I talked to an 77-year-old man who was washing the windows at Pizza Hut today.
He was young and so happy.
He was kind.
And wise.
He was rich.
He had no money.
He had nice eyes.
He was going blind.
He had a beautiful smile.
His teeth were rotten.
His name was Jerome.
And all he wanted to do was help people.
He taught me so much in 6 minutes.

the way I say softly to myself that 'I miss you'
which I know
is just a whimper into the void
that statistically you are not likely to hear.
I miss you like the sofa misses the softness of our bodies pressed against it
like the lonely astronomer misses the visible path of a meteoroid when it fades from the blackness and a trail of nothing but the glowing memory of burning elements is left behind, a wake for all that seemed to be living but was only a projection, a fossilization in the air, untouchable in the distance, not making sense
like the tv misses our eyes giving it a glance when, occasionally, we looked away from each other
like the everyday visuals of the world miss the added vibrancy of an altered mind
I miss you like my body misses drugs that make things tolerable
I miss us together making the world tolerable without trying.
I miss us like the bats miss the night sky when they sleep crowded in the day-caves, huddled and waiting
Only unlike the night you will not come to me again

i thought of you this morning when i was stood up for lunch
and i drove by your neighborhood
but that house is emptier than even my stomach
now churning, and up to no good

and it's not from the food
(or the lack of it all)
but a process now picking up pace
a cancerous longing,
a wish left to waste
a silence
a rage
now taking it's place



well, i've been spendin my time just walkin the streets
and making friends with all the dumb insects i meet
and the moths have been asking me for a light
and i know i'll oblige them, it's not worth the fight
and they're swarming around me, every which way
and just blocking my visions, aiding decay
and their suckers make shapes, yeah they pierce like a knife
and it kills me to tell em
you're not part of my life
anymore.

The sky was your modern miracle
Simply because you were in it
Defying the laws of everything
You went against physics
You went against society
With a cape proudly adorning your shoulders
You did the impossible
Gravity became your vanquished enemy
And you didn’t look down.
But by tying responsibilities to your ankles
The World managed to weigh you down
Telling you to get your head out of the clouds
You haven’t taken to the sky since then
Now a suit is all that adorns your shoulders
And the duties of manhood keep your eyes on the Earth
And out of the Heavens

But hopefully someday when the wind blows just right
You’ll drag that old cape from your closet
The one everyone told you not to wear
Letting your feet drift from beneath you
You’ll become lighter than air
And leaving all responsibilities behind you
You’ll remember how to fly

Up the down I strode
Rising far above the fields
Till evening came
Then, beneath a starstruck sky
Down the down I swayed and rolled

There are two tonight-
two ambulances,
red lights illuminating the dark neighborhood
as they make their weekly trip to the old folks home
at the end of the street.
This could be the end of eight decades for someone
for a neighbor of mine.
Could be one less crazy old woman
walking down the street shouting at the neighborhood dogs
(and mailboxes).
The lights fade from view as they cross 9th.
A tear falls to my desk
as I wonder
"who was that?
what ended tonight?"
and as I lay down and roll over to stare at the wall
I imagine who they could have been.

it may seem like
nothing, but the
boys used to call
me bush and this
girl named Sierra
would lie about
our friendship,
i've been ugly
more times than
I can count and
because I never
forgave them I
still spend every
day trying so
hard to be

loved

there's a million dusty back roads
which tell a million
dusty back road stories
sinners and saints
redemption and judgment
retribution and love
and there's a million alleyways
cobblestone or brick
where a million
dusty back road people
tell tales of travel
in the glow of a flaming trash barrel
and there are a million bridges
which have been layered
with poetic inspirations
street preachers
spraying their words
from aerosol cans
and a million dusty back road people
sleep beneath those poems
almost every night
I have a million blown out pairs of shoes
and I wouldn't get rid of one of them
because each one
tells my dusty back road story