Here’s To The Gilded Age Of The Morning After

What do you do when the renaissance demands the gold for its gilded age? Pull up, up on it, tell me that you want it, pull up, pull up on it… It’a so much warmer inside. Let your body do the talking, say it!

Whatever you want. That’s a fairly vulnerable statement. Because what if I want to close my eyes and put a hold on this painting, or touch it while it’s wet, or get off early-the train doesn’t stop-I brought us here to sink only the finest into the moment, and the finest earthy tones sunk into my drinks, my sight; ochre yellow champagne, lips raw-sinopian red! without the wedding! Occhi Terra di Siena bruciata as long as the lights are umber dim, thought you were the good doctor, but the double blind experience keeps strong legs tied up in an age lacking innocence. What if what I desire is something new and wild, to send it into the rich terra toned vastness without any covers!

Warmth that brought the heartless back on beat, lighting up this cracked screen, it’ just a reference to a phone it’s not that deep

I’ve never taken my foot off the gas for anything other than to change gears, and if it isn’t shaking, leaking, or smoking I don’t want anything to do with it.

What kind of man are you? Well to relegate myself to any one aspect of a goddess would never see me equal to the divine; but do I dig your ass or tits more? When in your favorite position, on top and in control, what part of you am I not indulging; I don’t think there’s a single shade that I couldn’t draw. And that doesn’t answer the question, but what fun would this be if it all came right out without any of the build up. Anticipation of that ocean is probably the greatest story ever lived.

I can still feel it. The stir of neurons sings a sweet tune when I’m in, this typ-a mood, you. And that’s all that matters for it to be real.

Does a creator want anything else? Anything beyond the knowledge that their art is not beneath any other who has taken a breath at the razors edge. Every move is an art well practiced, seeing potential and I got to see it through, cut in darkness we get to it so I can hit the streets again, they are looking rather drab – who fills them, who picks the colors anyways! I’m far from convinced they have any sort of artistic eye the way they just give everyone parking tickets

Here’s to offering our necks to the wolves with so much uncertainty – Swimming in the language of breath & tongues; Vibes & trust.


I wish I had more time to draw, it feels wrong without that touch. The way I spend money though it’s tough keeping up. And my art won’t sell until I’m long gone.

Bones and Skin

Was it a ghost? or one of the voices you hear in your head?
You go through life and wonder what the hell happened.

It’s so fast; I lounge in the current
Many things take me away from you.

What the hell happened?
I write this in an aftermath that still I am grasping like cramped and exhausted fingers – palms and pads burning, the sensation that layers of skin may tear open, peeled from the bones; still trying to grip

No kisses, no hugs, it’s clear this isn’t what it was, much more complex now – you don’t want touch – and I don’t want the permeating feeling that I am not enough. I will not be..

You see, I’ve lived my life as honest as I could. Which is hard because we all have issues. And no one understands them. We barely understand our own.

Leaving used to be the hardest thing,
I promise it can be done with ease

I hear you got married,
and all I can think is thank you for all the inspiration,
glad you found a good man.

Don’t try so hard, those are the one’s who get let down the most

I guess I forgot as a grown man with an open heart inside, Ataraxia, the shores of which I always speak of leaving – something like me needs the storm. You say you’re curious. I call all 9’s, dressed to the nines. I’ll show up, and we’ll just ride. Words only once we’re back from the sky.

There is simply not enough time for this world;
every day is a sacrifice of one thing for another.
Maybe we’ll have it, or maybe we won’t.
I could have had everything I wanted for free,
in the end I paid for everything I didn’t want to go away

I had something I was writing you; it wasn’t a sonnet or anything like an ode, limerick, or quatrain-no it was just something-nothing like a burlesque, or villanelle You know it had shape, and sound, and visual! Perhaps a rondeau

I got it all mixed up and by mistake discovered ways of seeing things I could never have found on purpose

What good is all this money, if all it can buy is a first class ticket 6ft under.

Sang·froid

Composure or coolness, sometimes excessive, as shown in danger or under trying circumstances.

Joie de vivre, I’ll buy you roses all the time like a creep!

Say it over and over, play it how you want but I do not alter what I put up.

I will walk away with nothing and feel my heart grating against the bottom.

It must feel something to be apart of the greater definition

As the clock round, It became so wretchedly painful – to not love who I was – that when I finally did, the pain did not cease for as I loved me in that moment, the I was just minutes gone; a lingering smile on the face of someone new. A ghostly sense that I knew the previous tenant of the building, but only nostalgia would ever return.

Temporary. It is all fleeting. And I just wanted to catch a glimpse of the mind space I’ve entered. A golden soul, and I want to transmute it to lead and back again so I can say I did the hardest task twice; I’d even risk never returning because I’m okay with leaving the shore.

Be light, be water, adapt, and grow, you beautiful ambiance,
when I come into a room I ask them to set the mood to you.
Aura aura, warm glow. You are the fire spark I want to grow.

—————————————————————-

“Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.”
The place I seek is the shore that is no more.
A historical moment that is out of reaches!
No work, but memory can return it,
And only briefly before the bellows
overwhelm with today’s fire

Things Are Different In The Morning

When you wake up, it isn’t what it was the night or day before.
Leave me, leave me, leave me – We’ve been nothing but trouble.
Counter views, and frame colliding perspectives, now empathy.

“I feel a sudden clear focus and perspective. There is no time for anything inessential. I must focus on myself, my work and my friends.” – Oliver Sacks

Sacral, Oblation, and Hallow

I hold the sacrificial dirk, a dirge dripping in blood,
it’s clear I keep making choices.

You ever make a mistake while actively knowing it,
and say, “ah fuck it.” ?

Life you showed me,
doing nothing because of sense
But because it struck the senses;
Because it felt good.

You did things this way because you lived out a different chord with different rules and expectations; things that applied to you and only you. To say I understood could only be a man trying with every sinew to convince the other in an argument, with passion that he struggled, and knew what it meant to live from your center.

How presumptuous. How pompous.

I wanted it though, o I wanted to comprehend, I deserved to for all I’d worked towards — to be at one with that mind and give it my nod of approval. But fuck approval. Every entity that seeks it dips into the darkness afraid of its own shadow. And that thing which I wanted, would no longer be desired if it sought to illuminate the dark out of fear for what might be beneath its cover. Go into the dark curious; feel on your hands and knees – claw for discovery, and be beset by hunger no more.

Everything is a sacrifice — What will you wither, what will you grow?

If I Had More Life

I draw you–in–many don’t go down this road.
There is too much to do,
even with what we have we’re short – we’ll make it work
I see the world writing,
a new story everyday
poetry month, another year –
It’s me, it’s me, it’me,
With brave words I hide many fears,
fear of loss, of pain, of truth,
I am not the words I’ve written
It’s me, words I’ve always been,
how to use them, how I bend,
Yet in all this months time,
I’ve managed not to rend
words from within. I am dead
Never doing what I’m supposed to be doing,
and maybe I won’t do what I should,
but I’ll end up doing what I’ve done,
and that is something.
I’ve got more life!
Have you seen me with a fire?
Have you seen me when I’ve got everything together?
Just the right amount
The right mask,
A taste I can enjoy at my own pace; nothing moves at our own pace
To my own tune – I’m sacred
Off key and I’m still enraptured – a captive audience does not decide what it likes
I’ll enjoy this with ceremony

I Want To Taste It Again

I fill these lungs with just enough of you so that I’ll never quite say I had you, I watched the minutes go by, without even noticing them. The days they talked, barely did we touch, barely did we know each other’s love. The potential is far too much! For you to truly know anyone. Save that one you can.

This is the beauty of us. We show one another things we never knew existed within, lighting paths to new spaces, creating realms of wondrous joy – and then we fall. At first it might feel like you are empty. For what will you now do with all the unoccupied spaces? It is wrong to think you must remain with such a feeling – Empty. You at this point must find the perspective to see possibility beyond this supposed container. You must now grow to fill your expanded self! You must grow to meet your new heights

You’ve got to remember that the world isn’t going to wait up for you. It isn’t going to sit patiently while you get comfortable – while you get the order straight. Fuck order, and forget all that shit they tried to instill in you because what you end up finding is you spend your entire life trying to piece together some image that never does look exactly right to you. It’s magic don’t get me wrong, but you’re barely grasping what’s really at your fingertips. Until you do, all you have is a couple unconnected dots that may get you high or bring you down. And have you ever gotten high or down without a sense of direction? Talk about exhausting – only the crazy ones survive that.