When first you come, and the dream is young,
simple words fall from your tongue.
Along the way, as you learn to pay,
simple grows into a complex play, awash
with countless props and one way screens of scripted scenes
for darkened rooms where bullets and power
always save the hour, enabling some to revise their cries
to brown hue is not dirt, and yellow too is not size, but green

of stuff and human reason

of stuff and human reason
the world is made
when being is
hard to imagine.
This whole finite
stretch of proximity,
exquisitely so solid,
could disappear instantly...
its' personal reasons,
the rich weave of story
with countless threads,
creating form
for inadequate feeling...
being knows
of stuff and human reason.
'Til someone finds
it's not enough

While I concede however, or maybe,
understand please,
just so is created with dream in mind.
Manufactured stills....projection mills...
with these platforms, people go on a train,
in thought other folks huddle in cloaks,
everyone knows the destination,
but keep on acting
like they're going to Albuquerque or something,
rumpled in their Sunday best.

This simple life

on a crowded train our eyes meet,
I sit, with brown eyes staring
from a small smiling face.
Just so, sings this wondrous life,
stretches across the sky,
touching trees as leaves
fall in a haphazard release
onto dreams and backyards.
I smile, with brown eyes
wander,
in this curious life a cold wind blows,
resonating crisply,
fragility and this human frame.

Being a man with red ink stains
across the pages of my life,
when not tilting windmills I can see
growth in this accumulated land means take what you can,
hide where you stand, stock up on the canned, insist it was planned,
and hate to tell you but you will die, there is a hole in the sky,
the world tilts on its' axis. You can be certain of these things.