The stars were not to blame
Nor the ocean between us
Or even that dreadful place
We used to call home

It was only you and me
Always a little too wrong
And maybe just a little
Too late

Quiet calls my name from the clouds.
I lost my wings,
a deafening reality.
Quiet calls my name from the clouds.

I was starving in
Pennsylvania.
One night, I had
enough.
Done with it all.
The poverty and
sickness.
The drunken mad
nights
and dog-fight days.
Brutality for breakfast.
Served sunny side up
runny yolks with
butterflies trapped in
the yellow sunshine.
Spiders built webs in
my soul.

I stood on the torn-up
couch in my living room and
yelled at the walls.

Listen, you devil.
You want me, you better be
ready for a fight.
I paced the floor like a
washed-up heavyweight champ,
eyeing the ceiling like a
drunken sparrow in a cat's mouth.

a sensory perception,
an intended message,
which the eyes of my inbox
check-mark as opened, read and
very well received

sometimes we say things
we didn't mean to say,
but 99% of the time,
we meant it, even if
it just happened to be
something we were wearing,
something tight, short and flirty,
we put on in a hurry,
without thinking

2:19am

He has no face
or desire
to face
the large grate

And inside
the wicket of the grate
The little door
to the larger gate

One side named narrow

The door ****'s
apprehensions
twist in the fingertips

The other side
slides to the indifference

The 69 peep holes rock in
scandalization

How does one survive ?

The false prophet goes
door to door
selling sheep skin
diplomas
black as raven's hair

His false fruit
lays fermenting adding
pollution to our despair .

The prophet's basic fault is full of self interests
For gain and grain of easy life
For personal prestige
through others pain and strife

His man-centered words
appeal to the ears that want to be tickled with ear candy

And the results are that truth be forgotten , trampled to dust and thrown away

Beware of the smooth tongue Jacob with
the rough hairy hands
of Esau .

Flowers do wilt and die
It seems pointless, yes
But have you seen a bud?
Open its sleepy eyes to the dawn

As if a young child was letting out a yawn
With petals for hands reaching out to open skies
And the sun smiled at it
Telling it to open its arms without worry

I remember two keys –
one to a room
I wished so deeply
to share with you.

The other
in an abstract shape
of the right thing
to say.

At an intersection that

makes mock-Am.

Dyed changes toyed with

choking ambiance.

There--both sides of these

eyes caught a crossing.

A pile of black boxes,

emptying a physique.

All left open inside.

When lovers marry,
their joy becomes my sorrow,
I curse you, silent.

i am panicking
that i've scared someone away
by being too honest
but thats okay
no pressure
i'm just throwing out messy lines
no grand declarations
i want to know you first
anyway

Look at him,
paper-mache angel wings
stapled on an empty
toilet paper tube,
preacher of the gospel
of selective misanthropy,
mourned by shredding
secular holy books in
tiki-torch candlelight.

If you must remember him,
and pray, you needn't,
do so in truth,
as a simpleton's martyr,
no more, no more.

It’s not not true
Everything I say to you
But it’s not real, either
I know the difference
Between fake and real
But I also know
How I feel
It is my truth
Everything I say to you
Believe it if you want to
You’ve got your own truth

If the sun rose at midnight
The empty woods would wake,
Stones would bounce and rest
Upon glassy-surfaced lakes.
Electricity would shout and burn.
The truth would live
In the uncovered shine.
Cut loose leaves would return
To stems and live as if they
Were mine.

The phone rings
The chair scratches
The sink runs

The mirror reflects
The hat is worn
The Earth spins
The ball rolls

When I am silent,
and it’s all said and done,
will you bask in the quiet-
happy you’ve won?

No more complaints
slipping past my lips,
just peaceful quiet
and sometimes a kiss.

Will you be smug
while you rant through the day,
watching me nod along
with nothing to say?

That’s all you wanted, right?
Obedient peace.
An interesting woman to meet,
until she becomes what you please.

Or will you miss my words?
My fire? My song?
Will you miss my ranting?
Will my silence feel wrong?

Will you look in my eyes
and see through the glass?
There’s nothing there anymore-
only what you ask.

You say I'm childish
For freely professing
All the words that are
Etched on my heart

As if I had any
Other choice but to
Be buried by them

the night whispers the black water fall of ashes
that bloom into the sparrows of sorrow...


the sorrow sparrows are back again
sitting in the tangled woods of twisted trees.

Van Gogh heard their voices
bouncing off love's walls.

the sorrow sparrows are leaning into me.
my sad eyes, dream of you brother.

I lean into the soft lit room
searching for love's quiet hours,
with sunlight flickering through willow trees.

"don't cry, darlin," my wife whispers.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                         Let’s Carapace Ourselves

                                                 For William Gipson

William alluded to the dry bones of grammar
And I wondered why no one ever alludes
To the dry exoskeleton of anything -
Equal justice for all carapaces!

The pugilist who
lost the fight,
Took his own life
Doesn’t seem right.
Fighting depression
Round after round
Hitting the canvas
With unerringly sound.
There’s no more bells
No more punches to give
Inside the ring of ropes
Where he once lived.

The older I get
the less I search for

truth

because these days
a white face and honking nose

work for me

it's the simple and absurd things
in this life

that are all I need

To how words can cut!
To how they heal!
To the wild things they make us feel!
To a short and simple phrase
That could be remedy or blade.
To impact and to common sense!
To not quite saying what we meant.
To all the beauty that we write.
We tip our hats and say our last goodnight.

that’s how you like your poetry,
That’s how you would like everything,
No stress, no test, easy on the breast,
but short and sweet has no protein,
won’t build your bones, quite contrary,
the poem that doesn’t make you think,
it’s just a cavity, a precurse to self~decay
a drip dripping in just another day of you evaporating

You lost your Mom this past December
You lost your Dad today
I try to be nice and tell you I'm here for you

But I know deep down you would rather not hear from me
You wish that deep down that I would just go away
Maybe that's what the future holds for us

My silence and your peace of mind
If I knew you would have been like this from minute one
I would have kept you on ignore and not cared

Since I forgot, you think me being a nice guy is nothing but an act

I’m driving on my way home
from a job that doesn’t make ends meet.
Pawned all my gold, silver and chrome
and placed my hat and sign on the street.

I’m living in a creative hell
One that serves me but doesn’t serve well.
Into my flesh I would carve,
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you didn’t starve.”

At each red, I clutch at my steering wheel
and scratch my lottery tickets.
Manifest a positivity I don’t feel,
when it scans I hear only crickets.

I’m living in a creative hell,
one that traps and encases me as a shell.
Preventing me from air, society and heat
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you could eat.”

I have no  certifications and no degrees,
my only trade and skill are the words that I write;
the gift that both comforts and tortures me,
it’s too bad that no one pays for plight.

I’m living in a creative hell,
voicing it quietly while ringing a bell.
Begging for help but don’t want to be rude
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you had food.”

I’m living in a creative hell
One that serves me but doesn’t serve well.
Into my flesh I would carve,
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you didn’t starve.”

Some alive people,
are just dead to me.