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

A Colorful Artery (Part I)

A corner of Color


Striped Bedding, Patchwork Walls


Looking at life through a blue straw


Fencing off the World


Locking away their Secrets


The crying Ghost


Veins Exposed