do you hear me?

i don't want to do this anymore

lost its luster
along with vacation days
that were always mine
mine mine mine

February Office Struggles #2

your insecurities are disgusting

February Office Struggles #1

on one hand i hate her
on the other hand is your print
your mark of this everlasting love

how can i feel such hatred and such love
all in the same two palms?

i just want to drive to you
fall into your arms and forget
that i only have
five more months of this shit

Get Up

Impatience. Garbling stomach. I am excited and moving. I actually can't sit still, don't you understand.
Very specific long bursting lines. Impatience, ok? Ok! Ok!
I got to move. Jump up and down or something. Don't want to be sitting exploring a body that is screaming.
"Move me!" "Move me!"

However...

it's kind of nice, kind of strange to trap a moving body in stillness in inward reflection.
my birds just went crazy flapping in their tiny cage.
no its not nice.
its not nice at all.

The Labyrinth

I rise to recognize the labyrinth has eyes and it's staring at me.

I step to regret the labyrinth has breath and it's moving towards me.

I pause just because the labyrinth has jaws and it's coming for me.

I leap to crl alt delete but the labyrinth proceeds and it's over for me.

I fall to recall the labyrinth at all cuz it's swallowing me.

Shock, I'm alive, I'm inside the labyrinth's demise, still devouring me.

I spin to sicken the labyrinth curls in, contracts into me.

I howl to its bowels then the labyrinth projectiles releasing me.

I'm flung to the sun the labyrinth undone now forgetting about me.

I flail to unveil the labyrinth was my jail something new before me.

I tip toe to start to know something new, the cosmos is now around me.

April 3, 2013

April 3, 2013

Wild things burst through within. Nothing is calculated except the pen to the paper. She moves terribly slow. Its more of a languid explosion. A slow come. A dripping fantasy. When we are together we are nothing but contact to contact. Skin embracing skin. I lose motivation. Within reason. I'm just very distracted, ya hear folks? Close places to get lost near Lewisburg, PA. Zip code 17837. How much of this is stupid shit?

Friction

so here's what happened
(from mine eyes)

it was his birthday
his special day
one that i wish i was present
a part of
but long distance, the telephone
he had a great day
as planned
i had a tough day
as planned
he talked
i talked too much
he hesitated
his birthday
my day was not his
should should should
i'm sorry my love.

on the other hand...

when we say,
"it is your day"
what does that really mean?
he says,
"i don't want to stop caring for you,
but i did...because it was my day"
where is the line?
did i overstep or did he?
a birthday is the celebration of
him. his existence.
so why should i talk too much. it doesn't seem right. oh boy.

My Artist Prayer

To my Father, my Creator, my Universe:

please feed me.
I am young and need
your air in my lungs
your life in my blood
your tears in my eyes
and your hands upon my cheeks.

I need the nourishment of inspiration
and the confidence to give you back
something beautiful.
the bravery to stand in myself
and mimic you by creating with my own hands.

I hope I am enough.

My belly is hungry oh Father
can I have the sweets before dinner?
the art, oh Father
the art is what I crave.

headcount

If every poem feels like vomit,

does it still count as “art”? 

THE companion

I dreamed of the moonlight

already pale on your already white dress

awoken in a start

you turned over and groaned

“I dreamt of a river and you and the moon”

now we share all things

Awaken in a start

driving in the dark

a sliver of moon

in the three sleepless hours

I’m in fast lane. only

a poem under PRESSURE

moments from a meeting
more more more
loved our little flits flings flyer
you are not a lyre
just maybe sometimes a denier
i am crude crass craneaby
don't let this fall
2 months till we're legit
you wait one month
i'll wait another
we'll split it 50/50
meeting is delayed
continue to ramble
no judgement on a poem
subside subsidize subbliterize
phenonemonal.
magic is made in limitation.
strict the restriction for a big bust

1InAminute

restrictions are creativity

creativity is innate

spackling and sprouting are one and the same

he writes a beautiful story

she sings in her head

the world moves forward

lay the head down

rest

no criticisms

beginnings

one second

and a new poem is 

complete?

Reminessence

August 27th
Lewisburg, Pennsylvania

Take time me. I am here again. Arrived in full. Blossom behold. Fighting nothing. I surrender.
What if? Wonder awaits. What if? Peace be still inside. Everything swirls and slushes you at the eye. Our chaos interrupts one another. Intertwine and fall? It'll be...alright chimes out the window. Blazing stacks of concrete stacked in a row between trunks of bark and pine. We have the best conversations in between. Dodging through alleys. A secret in a home. We are safe now. We can breathe now.