Before earth leaves me
someday under the sun
the moon will explode
My humble abode no more
And no bullet will outrun
No gun won
One last cry for life
But I'm done
I'm done
Rebellious in nature, I made friends
with crumbled leaves
on the last day of fall
Before my nose froze
and I dipped my toes in
a dry lake to catch my tears
My nature is dead, gone
Beating a dead dog
Looking for a reason to
pick up the phone
and call for a break
But there isn't one
Spare me the grief
for your own handkerchief
I don't need your tears
I have my own
Saved in a moldy jar
when I need the change.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
I wish we could
catch a raindrop
with our hands
Hydrate a 3 a.m.
conversation about how
the First Agreement
either does
or doesn't
keep us honest
about the way
we look at
each other.
At 3:13 a.m. I tell a
story about my
favorite agate
I found when
I was 13.
By now it's
pouring outside
and a bolt
of thunder
snaps me out
of my haze.
Laying on my pillow
I remember
I need
the clouds because
I live
in a storm,
and right now
you're the calm
before, during, and after.
Your voice is the one
I hear over the
whirl of the wind,
the one I feel
after waking up
in a pool of
my own sweat,
the one I see
even through the
distance of feeling
alone.
So talk to me
before, during,
and after
the storms
of our lifetime,
and we can share
what we find
together
in the aftermath.
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 2:46 PM UTC
I'm fighting two pails --
One filled with feeling of
a homeless future and
one with a far cry crow
swooping in on every worm
living in the cracks of my life.
Give me a rifle with a
cross-haired scope, locked and loaded
two painted metal pails
with the eyes of a bull
so I can shoot one
and let the other
rust with my soul.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
Concrete beneath seats
of listeners
Chalk artists
creating frames for the
next rainfall
Wash away
sun burnt big toes
beads of sweat
on sunglasses
Spoken word next to
handrails
The river below
huffs the wind
Spits it
to the current
of artistry
waving back from shore
Cancel the 12:50
replace the interruption
with impromptu colors
of the rainbow
Let children wander
under bridges
and pop balloons
filled with water
Color paint
Let the world
around us drink
water of guitar strings
and gaze at
ambient light
with star-struck eyes
Let the world
revolve around
lightning bolt revolt
Protect sacred
performing stages
Say yes to
Art-spired revolution
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
Don't have a clue.
Don't have a clue?
They live in dive bars
and take shots of
Karkov, eyes glued
to the radio
hanging in the corner
laughing with the cracked
peanut shells on the floor
They will slaughter you
with analogies likening
Moby **** to the bruised banana
they ate prior to
their last reading
They sleep in dumpster fires
and digest the
nature of rotten cheese
Under some circumstances
they play fetch with bones
thrown by big government
just to see how many
splinters get stuck in
the roof of their mouth
Proceed to shout
"don't ask about my thoughts
on politics and government
don't ask about my thoughts
on politics and government
don't ask about my thoughts
on politics and government"
They hate politics and
would rather
cry into a red wheelbarrow
glazed with gasoline
on top of Lady Liberty's torch
and let their tears
set the world ablaze.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
Today I watched a log near the shore
wait for the Mississippi's current to
push it past the lone rock in its way.
Two and a half hours later it
caught the current, and gained
enough momentum to float ahead.
The log was forced from its comfort zone,
but wanted the change,
and embraced its own currency.
It got stuck along the way
(probably more than once)
but trusted the process
like flowers trust honeybees.
Today
the log is as much a part of me
as I
am a part of it
Ready to ride the wave
Ready to converse with the current
Ready
Ready.
Moving forward, I'll think about
that log from time to time
when I'm stuck in captivity,
holding on to hope that I can
find a current to carry me away.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
A broken guitar tells me to shut it
on every rest note.
And I tell myself to
ditch old baggage
on the side of the road
to clean my tattered knapsack
of cobwebs and broken light bulbs.
So I divest,
Decompress in present
because right now, I'm at peace.
You speak over church bells
at the top of the hour
and I listen like
nothing else matters.
But I only hear the future
My future, your future, our future
the world's future.
It's not often,
but every once in a while
midnight slaps me with a sound
I can't explain.
Even if I explain myself
I ramble around the point
like an arrow with no tip.
The weird thing about time
is it's a lot like music,
or a galaxy,
but right in the palm
of soft hands and ambitious souls
It only makes sense with experience,
and getting lost in a pavilion
of nervous butterflies
only seen in lucid dreams.
The world is old. We're young.
We're lost. And so is everyone else.
Tell me about your favorite constellation,
your favorite letter of the alphabet,
what makes you tick,
and why.
One day, after learning about your spectrum,
and where it intersects with mine
we'll dance in space.
I'll come to my senses
and question nothing
Not even the silence between our lips.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
Sitting alone in a whirlwind
Black center and hail pellets
Scattered platters of food
Drowned out conversations,
mumbled spit up
Can't calm the angered nature
of broken class in a sheepish world
Twelve days until the broken
symphony sings in front of a
tidal wave
Twenty four hours until yesterday
Spin cycle repeats deceit
What more is there than then?
When everything stops spinning
and the wind eats karma
for breakfast with Mother Nature
on Sunday morning.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 12:46 PM UTC
When you make a garlic chicken
special guests are also essential
Cross sections and interior views
forged all manner of ancient
The name may evoke evening
Experiment with cucumber, watermelon
Do not imply the expression of any opinion
increase in normal and immunosuppressed
Make an irony-free living
but never in such proliferation
Prepare to be bowled over by porridge
or other library materials
covered with a blanket of clouds
The dead began to speak.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
The streetlight on the corner of
8th and Harriet talks in Morse code
every Sunday night at half past eight.
Maybe it’s asking to be saved
from the blistering cold. Maybe
it has feelings for the moon
and is only trying to be noticed.
It must get lonely working
the same corner for years
and nobody bothers to return thanks.
My guess is it’s trying to communicate
with fellow streetlights
and plan an attack like the Ents
did before they went to
war on Isengard.
But then again, only in my mind
I make perfect sense. After all,
it is just a malfunctioning street light.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 7:38 PM UTC