I am in love,
My dear,
With a moment
We never had.
I marvel,
My dear,
At the possibilities
In our future.
I dream,
My dear,
Of the day we lie
Side by side.
I hope,
My dear,
For our night,
All in white.
I know,
My dear,
I'll dance in your arms
Some beautiful night.

Open windows,
Cool wind blows.
Passion of iron steels,
Heat flows, Snow shatters.
Intelligent minds,
Love, love, love.
The fool,
Love, love and loves.
Then we all fly,
With open arms.
Till time can't pass us by.

©
June 2015

COME ON.
LET THE WRITERS BREAK THEIR WRISTS AND BLEED THEIR FINGERS DRY OVER SOMEONE WHO DOESN'T GIVE A **** ABOUT THEM

I think it would be cool
just to sit around
& spin records,
crack open
the expensive bottles
& shoot tequila shots,
slurp whiskey
out of the small
of everyone's back.
When we started
to hallucinate,
we could all *******
while sitting in a circle,
then write home
about it on a postcard
telling the folks
what s great time
we were having
acting like the beat generation.
They did **** like that you know.

I lost my mind
So I could find
My soul

you are still fine
and i'm still pretending to be.

against the wall, the firing squad ready.
then he got a reprieve.
suppose they had shot Dostoevsky?
before he wrote all that?
I suppose it wouldn't have
mattered
not directly.
there are billions of people who have
never read him and never
will.
but as a young man I know that he
got me through the factories,
past the ******,
lifted me high through the night
and put me down
in a better
place.
even while in the bar
drinking with the other
derelicts,
I was glad they gave Dostoevsky a
reprieve,
it gave me one,
allowed me to look directly at those
rancid faces
in my world,
death pointing its finger,
I held fast,
an immaculate drunk
sharing the stinking dark with
my
brothers.