wires

So many wires of time sensitive information, I try to solve with instant crazes that talk back to back and side by side in codes and different modes,
In wrinkles and winks, so many close calls
I’m farmed and framed again,
To obey little orders underground, It took me so long to find them,
I’m still in the rough, shedding little bits of my allegiance to love, to honeywell hot town, she’s the got the rest of the sound in my ears,
In her quick and clean desert heat jamboree,
Waking up the windscreen, my buried fingers begin to see,
My own land under constellations of the undertow and books of the empty brow,
Directions toward the programs memory,
Bends the mirror reveal uniform slipping a few new moments,

Now she’s bold, now she’s new,
Now she’s winning, now she’s sold,
Now she’s been, now she’s skinny now she’s blue,
Now she’s old, now she’s swimming now she’s true,
All the calls of the hidden keep her blipping,
Now she’s gone, now she’s done,
She holds nothing in her heart,
Only space for what can be born,
A place to share what can not be given,
Energy to repair,
Just room enough to spare,
She’s bolder, she’s a soldier

All the time, one thing to become and to live another,
Do I live undercover?
Born in a dark room and racing for the places where I hear a murmur,
Dim shapes and little sharp whispers I call mother,
Grasping at straws and I feel warmer,
Covered in the contours I call underwater,

We all begin in a dimly lit room
Call it by different names
We all begin unaccustomed to the pressures of everything we hold
slowly the consequences of the strange strains unbeknown and slowly at some fortold hour,
Day breaks
And becomes an unrelenting approach
Of shadows on the wall
They come to warn us all
What did we come to know them as after all
Put them back into a hand me down package
And wonder where is that little voice?
Over the phone or in public is any place really open minded, free clear and authentic,
Read cards like faces in the crowd,
Put them into order for the pleasure of one to remember,
All the little parts and pieces,
Part of my own blindness to discover,
What are the real fears?
The ones I carry all the time.
The inner voices vortices,
The ones I have to trace thread by thread,

I know timing is everything for the lookout, when all the wires have been double crossed, and the birds have gone,
When silence reigns and I’m sure she’s gone for good,
When I miss her bleeding, and treating me for nought,
and the instant sting, sweetness of the beatnik,

Now in abstract psychotic playgrounds, cancellation of the origin,
Shifting, misty I keep wishing if only I could really listen,
Know the maniacs’ message in the corner,
Feel the emptiness between the sheets,
The memory of the super instant kissing that keeps the trains hissing,
My lips wet and ready,

But she’s/I;m nothing but a ghost at play
A phantom of disarray
Out in my/the yard and in the cameras’ eyes,
I am sure she lives another life

It was all just a set up, a trigger for this state where I can’t smell my way back,
My fingers tell me again and again,
All was set in motion,
Packaged up all nice and neat,
For easy consumption and to be easily erased,
Concealed by common place,
Confused with the next case,
And moments to disappear in the nest lace,
Lost in the previous face,
And all told in how I come to know again the now’s sense,
Its’ inner secrets, my fears and dreams.
While my is head astray,
Can I still learn inner salvation, the root of play,
In all the vortices courting delusion,
Where I look so deeply for pictures of easy handling, of the storehouse of primal variables, the roles and personas,
Stop and go solutions, controls, and blown out chances to behold and bestown,
To know the moment but I could never show,
The ever changing face over the sea,
My voice in the background like the moon behind clouds,
Where is the sky that holds it all together?

I can’t see my way off the couch, I just love to say ouch,
I can’t see anyway out of this house, they only invite me south,
I don’t know if I’m headed up or down, I never made sense of the writing on the wall,
Lost track of how to import the present tense,
Presentations of past inquiries and pretensions wrapped in rapture are all that’s left,
In the cyber spaces of little cubicles I rent,
Consolation for the instalments of the stinging wind in my hand, brushes with the over the edge exquisite believer,
The last minute healer,
Heats me up on the backstreet,
With the dark star and the burnt beat,
Seals that memory seat,
Gets me back on my feet,
Soul syncopic,

Is it the wind or the rain, salt or the sea, shadow or sign, ritual or inspired?
My voice made the gaps just this wide,
All my own noise, karma and questions,
The moments can’t make their way back to me,
Keep me guessing,
Wake me up in the night,
Higher and higher,
I play connect the dots the way I grew up.

Emptiness becomes sustenance, now all my faces have names,
Innocence compressed, cut and cracked.
Responses to instability,
Opportunities still remain as unpredictable,
With hearts on fire in the outskirts,
In the outer rings of desire,
Past the double time spinning visions, while my own invitations melting away in my African robe,
Consume, compartmentalize, and explain, nothing outside the reports domain,
Opening the door to the dawn but can’t find the eye,
The great beholder fades tracing the tides,
Layer by layer meanings are rearranged,
And the song I knew come and gone,
And I hid in the lines,
And fell night after night,
With a blinding maniacal smile,
While people are born and people die,
Hopes and dreams made and faded,
I watched the colored lights behind my eyes,
The incredible angles, contours and layers,
The blue light for the seams,
And the candle hides behind the screen,
Haze of believing in the moons’ seizures,
Subtle in their arising, in the garden of reflected time,
A wheel of liquid jewels spills and fills in the shadows,
They take on voices and put them into synch such that no one would get inside, today’s afternoon, tomorrow’s vortex, future alignments with what can be perceived as being safe from the boogaloo,
The forgotten made into a bunker tomb,
And I keep thinking I’ll make it through,
With cloud busting, fingerprint dusting,
Powder dosing, figure posing,
Some of my only re-creations,
Each sense another world, no way to count the variables,
Where they all begin, in a different shawl, a tongue with a drawl, drawn out in the call of bell toll, the multi verse where the still pole meets the tender soil,

Obey the law know the subtle flaw,
Spread so thin, molecule by molecule, be revealed,
Leave me in a whirl,
I will lay down with the spinning stars,
My eyes running wild, just full enough to float the load of my aquarium of blues, cool enough to stand the sad news,
I never figured out how unfair it was,
I never knew to close the window and take the temperature every hour,
When I finally opened my hand I could see what had been hidden,
There was nothing left but rags,
And I cowered into submission, ruined my power,
Spent so much time height of the tower,
Jumping around in the treetops,
Anywhere but now, sensitized in the silence that stretches in the film past the breaking point,
Flexes in the wind unheard,
Expanding the limits of what can be sewn together,

And still not quite awake enough to count the times I’ve been around this beautiful carousel,
Or stare down the demons that arise from density aged dust,
And the predatorial refuges,

There for a while I knew all the ways to smile, before the miles and miles began to teach me how, what and where to hide,
Half of what I knew becomes the beginning of what is new,
And I can pick up just enough to continue.