It's sad.
HP feels like a ghost town
again.
What if all of us, in a
concerted effort supported
each other as poets?
If we have nothing else,
we have each other.
And we can back each other
and read our dying art, and comment.
PLEASE.

*** until the heart stops seems like the logical answer.
Death in sweat drenched ecstasy,
and preferably with
the nubile young Sherriff's wife.
Now, if she's not around, his sister
or Mother would do just fine.
Small town tasty freeze
serves as the last meal.
What a way to go,
behind some greasy cheeseburger
and chocolate shake.  Sheriff said the
budget wouldn't cover the French fries.
I don't care much about myself,
it's mama I'm worried about.
it will just break her heart...I ain't no good.
I hope I can see her if I can get to heaven.
Mama's the best in the world.

The night is torn apart;
fractured and shattered by
the memory of you.
Stars shake and die,
and I'm filled with
diesel loneliness,
soul sick, like a
butterfly melting.
Everywhere I go,
I smell pumpkin pie, lilacs,
and ****** energy.
The day will come when
I'll not think of you;
not write a single line about
you--not feel you in the
attic of my mind;
but until then,
The crows peck at my
heart, spring never comes;
ice forms on my brain,
and life inches along like
a filthy worm.

November smells like an
empty house,
like decaying dreams;
all pumpkin orange and
burnt sienna.
I search for you through
the ashes of roses.
My eyes are the color
of despair.
I can still taste you;
that last kiss, clover sweet.
And without you, the days
dawn gray
and lonely, like an orphan.

There’s nothing like a
writer when he hits
his stride.
He’s like a horse in the
homestretch,
thundering to the
finish line.
He’s like a dog in
a fight that has his
opponent by the throat .

He is hope for the
*****.
He’s the lock on
the door.
He’s the power in
the ****.
He’s the fossil in  
the rock.

When he pounds out the
word and the line,
he’s like a lion roaming
the Serengeti, or like
the guy with
the whip and
the chair that
makes the silly looking
circus bear do what
he wants.

He’s the snow on
Christmas morning.
He’s the heart in
the newborn baby.
He’s the master and
the world’s his slave.
He’s the force that
makes the river flow.
He’s the tree for
the monkey
he is dope for
the ******.
He is wisdom for the flunky.

He is Don Quixote to
Dulcinea and
Peter to Christ.
He is wings for the
Dodo bird and
claws for the cat.
He’s the rage in the night.
He’s the first light of sunrise.
He’s the dew on the grass
he’s the sail and the
mass on an unsinkable boat.

It’s unthinkable that he would  
do anything else but
write.
He is sight for the  
blind man, he’s a tongue for
the dumb.
He’s a throne for the king.
He’s what makes the robins
sing at the first sight
of spring.

He’s the ring in the bell.
He’s cold water in hell.
He’s the fire, not the smoke.
He’s the castle not
the mote.
He’s the forest
and
the trees.
He’s the bumble in  
the bees.
He’s the rumble from the seas.
He is life not death.
He’s the pulse and
the breath.

He’s the makeup on a clown.
He is sound for
the deaf.
He is  
bereft of nothing when
the
scandalous
sun sets.

I like
my shoes; they are
the only pair
I have.
I've walked miles in
them.
They have
got me around for years.
My shoes are
falling apart.
They should have
quit on me a long
time ago.
Strangely enough,
people compliment
me on them.
They don't see
that the soles are
worn thin, or that they
smell like cat **** and
rotting flesh.
They don't see the
blood stains on
the canvas and the
piece of broken glass stuck
in the heel.
Nope,
they just say,
'Nice kicks;
they look good on you.'
I can't afford
another pair right now,
and even if I could,
I wouldn't spend
the money on them.
No, I like my
shoes, even with
all their imperfections.
They have seen
a thousand sunsets and
carried me away
from many heartbreaks.
My shoes have
run
walked
and sauntered through
snow
rain
and all kinds of ****.
My shoes have
saved me and
betrayed me.
And they have
tasted every type
of ***** known
to man.
When I'm dead and
gone
I hope someone
burns
my shoes and throws
the ashes in
that long lonesome
river, under the bridge,
where men
live and fight
and dream.