Look at
them gather
at the gallows.
That's entertainment.
Monkeys sell
popcorn, and do
tricks, dressed in
sailor suits.
You bought your
tickets,
Now enjoy the show.

The crowds get bigger.
Everyone loves a
good tragedy, except
the one being hanged.

That bubble of a moon is 
playing peek-a-boo behind
the wispy night sky.
Confirming to me
everyone's lunacy.
Words stick to the
roof of my mouth
like peanut butter.
It could have been 
a better world,
I should have been a
better man.

January snowflakes
are like guilt falling from
the sky.
little frozen starfish...
cold and raw on 
the soul, and tongue.

  

.

Orchids wilt and rot
in time.
Roses have thorns that
***** to bleed.
Seeds bring life that
ultimately dies.
In lieu of flowers
give me your
eyes full of
heat and desire.
Surrender your heart of
passion, but most of all,
water me with your
love so that I can grow.

With furrowed brow
and a soul full of
sorrow,
I trudge the
lonely road of
perdition.
Providence guides me
as I stumble and fall.
Not even *** or
chocolate
can save me now.

How?
How do people do it?
How do people smile, drive cars,
buy loaves of bread,
read the paper, go to school,
go to jobs, go to church,
eat sushi, talk on cell phones,
drink coffee?

How do they ****,
**** and *****?
How do they
get their
shoes shined,
stand in line,
comb their hair,
brush their teeth,
go to the theatre,  
the circus, the carnival?

How do they do
these things and  
so much more when
babies, innocent- beautiful
babies, are born into this
brutal world,
where parents die,
where feral cats carry off
little birds that fall from  
the nest,
where best friends die,
O.D, get hit by cars
drowned or
die from some
strange brain thing.

How do we eat
chocolate, watch football,
and build snowmen?
How do we
visit the zoo,
go to the moon
copulate
*******
******* and
procreate
when hearts still
break,
Sweet Jane dies.
The walk on the
wild side ends,
and the letters we
send get returned?

How do they do it ,
when
dogs get hit by  
cars,
****** roam the bars,
the Dodo’s extinct and
wackos still brutalize
children?
How do people do it?
How do they carry on?

Life is a series of tiring verbs
as I wade through the
ashes of orchids.
I'm a vagabond with
a ragged soul
coming for you *******
a lonesome road.
I float aimless,
like an acorn in
a mountain stream.
The death of dreams smells
like autumn leaves,
lonely as driftwood.

Home is not going to be
a white door at the
end of a sidewalk.
It's bigger and broader,
and can't fit behind a
fence and walls.
It will always be the
sum of my
memories and longings.

Home is walking the streets,
hand in hand,
with our son on my shoulders.
Home is lying in
the grass with your
fingers in my beard, and hope
oozing from your blue eyes.
It's eating sushi and laughing at
our accidental touch of hands,
reaching together for
the last California roll;
avocado safe at
a sun dappled table.

I'm drifting lost on
a southern wind.
When I'm with you again,
wherever that is,
I'll be home.