Should not art be aspirational?
Why then, this sketch of our most putrid places?

Should not art be sensational?
Why then, these small feelings and forlorn faces?

Should not art be an escapade?
Why then, tread only on familiar ground?

Should not art make you feel afraid,
Elated, enraged, or at least something more than flat and drowned?

Should not art be sincere expression?
Why then, is there nothing found here to call relevant?

And when art is thoughtful impression,
Should it not reveal a truth not immediately evident?

There need not be beauty,
Perhaps not even soul.

But if mere pale entertainment,
Should we call it “art” at all?

She standing there with her gin and tonic
Holding it like a cross ripe
for a cruxification

She turns to smile making sure you see her
Pouring out wiles of affection on the somebody new

It's like an arrow through you
Cutting deeper than the burbon on your breath
Is it her way of making up a test ?
. . . YES !. . .

Well it's sometime between midnights
It's anytime all of the time
She holding the arm of leaving
The attention of her new guy

There's no amount of Bourbon you hush
It can't flush away the ghosts

And it must be between the midnights
It must be the last of last calls

The band's quit for the night
The pianist twinkles on the keys of exhaustion
I whisper to the glass of ice
Everything's going to be alright

The tides of destination
have invaded my beloved estuary
Rising fast in deliberation
Washing away the righteousness that I once held dearly deep within

Seeking to bend the reeds of  resistance
the muddy waters of disdain come rushing in

They are lunatically overpowering
Driven to dominate the spirit that I
once held sacred free of sin

When the dusk skies’ moon
Finds us creeping through the night
Might I take your hand
A gentle grasp with mine
And pray to our God above
That the moonlight won’t catch us in time

I can't run like you
I'll walk instead
even at my leisurely pace
I'll not be late

Truth can't be split
or diced
even by
the sharpest knife

he lives in an oblong trailer
at a trailer park.

every night he'd make a pitcher of margaritas.
salt around the rim of the glass.
crushed ice to the top of the glass.
the glass cold to his hand.

he turns the t.v. on
and the lamp on the night stand off
and sits in the easy chair
in the darkened room.

he'd drinks the margaritas
and watches t.v. until the station
goes off the air

and then watches the random dot pixels
and listens to the static coming
out of the t.v. speaker.

the flashes of light flickering.
and the blue light settles on his face.
eyes open, staring.

the darkness reached for him
and in the ghostly flickering,
he let it.

walking on eggshells in that lonesome house
your mood was capricious
I was scared of you and your anger
one moment you were fine and agreeable
then if I said the wrong thing
you would fly into a fit of rage
I never knew what was the right thing
or wrong thing to say
anything could set you off
and I was your victim
it was always me
you hated for some reason
no longer do I live with you
and your capricious mood