Please, Explain This to Me

I am making a list, checking my pen for ink,
writing reasons, and reasons for reasons,
letters that contain the most scripted circles,
fights that die to my waking sight, yet live on,
like an attempt at suffocating an anaerobic pest.

In this pre-fab nightmare, the circles conspire,
forming a coil that buzzes through my fingers,
drags out the truth for a beating and I search for an explanation,
as though the writing had frayed their purpose,
to serve some craving of my own, for knowledge.

Rest Those Weary Eyes

I've seen distance collapse through time,
like the folding of a napkin, meeting plaid with fringe,
I read my timeline forwards, but a year in reverse,
like a train operator in a caboose, my sentiment is delayed.

I rather enjoy the grit of my present situation,
but my nerves feel padded, insensitive to the air's temper,
I feel frostbitten by the bitter wind the has blown me to sleep,
relishing the cold solidity of brick beneath my face.

Another

Like an arrangement of spheres,
assembled to host a perfect grid,
usurped by the a crater formed
by the betrayal of the floor:
the blanket of a curious fellow.

It's me adding one to 20,
upsetting the equality of a scale,
the truth of 20 = 20 is removed,
as arbitration doles out
an especially confusing world.

Never a matter of ready or not,
I just am who I am: an apparent heir,
to be one less 20 is minuscule to me,
like receiving a quarterly report,
it capitalizes on one step in time over any other.

Find the Wind

Lucky to be caught in focus and present,
rather than lost in the back draft,
far from little green bulbs,
this feather flew like an arrow to my hand.

Passing through, scoring my palms,
eating my shell to fight with all,
that would hold me back from laughter,
a twist of humor hanging from my cup.

A Good Day

tunnel to the lower right






This tree came out poorly, so instead I used some liberal computer editing to make it look as it does.

One species doesn't want to admit the sky is getting dark.

Though Only a Blur, I See it Now

It's you in twenty years I think of,
I'm not certain, but concerned,
of what your life will feed on,
and what you will bring to light,
or stash to the darkness.

See, it's been twenty years,
and though I don't remember it all,
I know the feeling of being swung around,
and of a weight keeping me from rising,
like the paper under the sway,
of its paper weight.

I can not remember if I have asked,
for anything, but I know what you have called for,
that which I have faithfully echoed,
like a child repeating without meaning,
beckoning again and again to make up for the mystery.

The knocking of my bare knuckles,
still echo as I reach for a door,
though it may not be the best place,
I have found this neighborhood, a development,
and my feet have carried me seeking my own threshold.

I feel, and I do not feel the same,
about this strip of wood,
that would hold my dwelling,
whether from flooding out,
or caving to the world,
however I see it in the moment.

Cast Fall

Shadow of my shadow,
though I do not see it,
with its slender fingers,
pointing along the eclipse edge,
seeking to escape its cape.

Out of control,
its sights tremble,
like an action film,
conjuring quicker breath,
fighting sort with brevity.

Never More Nice Guy

When I was slightly younger and read far more stories,
I enjoyed the 'listing fast from ruptured hull' type the best,
now as I read less, I write into my days like chalk on a wet sidewalk,
fascinating stories, the ones that knock the breath out of you,
like a wind kicking up about as you breathe in.

For if I read many of these short figures on stilts around me like books,
the leather-bound jacket would surely meet its opposite,
on the other side, with little in the middle, like a Siamese twin,
and these characteristics fade into the absurd projection of horrible abnormalities,
a collection of faded traits that diary the suicide of human sense.

Like a sense of smell in a slaughter house,
our knack for beauty, has it become a mere scale?
a measurement of another social failure,
do we resign to our caves, now that we have decided there is nothing,
outside worth our blurry gazed attention to missing the point?

Sleep and Making my Bed

Soft as a shelled urging voice,
I have felt this comfort you sent me,
a sleep that would have passed over me,
you gracefully sent through my door,
and I find myself apologizing for holding on to this moment,
reading your face, the only one that seems to listen before speaking.

The face that leads me home,
your words outcry my chaotic choir,
even when I do not want the truth,
it is placed at my bedside like a cup of water,
stubborn yet nourishing past my lying senses.

Of Concrete from Sand

Brought down the cobwebs and around twisted bends,
set a camp on one end and fed the spider stories,
it was like reading faces through a shaped diamond,
pretty but missing the captivated feature.

As the whistling tore into my peripheral hearing,
as I bent over to avoid the thoughts streaming through my head,
as manifold sounds gave way to only one,
I hid my face as if to render myself invisible.

It's hard to realize that for all the view that a mountain top offers,
there's far more basement real estate for safe huddling,
and that the slightest beckon is easier to deny than receive,
can anyone read my mind when I write on the inside of my head?

Hollow Clicks

The muted voices above my head, upstairs,
and their hurried footsteps tell me what the time is,
far from normal pacing that tricked you into thinking they were approaching,
but I know now that they always recede from recognition.

I am an empty staircase, blind to where I am,
stretched between my fear and expectations,
wondering why no one steps towards me.

I Like a Loud Focus

When I see the tree branches bunch together,
like ribs, I see the concavity of the whole,
the closed, knobby cylinders meld to a hollow hall,
yet I cannot say anything, there is nothing here to hold.

As I convert everything to my screen,
I marvel its enrapture,
forgetting how I miss the smell of vector fields,
but as my eyes blur the vivid panel,
I rest my case in black cool.

When you hear numb repetition in the murmuring music,
I see progressive tunnels of pulsing stripes,
as you sense it is time to move on,
I'm just settling in,
comfortable when time has passed by our words threefold.

Shadow-cast Glass

Call to me and I will whisper, "come,"
for I miss you as the fall brings morning dew,
and the sweat on my brow becomes the rain on my eyelid,
and I am speaking to you in the apostrophe of local clouds,
the honey melon of mental rainbows, refracted off the hard glass.

Which keeps me from waving to you in my dreams,
as you seem to pass by, yet waiting all the time,
like a painting beyond my focus, the concert that sings to me,
echoing what has been proclaimed: "you who were born a criminal,
shall not die as one," the remembrance written in my name.

Messenger Decreed

Stories of a wider breed,
coming racing steadily,
white knight and shining steed,
carrying pens to write a different creed.

Bleed until your owner's been appeased,
pen, mark the paper as you're seized,
form the letters so the eyes are pleased,
then put to rest as you are released.

Fight the crowing mean disease,
devouring you and eating me,
inside a city, my body you see,
stay your hand, give ear to my plea.

Heading due Rest

Waking before dawn,
can feel like the needle stick,
of novocain that stings and then fades,
even after I've stood up and dimmed the alarm,
I feel like I've lost the point of what I'm doing.

I question if I pushed too far home,
moving to ground level, if I ended in the basement,
as in pre-dawn morning I wonder where my heart is,
even as my stomach rolls over, begging for purpose,
I recall the source of my weariness, that dull crack.

All those earnest thoughts as I lay on my bed,
seemed to have been smothered in sleep by my sheets,
a rest that rearranged my head, sifting it around,
as a deck of cards, yet while the latter should be shuffled,
the former functions better in a deliberate order.

This Saturday becomes a Sunday

Heading west, shielding my eyes from the view into a setting sun,
my breath sucking the white through my sight,
and as it pulls the last vision from my gasping receptors,
I have to wonder where I am headed, and what I would see if my eyes served right.

So often, endlessly, like the pounding of my feet,
I strain to feel the rhythm that has inspired me thus far,
often fueled by the memory of the sweet cascade of water,
or the rays of the sun beating through a sleeping forest,
but in the moment, I most recognize the sound of my march.

While I would prefer to walk straight into the sun,
my feet obey a odd pattern, set into motion by my desire for a better course,
a meal that holds well, that spells out the art in my soul,
rather than the scribbles of my wiggling toes.

Sufjan Stevens makes music on a roof

#50.2 - Sufjan Stevens (MusicNow) - The lakes of Canada
Uploaded by lablogotheque

What are we Doing for?

Whimsically, I look back to the days of paper with no lines,
a fresh start, a clear plane to draw as I wished,
and if words touched the surface, it was a bubbly scrawl,
an unhampered affair, no business but my mind's eye on display.

Then came the days with lines, it was time to bend over a desk,
and repeatedly draw twenty-seven shapes,
all in the hope of distinguishing the definite thoughts,
to mask it with language, to dress it in a suit, and get down to business.

Next step was to restrict the horizontal windings of my stylus,
to lock it all into grids, to draw lines that represented numbers,
and those numbers to describe metrics I saw,
there was no funny business, with what I imagined, just the external.

And somewhere along the lines, I lost my mental control,
or so I thought, as I followed the many outside guide lines,
the internal affairs broke water and fought for special interests,
until my head could no longer spout like reader tape.

I am ready to upgrade, to split and let everything run its course,
I've lost focus and now I desire the complete edition of the world,
but I've forgot my mind, that it's housed in a periodic body,
that does not take well to frustrations, that melts down with neglect.

Wind Turbines are Large (Puget Sound Energy's Wild Horse Wind Farm)

From Kittitas, looking toward Mount Rainer.

Taller than the Statue of Liberty, standing at 80 meters tall (a football field is 100 meter long)

Standing at the base, notice the van in the background, dwarfed by a wind turbine.

This wind farm has 127 turbines.

The very long ladder climb inside.

Fragments of that Peaceful Window

In the window, I see my little self,
struggling with my pj's, discourteously outgrown,
sleeves restraining the blood in my arms,
squeezing until my toes go numb.

What dreams I had for a lack of nerves,
my heart pumping, but my head often light,
pressing into the thin, wispy air,
blinds shut tight, light blades sliding around,
in marching lines across my face,
as I imagine, even as I see a portrait of she before me.

Catch me from Above

Full in fear of exposure in the open,
labeled and left wholly broken,
if I have no tears to give,
what heart would choose to shift?

Is it a noble protest of the current culture,
to display and expose all that was precious,
distorting it like an island in the telescope,
mistaking a person for a sighting,
a broken piece of my life for a warning sign?

I wonder who would be more confused,
my disconnected state of self,
or a reader's digest flashy front page?
if my stories read as the page in front of you,
would my face reach you through the mess,
or would my self get lost in the signal?

My Sister's Graduation (and the trip there)

An attempt at looking red-neck.

Mt. Shasta

An empty graduation

A full graduation

A special graduate

Waiting for her name.

A Stationary, Amiable Grain

I the picnic table,
upon which you lay your arts and draw,
where you noted a grey tone,
it was reformed to green,
repainted to reflect your mood,
in my ingrained fancy,
I imagine for you the apex of my lush years,
their length cut short, by an eager axeman,
and came slowly, my parts lumbering in tow,
to your yard, to dwell there after,
furnished with ample art supplies,
to make me swell with pride as those paints dry and fade.

Party Line with a Ball and Chain

Collective order consists of tilted seesaws,
a constant weight in the favor of a single party,
keeping the opponent in an odd balance,
feet dangling down and head hanging forth,
a cold display of power paired with quiet surrender.

Illuminated by a honeycombed point of light,
a candle in a decorative cup,
with dark siren flowers displayed,
my tongue tilted up in silence,
thoughts held high and words dangling from them.

Man Hunt with a Twist of the Wind

Arms like that of a little boy's,
legs that clatter like old toys,
eyes that reflect the crashing of a thunder cloud,
hands that shake as a willow in the wind,
halted by fingers that stick back into the palms,
from where they came,

The feeling of a soaring bird topping a hill crest,
ahead of the pack, better than the rest,
within the ears resound the crack of a thunderbolt,
from a hunter gunning the sky,
and firing their game.

Oh mockingbird,
my heart goes out to thee,
for receiving what you did not sow,
for that you have my pity,
dumb as you were, you had no song to own,
but had another thrust in your throat,
one with a dramatic bang and whoosh of liberated feathers,
without them you fell too far, too fast,
so that I wondered: would you ever be found?

Let's be Real with Ourselves

Looking at life through the ticks and clicks,
of a box-toothed, straight-faced, mummy,
mouth chattered, with the vibration,
of bats clattering against its hollow interior.

Maybe this place needs a designer,
or perhaps we just want everything to be pretty,
like a girl applying makeup before bed,
with the comfort of being presentable,
but her only visitor is a pillow,
which takes the smears of her restless sleep kindly,
smudging and removing the get-up,
until when morning comes it smiles,
with the broken collage of a mismatched notion.

No, there must be an outdoors,
away from the decorative ballroom,
where mud and grass and bees have free reign,
in a dominion with little rules and vast bounds,
where we are allowed to stub our toes,
or scrape our feet upon a stone and bleed,
to let our insides spill out in a splash of color,
and understand why the animals laugh without reserve.

Logic (Shown in the Spirit of Nerdom)

F = f(A,B,C) = (A ⊕ B)C

as shown below:
And when it works, the LED lights up:
I'm glad that I'm not a digital hardware engineer, and you should be glad as well, seeing as this took me two hours to plan and build. In all fairness, it's my first logic circuit, but it is considered very elementary by digital guys. I call it spaghetti.

Here's what a 'hard' project looks like:
Now that's some crazy stuff.

May it be Greater than my Dream

I remember what I dreamt last night,
a first in a long time of a restless murk,
of course it made little sense, a clear reflection
of my life, like a glass pattern, seemingly shattered,
rather rebounding in a complicated way...
I wandered through a monstrous projection of an old school building,
catacombed with greenhouses, courtyards, and classrooms,
but not a single hallway, and with every door I opened,
I interrupted another lecture, unable to find a designated path,
to where ever I was going, yet I knew I was making progress,
for I continued to head forward, ignoring the confused looks I received.

I did not mind the feeling of all those eyes, questioning my course,
I am not uncomfortable with being uncomfortable,
though I can lose myself in the cells ahead that were not created
by people with the intention of traveling onward,
I will push through without heeding those who haven't gone before me,
I will single-minded follow He who is always before me.

I-Beams and What I Hear in my Bones

Factory tours,
harsh industrial lights,
industrious smells,
clanking tickers,
the occasional slamming of a door,
the smelting burn,
the casual goggles,
complemented by earplugs,
flame in air,
reflected in the eye.

And the slice as of a guillotine,
as the lights crash off,
as the stars burst in my head,
while my blackened face
marries the dark atmosphere,
I learn to fear the grating
metal biting metal all in time,
like clockwork I listen in,
and hear the heat hissing upon
its escape from this blood,
a shine filled with grimy specks,
an alien reality created
with painstaking human fervor,
an effort for an earning
that clanks in the sweaty pocket,
a mirroring of their work.

Expanding the Horizon

Wheels within wheels,
watching the spinning,
full flash futuristic bend,
of a cheap music visualizer,
like we were meant for more,
caught imitating carnal desires,
seemly derived from our cousins,
up in the trees, swinging and seeing,
the ground spiral out of sanity to a point.

In the past, I tended to mash the fast-forward button,
I find myself yearning to step-speed my surroundings,
as if to better catch their passing smiles, see-sawing above,
floating free to a point, as a branch in the wind, as a spring flower,
finding its root to fail, vacates its perch to spread wing and find anew,
no longer wondering what I have missed, but to hope that I will discover better.

Feeling for the Keys

Chaos and the ease of a miss-fired synapse,
this one's severed even, blocked by fury,
a destruction of one's own mind for control,
as if to show the penalty for countless mistakes,
show it the door and slam it after their exit,
and if their knocking drives you mad,
take the matter out of their hands quench its fire.

Yet an iron fist lacks the eyes of foresight,
even to reveal the thread of reason,
behind a reasonable doubt, but
rather it seeks to squelch all pretense of dissonance,
best left to the orchestrator and not his orchestra,
as iron sharpens iron, so is one worn,
so watch what you shear off,
lest its absence haunt your character,
stick to the purpose, leave death to its enemy.

A Story on the Way to Bed (Well Earned Sleep?)

Casting a lead line into the dark,
fumbling around as if there were a light switch,
losing ground and height as I fall,
stricken by the sleep my body so earnestly seeks,
although I know not why I am troubled
by such an early advent of my drooping limbs,
even extending to my short stubby eye-door,
it's Getting Hard to Bear, all this headache,
a trade-off from phantom heartbreak,
mixing wo-gether to-rds and losing my tongue,
to sleep, a decay of reason, surrendering
to the uneven patterns of my constant muscle,
my subconscious-warranty of a breath,
sometimes-organic-battery cluster of shock->pump,
supplying the prescribed-confusing cerebellum fires,
which in term fuel my mass of sub-formed illusions,
goodnight, as the sane prescribe to the weary, adieu.

Keeping One Eye Open (During the Night Watch)

The firefly dances in, shining from the shadows,
an old hunchback carrying a kind wisdom,
thoughtfully whispers, "It is okay to lose some,
okay to drop a plate here and there,
if only to remember that you cannot hold it together."

Progressing through the night,
watching eagerly for the daylight,
I would do well to remember his words,
"fight, friend, not because it depends on you,
but to devote yourself to what is right,
knowing that good is greater than your efforts,
even as you may fall in battle, the struggle presses on."

The Writing on the Wall and the End of the Tunnel

The Writing on the Wall(s of a Seattle Artery)

A Swift Trial

Like a ragged squirrel, restless in the newfound light of spring,
you jumped the gun, shot, no questions asked,
although leaving many in need of answers behind:
Would you have ended it if you had known what a beautiful day it would be?

You spilt blood on a sunrise, too strong to hold the stain,
in the receding clouds, your last act left no trace of reason,
the backdrop you trapped yourself in left us all wondering,
what could have led you here, to kill two birds with one fell stone?

The Grayscale Flow through Alley

A Prison, or an just an Alley

Gutter Crawl


Showing a little color

Even the planes are gray

Color from the outside World


Form Fits the Function

The Color stays outside this Artery

A Colorful Artery (Part II)

Knock, knock, hello again




My door mat


Pastel display


String theory which holds us all together


My cup overflows


Pay attention