The less romantic side
but majority of the time
sleeping uncomfortably &
keeping on all your ****

Wasting money often
on food that's no good
all of it really just
gas station garbage

But,
making the miles needed
(cheap)
& quick  .

Each night I dream a deep blue sky
A place where only birds could fly
Each morn I lie awake
Wondering who else made that mistake

Many of men I’ve seen waste their dime
Trying to hold and buy back time
It’s a common misconception
Often laced with deception

For a wise man knows, it’s the foolish who ask
And it’s the blind who lead the mass
Many search and few find
But so is the many that falls behind

I myself have seen my eyes full of fire
Burning to know true desire
So where do I fit?
Yet who am I to question it

I could spend a lifetime is search of freedom
Only to be left with a sea full of conundrums
Of each problem to ever exist
And temptations I have to resist

So, I’ve become the fool at hand
While time slips through my fingers like sand
Now it's too late for me to understand
That it’s the devil that haunts a hungry man

when I was in Japan,
I reached in my bag for yen,
I drew a coin with the Zia on it
given to me by jen
as I stared at the cold breezy mountains of Japan holding this, I  was reminded of
The deep Roots of cracked hot concrete I would work out on
The smell of albondigas Nana would be making
The bright yellow and blue tile mismatched on the lining of the kitchen
The simpleness of living in a "this'll work" architecture
the tumbleweeds, the dry cacti landscape, vast dirt reaching to the dark amber mountains, painted with fading perfect blend from the sunset, homemade meals, la raza, tias and tios, the stray cats and dogs (and family pet names)

My Arizona desert was so hot that everything did its best to share being in the Cool casted shadows.

yet here I was in the complete opposite wishing for that sun
holding this coin brought be back to when you thought I would Judge where you were from
but your "Land of Enchantment" will always remind me of being one step closer to home...

Something’s happening, let’s call it sunrise, for now,
and summer vacation in Geneva, in umm.. 10 hours.
My heart-beat is spiking, like a flag or kite flying.
I’m leaving an empty room - making one last pass with a broom.

I’m stuffing my bag, with the last few things, for escape on aluminum wings.
My dreams, woven in bright, butterfly tapestries, are rolled and folded -
packed between urgent fantasies and harsh, time-sensitive practicalities.

I know you’re there, a quarter-world away, good news, pegasus awaits,
to streak gulf-stream high, over choppy oceans wide with mechanical fire,
its ice-cycle crystal contrail will point, like cherub cupid's arrow, toward you.

Forget pixels, tech instruments, remote lifeline connections,
and prayer-like whispers over thin, criss-crossed wires.
I’m making my move, coming compass-needle true,
to press up close, reintroduce, extemporize and ******.
.
.
music for this:
Someday by Sugar Ray
sunburn by almost monday
This Charming Man by The Smiths
Heaven by Los Lonely Boys

It must be dark
out here in the cold penumbra,
where mile after mile
no one smiles,

dots and loops,
dots and loops,
a kind of blissful nullity,
beautiful and pointless,

wearing at the edges
it almost stings,
seclusion unraveling
at the underground in us all,

aubade aberrations abound,
challenging the orthodoxy
of the troublesome
morning road,

but should this near-life experience
hydroplane toward
another mineshaft, it helps to know
less is less, not more.

Unceremoniously,
birds and frogs and men
begin their songs

and I decide it better not to join them.

For all the wealth and health
and warmth and rigor
as the restless tide --
waiting for silence --
breathes and descends

timid,
restless,
afraid and alone

rusted metal of apathy
and the forlorn sound of laughter very,
very far away

across the hall
wheat grows;
up the stairs
is moonlight,

and in one room,
birds and frogs and men
sing their songs

when the ground calms
and ground returns underfoot
and the fires are out

the wheat and the moonlight
and the birds and frogs and men
will be farther away yet

but in the throes of desperation
for far-flung mountains and sleep
and crayfish in the river
and hands in someone else's hair

no songs will be sung.

in my heart's aching survival lurch --
mad, hysterical stampede as it is--
the wind will blow again
toward fantasies and imaginations,
sunlight and clouds
waves' cold whispers and the wisdom of stars

but descend,
descend,
descend

what's done is not gone,
and those echoes from away in time
stampede themselves

surviving themselves
on tantrums
stubborn drama
impatience's reward

because above the wheat and moonlight
is a burden of love and company unwanted
and my heart breaks
for the birds and frogs and men
who have since stopped singing

and that I decided it better not to join them.