stuck on firetrucks and roads that surely lead to nowhere

stuck on bending trees
with growing shadows,
veiled impressions,
married to space,
entangled with time in
patterns of hidden
and hinted pigmented
looks, greywithablueishtint,
neighboringyellow of sunlight, bright,
friendly glare,
still, stuck on eclipsing the
rest of the earth,
uncovered with
time not discovered just yet . . .

still, stuck on surveying the field
and, then, wondering how.
still stuck on whathaveyou
and whathaveyoudone
in the pastlife
to live so unhindered today.
still stuck in the chase
in the movement
in patterns

still stuck on the firetrucks,
roads leading nowhere.

stuck on just hoping the
lights’ll come on
(and stuck hoping for sirens)
still stuck on the
promise of danger
(and hoping for sirens)
still stuck on excitement

a bull in a chase

get stuck seeing red,
’til the red just takes over

still stuck on the fire trucks
over again,
this here road leads to nowhere


he heard the barking of the unknown in the chase of his life at the edges of sound resolution. the depth of his nature’s what took him through the woods, late at night . . .
it was fear that took him home
it was the choking grip of “what?”
of “who?”
of “when?”
of “where?”
and, almighty, “why, o’, why?”
has the reason gone by
and not returned?
does earth
not need reciprocity
to, ultimately,
keep itself
steady, floating?
has the rhyme
gone astray?

are the chimes
not to ring
during times
of resentment
to regenerate
the mood

to balance out . . .

to take us back . . .
to the places where it all began,
to help this world
re-turn and, re-turn . . .

he yearned . . .
he learned . . .

he heard . . .

the barking of the unknown
in the chase of his life at the edges of
sound resolution . . .
the depth of his nature . . . is what took
him through the woods, early that morning . . .

it was fear
that helped him go . . .

it was fear
that helped him grow

shimmering undertones of a moth forever trapped beneath the streetlights.

picturing attachment to a pair of wings,
unnoticed in liberty and
feeling unsought in the air;
until the descent.

what is there to see
when there’s only two hues:
a negative brilliance
with positive dimness.

what is there to feel
in the rest of the day,
when night is made
sorrowful for the remainder.

what is it to hear
what’s supposed to be right
but, is only what’s left
to be said from the past.

what is it . . . to rise . . .
while being oblivious,
and, only to find
that it all was a ruse . . .


“Tis entirely more tolling to accept the coldness of reality than to relish in the warmth of any fantasy.


‘Tis entirely more destructive to simply delight in any fantasy than to accept the genuine nature of this reality.”


no longer adapting to the world
and feeling trapped inside this person.

forms of poetry

figure me as what i am,
but what they see
is someone hurting.

silly me,
it’s so discerning:
seeing me
in front of curtains.

feeling trapped inside this person.
open windows.
i am hurting.

forms of poetry

jump my tears away.
(i’ll jump my fears away)
in hopes of learning.

no love here for they
will not adhere;
will just add fear
to play.

but, no place here today.
so, i just . . . mm . . .
so, i’m just here to stay . . .