Themes of time, regret, love, and mediation
matter little
in this world.

The poems we write
aren't aimed to make us famous
or even
known.

It's the mapping of the mind
through the expression of words
and the knowing
that I can write anything
I feel
and get away with it.

I am the diety
of a self-proclaimed
thought
charged and released
in the form
of a
poem.

So write on!
Even in vain
if the direction of your
goals
is to become some
indication of someone
we should all respect
and know
for his or her
works.

It is
what
it is.
Mostly.

There are a few
that will be recognized
and who knows
why?

We're all poets.
What makes someone
else's work
more meaningful?

I've been told
by people I know
that it's all about
the people
you
know.

Since I don't know if we'll ever meet again-
I guess
that we'll try to stay together
forever.

"I'll tell you someday."
Laughing and sticking your tongue out,
teasing me,
you were the most beautiful then.
But-
When is that someday?
A link in the far distant future;
without any promise
or solidity.

Your back is growing fainter,
more distant,
vaguer,
quieter,
it's almost transparent now.

The fact that no matter how long my fingers were;
How much I grew;
How much I learned;
How much I matured-
The fact
that I could still not reach or touch you
or your standard;
I could do nothing
but slump to the floor,
Admit painful defeat-
And cry.  

The Villain-
was me.
The one who ran away-
was me.
It was no lie,
For I am
the true deceiver.

And
I say to the plaster
peeling wall-
"I'm Sorry."
Uselessly,
Meaninglessly,
inutility,
I just sit there
in a wooden, peeling
chair;
Wondering.

The Characters that I wrote then-
They don't dance for me anymore.
"Is that so?"
The poems that I scribbled-
on a napkin at a fast food restaurant,
Where are they now?
"Who knows?"
My memories and limits-
Are they gone?
"Why don't you figure out yourself?
Isn't the person,
who knows you best-
yourself?"  
--
--
--
I'm sorry-
My light was gone.
I'm Sorry-
My head wasn't thinking straight.
I'm Sorry-
I let go.
What kind of excuses are these?

For being a coward,
For being a shallow person
who didn't see the world-
Sorry doesn't even take up half of it.

The beginning of the end,
tell me,
when does that time come?

The promise that our naïve selves made together
"Forever, Eternally,"
You believed in those words.
For crushing your morals,
For mocking them,
For taking away your innocence until there was nothing but bitterness left-
"Forgive me."

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Most poems rhyme...
but this one doesn't! :-D

Can you peer through those eyes?
The radiance must be blinding.

As I gaze into them I’ve come to understand
what the ancients must have felt,
looking up toward the shimmering night sky.

All the mysteries and wonders of life
are clearly reflected, as is the light.

And even if I’d never be sure
just what chemicals kindle a stars faithful burn.

I would still spend every night
dreaming up poems about your eyes.
Its not ordinary pair of eyes
Its Kate Middleton's eyes..

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,  poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
___________

4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

hollow night
has sharp colors and
places deep where faces hide
places forgotten where even the hopeless dream
calling out along the night breeze
she held hope to hear answer that never came
she held out against fear and dared to dream
and then she found poems scrawled on the walls
a wordsmith who spoke to her soul
and she knew
she knew

opulent places of exquisite beauty
and desolate strip malls
with a single shopping cart in the empty
parking lot
she climbed in and he pushed  
her faster and faster
laughing free they
conquered the night and smiled
up at stars

two am in the summer is a palace
of the hopeful romantic
of the lonely shuffler dance seeking a song
and in the depths of hollow night
anyone even i can find a reason to endure
even i can seek a hand to hold

opulent palaces of the soul
and the magic is the heart that wanders
the hour with love in his or her mind

two am
and the suburbs are filled with distant sounds
the ever flowing highway
to the shuffle of the man carrying his home into
the depths of the night whistling a song of youth
the suburbs are moving in slow motion on the nightbrezze

two am and a shopping cart
lean down and kiss her
and in that moment love everything in the hope
and wonder you see in her eye
even a shadow like me could find life there
even a remnant like me could see a future there

She wrote her feelings out for you.
She wanted you to know how she felt at every minute of every day.
She needed you to see the pictures she painted of life so you'd never be left wondering
No matter where you or she went
Her poems would remain
Her art never revealed names
But you knew because the words always spoke to your soul
Whispering memories you tried to escape
She wanted to be able to leave this earth with no what ifs or doubts
She tattooed her feelings in a notepad and published them to the world.
Even the naked eye could see her heart on every page.
But only you knew where her heart was, only you knew the pictures she painted because you experienced the picture with her.
If she left this earth today, she'd be at peace knowing a piece of her lies on this earth still
The piece that was written for you.

I don't know how to piece together anything anymore
My head is full of unfinished thoughts
Jumbled Ideas and
Half written poems
I'm busy over analyzing everything,
text messages from past lovers and trying to figure out why I have such dark thoughts running through my
head right before I'm slipping into unconsciousness