intense presence

“The persona…is the individual’s system of adaptation to, or the manner he assumed in dealing with, the world.” – Carl Jung

she felt an intense presence

sitting at the edge of the crest

she saw many shadows in

that glassy smooth white sky

she felt a knowledge of the real

and sensed the only imaginary

she experienced a pressure

not to perform but be in the moment

she felt moments of a person

moving behind that staged mask

adjusting, transitioning herself

to a fantasized expectation of self

she felt him moving to build and

take on what was there and then perhaps

push beyond, for,

the intense presence was only imaginary

reclining

reclining on the ground,
my toes braided into the
surrounding red.

i take a glance upward
into your lens, intoxicated in
the moment of simplicity.

palming the fur as i imagine
harmony, nectar
on my mythical horizon.

Anaïs, Anaïs, French translation

je t’ai trouvée Anaïs Nin,
je t’ai trouvée et je refuse de te laisser partir

je sens ton souffle chaud sur ma joue.
je sens le sang se déplacer en ton coeur tandis que

je caresse et palpe ton sein.
j’ai rêvé de toi la nuit dernière—

je t’ai aperçue du coin de l'oeil
,je t'ai fixée du regard,

je t'ai fait rougir j’ai joué dans l'espace de ton âme.
je me languis d'utiliser des mots qui feront battre ton coeur.

je sais ce que tu penses, ce que tu ne penses pas,
Je vois aussi que tu réfléchis trop

je veux te tourner le dos, te laisser te mettre derrière moi
je veux - oh Anaïs Anaïs - je veux te laisser me trouver aussi.

heroisch part ii

“Any ache or pain or sadness or guilty feeling
was completely flushed out”

in the West,

he watched the sun hit upon
Eucalyptus trees. he stared
into the eyes of others, charting

their beauty and their weaknesses.
like so many before him, he marveled
in the hope of this city, and

managed to gather his abilities to
heal and protect. his selfless self-sacrifice.
he met another wandering figure,

she was as lonely and trapped as he was
over-virtuous, they followed each
others golden paths for a short time.

but the beat hit and hit again,
as the voices and footsteps sounded.
imagining painful rejection

he gathered the strength
from an internal power, praying to
Jung, Nietsche & his personal deity.

the pride was infecting,
but the realities debilitating,
as the past continued to move

within his veins, and the present
longed for a stability but only came
in bites and chunks like a fairground ride.

he fought with the actual,
pushing and persevering though the
city seemed a bitch, and a whore.

***

so he decided to return.

back to the coldness, as his feet
seized and ran – still chasing to find
what he has been looking for.

back to the coldness, like the
Prodigal wandering back, the memories
more wrong than first imagined.

back to the coldness, where the
snow dances in the light at dawn
whilst he stands alone.

he knew, deep down, that he had to
protect and defend himself. he knew that he
needed to push past the negativity

and try once more.

for home is where the mind and
heart are, and his home was no longer
the place he originated from, but here.

ariel strums

vocalist
in the wilderness
of the acoustic
mic

the simple
disappointment
first cuts me
quick.

ariel strums through neon

flames on bead with corduroy shirt

mario brings on highway speed

glass crash smash over wine

moth swoops, turns and touches.

i turn to
a place where
i can no stronger
see

i plan
my attack
on the stage
bound and

fingering froth.

the familiar

the familiar made unfamiliar
through distance
through
time,
creeping back in to

those fields that flow
to the
valley,
to the
brook.

those trees that know
my past,
those which
i walked
beside

for eighteen long years.
i always
imagined
beyond
the grey skies;

beyond
the green
that seemed
so dull,
always

reaching for the unfamiliar.

my imagination wanders

a burning
a scorching
a singeing

deep into the soul.

(the imagination
wanders)

a freezing
a restricting
a controlling

the acid kiss
of jealousy

goes deep,
deep,
into

the pensive void.

the coldness
pushes its way through,

right to the heart of

the addiction.

rocky place haiku

Stuck between a rock:
Knowing what I feel, not
feeling what I know.

Valentine's Day Poem

In August
I fell so Deeply
Richly
Soulfully
For you.

My
Unspoken feeling
Flooded
My Inner being,
To the point

Where the spark
Engulfed the main
Almost
Blazing
Too bright

And a strength
previously
Unimaginable
Lovingly
portraying

A lunatic
Lost in your
Purity
your Luminous
Inner beauty

To show a Completeness
(that can never happen),
a Construction
Moving,
Progressing.

You know that a thousand
miniature moments
beats a single
gesture

(we are much more than amateur)

Although the Fragileness
Founded with
Potency
Of mind And body
Is pounding.


Still.

so deep

That look you have,
That look that stares deep
Into the soul

I can’t help but wonder
What you are thinking
When you stare so deep

Trying to make contact
With something, or nothing.
Anything that might suit.

she had never felt

She had never felt
So lost and so found
In the same sitting

Reality seems far away
When is seen and what
Is heard are

So diverse

Lost, in an encounter
With herself although
She doesn’t know it

Yet.

Her wanderlust comes to settle
Away from the ice
And the falling bricks

Found, so alive and so a mess


Wondering

bottled up

A drip.
Of hope that runs back and forth,

Touching
sides

-- Sticking --

In the places where it might count.

It is cold,
Brittle and smooth like a

Sigh.

The screw,
Tightly fitted, not allowing air

To penetrate

That bitter
Taste, whilst the smell is sweet.

Resembling

-- blue --
Hope.

them

those eyes
travel
across souls
meet
lost terrain
expect
vivid futures.

She's an angel

“Angel,” she pleaded
Across the dense whim
Of the machine

As grit fell on the black
the lightning hit hard
Across the broken whole.

“Angel,” she sobbed
as I crossed to save her
But when I went --

Working back on myself,
Like an unrelenting madness --
Oh she was long gone.

heroisch

he came from the Second City,
its broad shoulders nudging him
forward onto the longest journey

they said that he were wicked,
but never listening to them (after a while).
just exploiting the offerings of a

rather cold place. The cold cut him,
with toes he couldn’t feel anymore
he left, but burdens go wherever

the wanderer takes them.
tied onto the back from suburbia
wondering what would become of,

eventually he took to rebuilding himself,
from the top down, learning to grow whilst
terrible burdens remain upon him

the community without the Kaas,
like the city, (all about reinvention),
cold cutting the feet, toes not felt any more.

he had a warmth, a dream in his heart
and a song in his ear,
he knew realities too advanced

for his years. his next turn,
a reverse migration. mapping the railroad
on the wanderings south.

he went for independence, and for a love
that was supposedly selfless
but when that developed into obscurity

he continued to dream,
his nomadic journey brought him
to the idea of the west.

the truest fresh start available
in the young, innovative state,
where flesh meets organization.

detachment

detachment

is
a word
that we know a
sufficiency
about

(sometimes)
creating an
emotional
detachment

a distance

you need to
develop
distance

in order to
---and to
eventually
sustain this--

survive each day at a time.

you need to
give people the
freedom to be
themselves

(needing to
give yourself
this freedom
as well) in order

to become well

but this here
word –
-should not
create the
other subconscious:

emotional unavailability.
this must be unworked
from within,
but without losing
sight of

detachment.