Royally flushed;
chips spent cheap
wasted bets,
too sour champagne
Gambling with your heart
a last resort at best,
Never thought
I'd lose this fabulous
game of life,
of Russian Roulette.
words spin, they say we
only get to draw 21
chances to either
fold or win.
Take that heart
to texas and hold'em
tight.
High stakes to play;
no end in sight.
I'm sorry this life is
a casino,
and you without
love to bet.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 6:12 PM UTC
Slurred words
blared in my ears
drunken fists took
cheap shots,
cheap liquor,
30 packs
kegs
all around --
Such sweet
Corona melodies
Sing me a
liquor lullaby,
refrains full of regret
"shouldn't have smashed your face"
"..that girl"
"..that window"
"..your heart"
Turn your corona boom-box
down a notch.
I'm tired of listening.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 8:38 AM UTC
These words
Are no longer
Inspired by you;
Not written for you.
Entitlement lost,
Only barren hills and valleys remain
Empty landfills scatter the surface
Deep cracks and frayed edges
Slowly engulf the pith
My ties are broken
The sea has stolen
Your heart adrift;
Answer the siren's call
Stow away beneath
The once beautiful horizon,
Your body slowly diminishes
Erased from the sky
Waves rise,
To crest and fall
Inflicting damage
Undertow
Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 12:00 PM UTC
The Love Song of a Struggling Writer
It's strange that words are so inadequate.
Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath,
So the writer must struggle for words.
Let us go then, you and I,
As phrases dance across the sky,
Like a poem scribed upon a table
Let us go, through empty deserted minds
The thoughtless finds
Of restless nights when words have left
A dreamless sleep upon the empty draft:
Debts that hunt through bills and mail
Soon caught, no avail
To lead you to an overwhelming dilemma
Oh, do not think of it, “When will I be in print?”
Let us go on borrowed time lent.
Deadlines often come and go
But do I care? Not really…no
The words that never come to be
And phrases never uttered beautifully
Butchered at the hand of the creator
Lingering on the cusp of success
Never brought to fruition, lest I digress
Many ideas I’ve never said
My fingers haven’t moved in hours
Anger builds till I see red.
And indeed there will be time
To taste tendrils of victory
To kiss the lips of a well written acquaintance
There will be time, there will be time
When publishers knock down your door
And ask for my autograph in store
And time for typewriter keys to bend
To rust and break with age
To break hearts of which I cannot mend
Keeping secrets triumph won’t lend
Reveling in the thought of glistening diction
Before the taking of pictures and Ads
Deadlines often come and go
But do I care? Not really…no
There will be moments
To wonder, “Do I write?” and, “Do I print?”
Time to turn back and edit my drafts,
With run on sentences littering the page—
[They will say: “How his grammar is horrid!”]
My morning coffee, and scone for fuel
My pajamas wrinkled from late night frustration—
[They will say: “But how his style has declined!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the publisher?
In a day there is time
For discussion and revisions which a day will reclaim.
For I have read them all, scanned every line:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, late night walks,
I have measured out my life with writers block ;
I know the diction dies as my drive begins to fail
Between the lines of another story.
So how should I continue?
And I have known the public already—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am on display, such a fickle crowd,
When I am blinded by camera flashes and set lights,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the inspiration for my literary creation?
And how should I continue?
Shall I say, I have visited New York and L.A.
And watched the heels smack and clack the pavement
Of lonely writers sipping their grown cold tea?…
I should have been a published writer
Pounding the pavement in glittering achievement.
And after work sip cocktails with various big cheese!
Wined and dined with sticky fingers,
Asleep, awake the thought still lingers,
Stretched across the printing press; an ocean of you and me.
Should I, after punctuating and correcting lines,
Have the creative juice to write another?
I have pondered the many ways to generate fresh material,
Though I have seen my hands become gnarled and thin,
I am no writer—and here’s no great literary work;
I have seen the moment of my success pass,
Having flown out the window with expanded wings,
And in short, I failed.
And would it really have mattered,
After the pens, the quills, the empty ink,
Among the typewriters crevices,
Would it have been worth while,
To have never written in such style,
To have pondered my very fortune
To compact it into a simple sentence,
To write, to be in books and various magazines,
and see my picture on front pages of best seller lists
I Should say:
“I will never be in print, no prizes or ribbons.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the interviews and company meetings,
After the novels, after the cover art, after the payment plans—
And this, is there no more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
I shall sit in the dark, alone, and brood:
Would it have been worth while?
If I had ever submitted just one great piece,
I’m left gazing out the window; still in refrain:
“I will never be in print,
I will never see my works published.”
No! I am not Stephen King, nor ever will be
Sad excuse for a writer or so they say
I think I’ll end my career today
Placed down my pen and ink,; No thrill,
Cannot say which way I’ll go
Words, Phrases, Plot, will change
Soon as my thoughts cease to flow
The meaning of life could rearrange
Another failed attempt, joy ****
I grow old… I grow old…
My written soul will never be told.
Shall I scrap my stories? Should I burn every page?
I shall write in fantasy, and script my dreams
The chimera call, nothing is as it seems
I do not think they call for me
The fantastic is irrelevant
As my mind does fade with age
Take piece of mind; internal war I wage
I have dared to enter realms unwritten
Have ventured past words unspoke
Which suffocate; against my throat to choke.
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 5:59 PM UTC
The kisses were empty
And touches blase'
I felt the disconnect
Long before I felt
You between my thighs
The tide was premature
And the flood pointless
Passion flourished fire
Love so demure
Thoughts became hushed
Under layers of lust
Clouded need
And as the fire fueled
Explosion didn't last
A lack luster come down
There was no way out
I was surrounded
Scarred where
Your fingers singed my skin
Scents of misplaced emotions
Smoldered between the sheets
Invading any space untouched
By our feinding bodies
Breath became stolen as
Faces became backs
Once again clothes covered
The naked truth
My eyes closed
Echoing the click of the lock
Stamping out the faint embers
Of what used to be
I felt the disconnect
Long before I felt
You between my thighs.
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 3:43 PM UTC
A silhouette leaned back
Grey smoke distorted features demure;
Swirls riddled—smooth jazz syncopation
Her rouge lips cut through
The darkness.
She took a long drag on her
Cigarette, smoke rings evaporated
A halo around her.
Midnight blue eyes surveyed
The Bijou Café
Carpet pooled on the floor,
Blood soaked with wine,
Enclosed by onyx sheets,
The far wall a mirror.
A reflection of the souled and soulless.
Bar welcome strangers, friends,
The lonely.
Sharing drinks and memories
Vines intertwined customers
A perchance meeting;
Rendezvous of sorts.
Nameless faces and acquaintances
Dotted the room, a familiar skyline.
Lonely tower missing.
Smooth black fedora
Hearts sank ships as
Waves of embarrassment
Enveloped her; disappointment.
Crestfallen her eyes downtrodden
Soared with a door creak.
Black fedora entered,
Smooth—slick as oil
Eyes were hidden beneath
A veil of night;
Silence became him.
Hush fell on the crowd
As the shadow took the stage
Light pierced through,
Illuminating him.
Orbs locked
Reservation started to pass,
Voice velvet smooth
Played every heartstring
Notes of excitement
Tantalized her veins,
Pulse quickened;
Echoing every tempo change.
Music coursed through her being
Sensual; seductive
Notes caressed curves, valleys
Spaces in between.
Emotion—chord dependent
Voice penetrated skin
Music flowed through her.
A mountain peek high
Mind clouded—
Breath escaped her lungs.
Quiet murmur answered her comedown
An empty stage; stalwart eyes
Fingers replaced music
Lips brushed hers; taste—electric
Smile turned smirk; hollow presence
Musky cologne in wake.
Magnetic pull forward
Fedora exited
Midnight eyes transformed to dawn;
Abandoned beneath the awning
Familiar skyline flowed liquid.
Bijou Café
Neon sign loomed dark
Save for a letter
I illuminated.
Heart tendrils retreated,
Back to roots; betrayed
Tears turned to water
Liquid guilt—love died.
Fingers loosed
Memory;
Small matchbook of shame
Lingering of once upon a time
In the gutter; pouring rain.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 7:56 PM UTC
Envision the black hands;
tendrils of fingers
entomb you in the opaque void
stars that spill
like glitter from containers
a never ending mess of
wishes wished upon
tenfold
that slowly fall
and lightly kiss
the earth goodnight
as the moon lulls
cacophony to a
slow murmur
and your senses
take load
your back begins to bend
in submission of things
you'd much rather think
about at a later time
thoughts that race
people that pry
into the darkness
the night that welcomes
curing the calamity
hands that grip yours
arms that offer
a temporary hide
are you so sure
you've forgotten me?
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 7:54 PM UTC
And because canyons
sever the earth
as tremors widen the divide
Go ahead, pick a side.
I'll stand to the north
where headwinds blow
as mustangs run wild
And you'll scamper to the south
when hurricanes begin to collide
As earth cycles and days turn to night
an eternity passes, plain in sight
Mudslides will fill the valley
and make things once more new
but until that time comes
I'll wait right here for you
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 7:51 PM UTC
With outstretched arms
a blank canvas for you to
fill with your color
hues of sentiment
whisper the words only
lovers dare utter between
confinements of silk
tangled diction echoes
reverb of hidden messages
hearts choked
I promise you it won't only
be this time.
eternity
the beauty of
confession
I swear im not going
anywhere.
pour your fears and trust
into the kisses that grace the
barely open lips and skin that keep
us apart.
Your face the sky in someplace
when I sank somewhere
halfway between asleep and awake
my fingers etched between yours
laced with good intentions
not intended to be misconstrued
please don't go
I wasn't finished
Jan 16, 2010
Jan 16, 2010 at 12:46 PM UTC