Found poetry from The Anatomy of Influence:

Gusto

Leaves waltz with the wind one last time before
foreshadowing winter's white cloaking storm.
The gust springs a dance as a solstice summer
sun does enhance May's spark of thunder.

Everyone does die alone,
but I wouldn't mind getting gone
while someone sits by my side.

Just a substance, you say.
Them chemicals, today...
But when entrails are all
that remain then start solving
science's next resolve.
But what has revolution
left queued for solution?
And where's the paradigm
shiftin'side in this pairing rhyme?
There ain't none, obsolete,
constraint, done, it's complete.

Hidden Epiphany

A poem is pointless, nothing more than
a beautiful description of an
impervious thought or useless fiction.
Yet the point proceeds impotently on,
setting forth whence its conclusion won't do,
can't suffice and shouldn't satisfy you.
Without bottom the poem finds hatred
quickly with quaint ideas mind-stated,
hand-drawn and the language apparatus,
in full proving it inadequate...thus,
ALACK ALACK! So solemn words, words, words
are, are not and could, should or would will swerve
the intelligible beings capable
of consuming fragments infinitesimal.
::
PS
::
Picture in Room of Hotel on Street
The poem will do the portrait no more
than it already is. What it is is
simple; pigment, parchment and shaped vectors
which mimic the street around the Mississ-
ippi housing formerly framed business.
Yet the path is brick, not water nor less
than the clay and grass displaced neighborhoods
which are only known if seen in the woods. 

I love Anchorage because

It can rank it as a town.
It stays so low to the ground.
Underdeveloped. Intentionally.
Unlike the old west's cities
where they've cast the pasture upwards
past gravity's bound due for the divinities;
which is confounding because over there
their world is that developed.
And when you're way the hell up
there your head's in the clouds,
which is what gives me doubts but...
Here in the youngest west
there's no wearing big wigs
and more capaciousness
for imagination's figments.

Today felt like one of those days to see the ocean.

I didn't do it, but I really thought about it. It just felt like one of those days to do something like that. Something simple but something meaningful because when you put yourself in such a spot as the edge of a cliff, where there's so much yet so little in front of you, you really give your mind an opportunity to open up. Even your heart, too, if the vista invokes your insides so.
Pirates have been on my mind a lot lately. That's what's going to be the theme which reigns supreme amongst the lot of content and matter.
But it's not that simple.
The story that is, because both
1 - it's unfinished
and
2 - requiring still massive aesthetic conception and correction of that what will be conceived.
One day...
This whole thing over thematics of piracy and the need to look at the ocean are quite parallel predicaments. The story I've mentioned is a long story, so I'll keep it short and skip to the meaning of my urge to gaze upon the abyssal glorious oceana.
I need a sentimental character for this next alluded-to project. He's going to be a he. He's also going to be the type of guy who yearns to learn about himself while pondering his life's lessons with the sea at his feet. The waterway at the which he peers 'pon 'tis his perfect panorama. And then, while this sentimental sailor muses the aforementioned ideas, another shipmate from the shipyard will inquire into why the hell this allegedly-hard soul at sea is focused so deeply on the too-distant horizon. Then, after the conversation commences and develops, the sentimentally-souled sailor will say something like---

"Maybe the reason why I choose to stare over the depths is to confound my third eye's visage of the world, a world with an end. And that place without is out there across the water. That's forever. The end out there is seldom seen back. If we jumped ship right now for the betterment of everyone then I'm off! Scram! Long gone. That's why I look at the sea, and the sky, and the clouds, 'cause without them there would be no mettle, nobody, no nothing, bot an article in the whole raucous and lurid world worth talking about. But here we are, at the edge of forever."

First Recorded Rap Verse...a prelude to the real welcoming:

The thirty six degrees of preparation
don't even dirty the zert's kicks,
so let's start out with six degrees of separation
whereupon the grid we took a set vacation...
Aside...
Agiin, like a cold case of lackadoin'ism
beginning with a wick as if it were
the commencement of breakfast
but let me wake fast
and blast to the past
whereupon we stick it out
to fix it up, givin' the thick of the friction,
but when you "get it" to the contradiction
like we the English lexicon diction
mixing in on some
of this sixer on our swerve shit, son

The Midsummer Snow

Since midsummer has past I feel inverted.
I get to thinking of winter,
And a flit of the darkest day slips in in a split,
Because just after a split sight of the first fall I cannot but see slices of splintery icing from the broken skies that,
As a mask: like moss on a rock or tone on all talk,
Resheet our ambered Alaskan premises,
I wrote these, where, once upon a memory:

Moss, well at least his character in real time, mentioned something some way which struck a tune, a tune to my liking.
Although I don't think this is applicable for the play (well, not yet) is because it bodes well for this occasion.
Moss, well at least that's how I'll refer to him from here on out, and I were having an ordinary post-working hours conversation in the confines of this slightly foggy room we've been using to cut off completely and clear our heads.
Then he said, seeing was it had started to snow;
"I really don't mind walking home in these conditions," as he had just prior come back from the Blue Fox Bar, "because the world moves in slow motion."
I understood and asked him what he thought about walking in the rain.
He was humored and said, with amity, "That's why I'm glad you're here man. No one else gets that stuff."
I'm not so sure about that, but then again I doubt he thinks that so solidly.
Nevertheless, that was a good talk, a good thought, and a memorable moment.

Leached the end of the rime--no mo' po of ol'

I want your eyes, mind, and even ears all in.

It's a new world, from plays to sonnets.

The first few lines of my Shakespearean

Scribblin' lining up like bolts and what? Knuts.

Yup--

Yo, in the hole you gots only pens and pulp.

If symbols and meanings come between us

Then it's the squirrel's world, nuts and bolts.

Feed the needful thing, pursue it like Venus.

See--

Think a Costanza extravaganza.

Think Seinfeld, Much Ado About Nuttin'

I double-dipped with a pun last stanza;

Have some food for thought! Drink up, too! Glutton!
Whew--

I'm tired, going nuts, a crazy fella.

Third time's a charm, paronomasia.