Volatile Vibrations

I wait patiently still.
Still-born are these dreams—
Never meant to be remembered.
What are the meanings of memories?
Some collect forgotten dust,
Though many roam freely
From lobe left to right.
I'm reminded, "Freedom is not free."
But of which currency does he speak?
Spoken words tip the scales
In favor of pens flowing ink.
Gold will buy nothing here.
My heart bleeds black and blood
Over pages and pages—
Dollar signs and senseless words.
The Roman alphabet will not last forever.
The hands of poets are ephemeral.

Everyone Is Unresponsive

Air units rumble and click.
Blinds sway to and fro.
Breathe in and out.
The morning's first sign of life;
He glances up without seeing.
Muted warning of eroded batteries—
The only company offered at this hour.
Even the birds and wasps still slumber.
Rotting wood marks my seat
Among greenish painted panels.
Fowls chirps
Awoken in response to this text.
Foul scents of stale ash
Rebelliously arisen.
The soft point of this tool
Clutched between raw fingertips
Serve as the only remaining reminder of reality.
Though it calls out to persuade of alternate universes
Through vibrations of ink against paper.
Logic has become
'One last cigarette.'
Time surrendered pages ago.
I stare into my little room from the balcony outside.
My thoughts return again to the most prominent desire to live in a place where it always rains.

Short Cycles

A lovely surprise
Grinning along
With the smile of the universe
The sun spotlights a second in time
Such a small thing
Carrying such large hopes
Joy simply in presence
Thoughts return by strings attached
Step out, step in
To find
By eve it has ceased
An ephemeral existence,
After all
All life follows the pattern of the sun

 Photos 07/04/12

Black Holes and Who Knows

Dreams never question fiction

Though,
I remain suspicious of such heroic behavior
History tells me it cannot last
But I never studied history

I specialize in alchemy and the future

This first-aid kit is broken
And doesn't work on the universe, anyway
Because that hole is no wound
But a gateway into X
Left open, unattended by mistake

Curiosity killed the cat
But there are no animals in space
Save for our feral selves

We mark the path
Imprints of strange limbs
Snowflakes and foot prints
Embedded in the surface of stars

We fall through transparent planets
With no solid force behind our backs

Who needs a jet pack
When I've got wings
Behind these eyelids

Disoriented Volcano

Sometimes it feels like my brain is just melting away,
A rush of volcanic brain fluid,
Wiping out every piece of my physical anatomy
As it scorches the land.

I wonder, then,
How one is to function in the world of humans
With a liquified brain.

A one-eyed cat stopped to stare at me,
As though shocked by my form,
Before scurrying away.

The light downstairs has a shortage.
It mimics my thoughts.
Ashes falling from my cigarette
Send sparks flying as they make contact,
Casting terrifying electrified shadows across my face.

Life backfires sometimes.

And then one goes to sleep again,
And wakes up within dreams.

Moving on.

I'm Out

Water and toothpaste paint the mirrors
But I'm all out of glass cleaner
Sleep tugs my eyelids
But I just finished the last of the coffee
Trouble is imminent, approaching
But I am shit out of luck
They're asking for answers
But I am out of my mind

So I'll not sit and wait
For these to replenish
But will move forward
Pack weighed down
Full of nothing at all
Just enough to get me to my destination
Wherever

I'll embark toward the end
And leave this life
With exactly that which I entered

(June 14, 2012)

Good Morning, Morning.

Good morning, world and wanderers.
Today has yet to unfold itself.
I do not yet know its name, though the morning warmth and welcoming breeze offer an inkling of its character.

We shall get to know one another as the sun rises, and become closer as the moon takes its place.

The morning is not urgent and without anticipation.
Birds chirp in slow, soft increments.
Melodies of a mellow song.

I wait for the coffee to brew as I observe the sounds of the world beyond the balcony.
I wonder what this day will bring without curiosity.
The sky's large, sailing clouds offer promise that all will be well.

Breakfast: coffee and cigarettes,
A side of Slim's serenades.

Un-Play

I am unsure that my brain will let me write this...
Or anything about that.
Really, about you.
I pretend it's too confusing and that it's open for debate with myself,
Because I know what it all really means.
If I should accept that truth, I'll have to stand up and face it.

I prefer phone interviews, and just email me your interrogation script.

Standardized inquiries, all ready in colloquial english
For its readers who were too busy serving our country to continue education.
Their specialty dish: innumerable heads by mass murder,
Served on the finest silver platters.
Just fit for democracy.
Captain Capitalism, at your service.

But I'll play into the game for now, until I obtain what I seek.
Though I know I'll never win,
I'll take what I came for and find the next piece in universal logic.

So I'll play this game with you, too.
But, not to take what I want and exit the stage,
Though my suspicion is that such may describe your style.
Your poker face is too solid to know.

I'll play because I'm afraid to lose this one.
This one, too, I know I can't win,
In this game, I claim the inevitable title of non-winner.
So I'll buy my time until my pockets are turned out.
Until I am erased, terminated from the course.

Then I'll play contentedly alone.

(May 2012)

(2009)

Fallen Reality

There once existed a man who fell through the sky.
In the sky alone did he exist, falling all his days.
Born in the sky, there, too, he died.
No land, nor water, nor planet, nor fire did he ever perceive.
Never a woman, nor man, nor child, nor beast did he know.
The infinite abyss, directionless, and untamed, his only natural companion.


He fell timelessly, all senses of past, present, and future non-existent.
His existence suspended, as his body, between all and nothing.
Sentenced at conception only to be.


As he fell, the forces that pulled him stretched his consciousness.
His mind rapidly becoming an abyss greater than his surroundings.


He lived, then, not in the sky, but within an internal world,
an immeasurable reality. A reality of countless others, or,
if whim raised its brow, a single reality of ever-shifting forms.


As he fell, he existed only within his existence, 
one unconceivable to any other.
And for the entirety of his existence he did fall.
Living within himself, he became and did become.
All within were truths without blemish.


All of his existence was always complete.

Still, Thank You.

This is an ode, a tribute to truths of the past and present.
This is a confession.
Even more so, this is all I never said,
couldn't, wouldn't, feared and desire to communicate.

It's four in the morning and I am thinking of you.
I thought of you an hour ago, but could not stop
the stream of consciousness that swelled within my mind,
then emerged from my soul.
I thought of you days ago, weeks ago, months.
You were a passing idea, a brief glimpse of an illustrated emotion.
And so you have remained, until this early morning by which
I allowed my mind to feel.

You were my mentor, my guide, my light.
You illuminated everything which surrounded me,
casting your rays to expel all shadows,
making visible my world from every direction.
You taught me, even when you did not know it.
You filled my brain fully with treasure,
and my heart wholly with burning desires for more.
You entertained and satisfied each trivial moment,
even while you slept.
You loved so extraordinarily,
sharing with me the magic of your soul.

I miss you.
I miss your genuine presence beside me.
I miss your passion. I miss your excited convictions.
I miss your thoughts of creation, invention, and all things ahead.
I miss your vision. I miss working with you and by you.
Though, all these things I missed, too, while only an arm's length away.
And still, I miss you.

I know this has become my new beginning.
Though, admittedly, I wish I could make and share this journey with you.
However, I know we do not share the same path into the future.
I know this was the best road to take.
I know that you could not fly alongside me.
My wings are still growing, their span measuring only half.
Thus, I know that I must yet grow in solitude,
so that you may soar across the skies.

And so, I will miss you, I will remember you, and I will ever love you.
I wish you the most fulfilling life of ultimate joy and peace.
I wish you all the best you can be.
I will ever attribute many of the grandest, and most beautiful
to the short time spent with you.
Thank you.

Most sincerely,
Roni

Yellow Earth

Lucent sun streams

Yellow hair

Frayed ends embrace

Tattered shoulders

Threadbare gown

Caught

Ensnared

Among entangled

Beds of flowers

Painting petals

Around the hem

As she loves the earth

with her motions

(September 29, 2011)

Heaviness

Though these beams,

Stacked high above our heads,

Persist—argue firmly—

Demand to weigh too much

For these calloused hands

Arms double size

To defy

(7/13/11)

Euphoria Now

A morning light, brightening the space,

Revealing dust molecules

Moving round and about to sporadic destinies

Steaming tea, wisps of morning spirit

To catch our breath

Open and unobstructed views

Of vast landscapes

Shielding us from the world

Clear sight of our daydreams

Depicted on every surface and reflection

Of rosy cheeks and wide eyes

Beneath natural, disarrayed hair

From last night's hands and pillows

Time irrelevant

To our euphoria now 

Winter Love Growing, New Leaves Falling

Understanding is not fertilization.
Acceptance and warm embraces water forgotten seeds.
Buds and blooms are ephemeral.
Your close contact warms my brain.
Sunshine steals through night shadows.
Furious winds twist these branches.
Yet, these roots are deep.
Leaves fall and flowers blossom
In dead winters and curious seasons.
Some trees exist for centuries.
Magic forces mark rings round their organs.

Sometimes My Bones Creak

"Hi, my name is Gertrude."

I am a nineteen-year-old
Trapped in the body of an 80 year old woman.
I think her name is probably Gertrude.
My mind is racing with thoughts anew,
Keeping her young at heart
But her bones creak like wooden stairs in a rickety old house.
Her shaky teeth grimace to stand
From average periods of sitting
On a sagging old bum.
I experience for the first time as she reminisces
Of the "good old days."
Though once these experiences reach my senses
They are stifled by those dulled by time and excessive use.
Excessive youth still pours onto pages.
The memoirs of old Gertrude
Revealed with a new spin on ancient spools.
She leans heavily on the wooden arm rests
As she rocks back and forth.
I scream to run and jump and ride,
I beg to dance and wave,
I command to sit and stand repeatedly just to show I can
And to spin and spin until those eyes behind inches-thick glasses cross
And we thud onto soft grass.
I wince as the knees shake.
The short fall is more painful than expected
Despite deadened nerves.
Encouraging endlessly to move again, even slowly,
Though I grow impatient.
The thoughts of old Gertrude speak louder
Than her thinly-worn voice will ever again allow
As weakened lungs and heart are overworked
Stiff fingers still dance across stiff keys
Even after all these years.
And in this moment I am released from the old body,
Given new life on brilliant white paper
Fresh with shiny black ink.
In my excitement I smudge the pages' words and fragmented sentences.

Heatwave Oasis

Late 2011 - My internship with Dorian Sky.
An acrylic painting series.

Over 140 hours created this experience.

Find more photographs here
Dorian Sky's work can be found here