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This poem goes out to everyone who, in witnessing human unkind, has ever felt as a sojourner or alien in this world…

From Sum Wear Ails

I due not
Live on
This plan it
Yet I here
The call
Of an alien whirled
From wear
A bout
Only guest
In strangers hows
Of the leased of these
In during
Be longing

May you have the peace that passeth awe understanding each night…

Deepest Wake

In the dead of night
Is my deepest wake
A cross
That stream of consciousness
Rests
In the vastest see possible
That which is
Holy beyond belief
That eternal present
Transcending mirror godliness
Of mere mortals
Alms full
Of treasure not enough
Can only feast
In udder wordlessness
As peer into
That whole in my soul
Which cannot leave
Berth plays
Delivering me
That final act
Of letting go
Wear soully death and life mete
To be borne naked
That threshold of awe
Emptied into the whirled
Well wrested
A cross
That pissy stream of consciousness
A glistening rainbow
Is awe that remains
An echoing reminder
Of never agin
In unconscious knights
And conscious daze
Of every blessed mourning
That life brings
In its wake

In Comprehensible Poetry

My papers were indecipherable
By awe
But God
Speaking clearly
You have no ID
How easy this is fore me
To recognize my own son
As like wise pure of art sea me
Rolling long
Even without papers
Burned by mirror mortals
This is some good shit

This poem alludes to one of my favorite quotes in one of my favorite movies, Good Will Hunting, where the young uber-genius says to the standard genius: “Do you have any idea how easy this is for me.” The poem also is a tip of the hat to the sermon on the mount’s “the pure of heart will see God.” Lastly, in case you were wondering what I might be smoking, my poetry, mystical ink, exists “off the books,” often neither formally published nor even on a written page. For the record, I am profoundly sober — high on life. Awe of this is tied together with the ID of “no papers,” foremostly as an illegal in this worldly realm, and lastly as smoking some good shit even without papers.

I came to accede in common ground, and I took the long and longing view…

Poetry Cede

Awe that he had left
Was giving
Up
That poetry cede
Having awe ready
Rooted
Deep into
Common ground
Yet destined
For the stars
All sow accustomed
To unsurpassed surroundings
Of the darkest pitch
Still
The one
Singularly close
Overlooking the wrest
That which burns
Bright in the knight
Illumines from gazillion smiles
Aweigh
Giving site to the blind
And incite to awe others
You can
Run
But you find yourself in cant
Hide
Long enough
To root
For awe unearth
As it is
In heaven

I love writing poetry, how ever useless it may peer to others…

Whatever Ridden

He lived on the margins
Of life
His works of heart
Peered as doodles
Too many others
Living their own
Writes and wrongs
Like a paper wait
Bearing the gravity
And lightness
Of whatever
Ridden

For me, awe is write with the whirled…

Love Being

You can be wronged
Never the less
Be happy
Mysteriously still
I love being
Write