West Texas is a Poem [Photographic Poem]

 The road of nothingness is dispassionate; it is its stretch that we may find nothing but share our time together, our expression. As children, we knew all expression, no pain, no reasoning to feel we must flee a sky as it closes in on ours. The heavens are not ours, nor is the hell we come to know for in the book of man's myth. The dream is ours.

Rain comes; we are exposed, as we've always been, as we always will be. The air we breathe has been perfumed enough, and trembling now in the whole as sex against the compulsion, it battles to leave us in haste, in our torrential existence.........


let us release it, deeply and in relief, say our farewells and accept its good riddance...

for if it returns, it will do so in a deep punctual puncture, take into us indifferent cells that scatter as mankind from a single point of origin.


this life is the soul and the soul is life which burns as bright as the sun's plight.




Our becoming,
is a story to become

(I speak of you darling)

in the origin,

split and spliced into the dices of fragments,
offering makeshift thrift,
used literature,
leather-bound and worn journals-

the story of the lastly lasting
gaping blooms, winter breaking away
sowing seeds in the shallow soil.

 Love is belief, I say to you, belief and temporary derangement-
irrationality

lead us into temptation
and out of the telling of the clichential

remember the lunar and remember our derangement
beneath it,

our raging arousal as the South China Sea in the
monsoon

radiate again, as before
the electricity of the magnitude of
orgasmic birth, swallow all
pulled from the titillation of a most
primitive form

[Everyone in a Small Town]

Everyone survives in a small town,
in the four walls that none has ever climbed down-
no bigger, no smaller, the same in identity
no more, no less, fates all given to dis-plenty;

The boy grows to fester the blocks,
the girls believe in tales and kick over the rocks-
beneath them is the same,
that all their parents could ever lay claim

Men become of these festering boys,
women of the a-dreaming ploys-
the struggle is only a sense of a sentence
that reaches no where far beyond the city limits

The child who paints looses his brush,
his sister grows and struts with blush-
ashes over thrown on the outside world thought
because they want to be the rose from asphalt

-they want to be, they ought to be,
the glimmer in a sea so wide and deep
until they learn to swim from the depth,
where all before them have gone and slept.