Shouts and Echos

When all is tangentially related,
   pushing and pulling,
  shining
        reflecting—
   Self becomes a metaphor

Am I not
         what I am?

So, where is the meaning in "Tree?"

   I am shouts and echos.
        My reality defines
             and is defined—
                              by me?

Intention is subtle, discrete, hidden,
    when causality governs
  an ordered cosmos,
             as below and above...

Chaos is a product of
    sequential thought
        and perspective limitation;
  but all is meaningless
      without a reference point.

  I am a fractal, started circa 1984;
     yet, my bones are much
                        much older.

I was born on the cusp of Aquarius.
I enjoy high speed
               burns
           —stoned—
     to the beach to
               catch the sunrise
          to clear my thoughts.
Would you believe me if I told you I get told I have an old soul,
a lot?
and it only matters when I think of one
other human being on this planet of six
billion, plus, schmucks and assholes;
myself included—
infants, though, are exempt.
    you're probably not her;
   so, I don't fucking care for your
   fluff.

Tell me, Boddhisattva, if I shatter
        I and I, erase ego,
     mute myself
            do I exist to cease;
   become something else;
                   or...

University

You, standing on ivory towers,
 do you believe in your gut,
     in your answers,
   in your paper, brick, mortar...

Can you tell me the way to Enlightenment?

 Your theories are disjointed;
     that is from ego.
My thoughts are disjointed;
   and that is from ego.

An Academic, an Autodidact, and a Sophist
 are in a bar;
      who's the one serving drinks?

I want to shout my throat raw,
   inhale until my lungs burst,
  beat my chest until my cage collapses,
 explode

I want to sit
   until I dissolve.

If I am my own metaphor—

       What happens if I finish that as a statement?

So it goes...

It’s fitting or
  fucking funny;
        don’t you think?
You slipped that note to me,
    the one about touch,
as your hand
     cupped to shield the
         flame
   as I lit your cigarette—
 sparks leaping
across that slight unbearable
               gap
        between our skin.
And now, I’m the one
      who must remind
    my self
  to keep my hands
     to myself. I must
        remember
 not to run my fingers
    through your hair;
  not to touch the small
        of your back;
    to ignore the cut of
          your dress;
to overlook your raw
            thumbs—
and you stay just
          out of reach…
 Now, my breakfast of
     nicotine and caffeine
  is just an excuse to
 skip on brushing my teeth;
I fall asleep to self-indulgent tokes and
     trite poems about a girl;
  and my future's not so clear.

C’est la vie, no?

Petal and Chaff

       Late spring bloom wilted
   well before autumn, questioning
patience and faith in serendipity;
   begging questions of latency
 or laziness; since I stood
    there plucking—
  She loves me…
      she loves me not…
I am foolish.
  What sway could the destruction
     of this simple thing of beauty
          have over Fate?
None. I'm grasping at straws,
     not binding wheat for harvest.
  Soon, the leaves will turn
and fall from the trees,
     like the time that slips
             through
               my fingers…
But talent and aptitude only
      get you so far, boy. Ambition
   and hard work, they are
               the crucial elements…

Butterfly Screams and One-handed Claps

Well now, James Douglas,
     what have you?
  Prancing lion, slinking black leather,
      shedding snake skin
   for whiskey bloat—
the sun sets in the
                                 west.
Some might say; but really,
     is booze the muse?
    Not to mention,
  who wants to be
       another drunk cliché?
My scars mock like a
     clown's face paint.
Philosopher poet, self
        taken way too seriously,
               bottled ego boost, sped
   self-destruction.
I am no saint.
     I've fucked without
   emotion; and
I've had my heart set
     ablaze,
  snuffed and torn from my chest
    and stomped.
Learn to forget, and life
                         is beautiful.
     Just the same,
   I grow my beard to
             hide my face.

Stand, Crawl, Walk

Again, I'm left asking,
    Where do I stand?
 The repetition of this question
   makes an abstraction of
   firm ground for foundation...

The foolish man builds his house
          upon the sand;
An idiot dreamer sets castles
             in the clouds;
   Drunks and junkies hit rock bottom...

If the earth is in motion,
   where do the wise settle?

               ***
Teetering backwards,
     running in place—
   this place stinks of
                   stagnation.
Fall again,
        raw knee crawl,
   up again
            and shaking.
No, I suppose it doesn't
    take that much
       to shake us
  to pieces; not when
 she moves and earth
    trembles,
  the ground crumbles
     in tiny quakes
        beneath our feet.
When the dust storm settles,
   what will be left
                for me
                         here?
               ***
   Tell me,
 when is the time to
     walk away?
When should I light
   my way with
 bridges burning
      behind?
Am I free?
      26
   unmarried/single
     no kids
  If so,
where do I go?
  The limtless horizon
  is dizzying;
loyalty and tacit
     devotion
  hold heart strings
    like anchors—
The world won't stop
   without me,
     nor should it—
  So, again,
 when does the time
    come to
walk away?

I still can't think of
anywhere I'd rather be...