Night of no moon. No twinkles. Poet time.
Murk of morning not yet become. Stygian.
Sky of two minds. Janus of covering clouds.
When does when begin? When does then end?
A dash of light tips the balance. Revision.
Syntax of the soul at 4 AM. Garbled images.
Why do bards embrace the darkness? Home?
Shades of past lives stumble in the gloom.
Portals to worlds lived and lost. Open.
Lovers with forgotten names once more whisper.
Friends long in graves stir and grumble.
Every single thing lost names itself found.
A slow sharpening into definition, detail,
becoming what those They insist is real.
   Wake to a world that’s barely now,
   live in a now that’s then. Somehow.

When over the rail bridge
on the sky autumn blue
clouds floated in cotton pieces

I longed for home.

The port light tower
and the masts of anchored ships
made me keen to reach home
like a sailor long on the sea
disembarking with dreamy eyes
thinking if at all is one home
a tender lip awaiting his sunburned cheek
or if he would retrace to the waves
and someone waiting was only in his head.

I was at Remount Road an old station
with home not really that far
and disproportionately small to my yearning.

I was making a brisk walk
and when at the door
fell into a reverie of
rail bridge
anchored ships on the port
white on the autumn blue
and the small station
Remount Road.

Where is the bright tomorrow

In the wake of this aftermath

With so many tears of sorrow

On the ground where peace once sat

What we hold in our hearts and hands

Is the daily struggle to understand

The reasoning of the wicked mind

With such disregard for all mankind

If it's peace we want we must spread the seed

The center growth to all our needs

In these times it's hard to understand

But love should be the aftermath

I don’t know
whether I love you,
or if I loath you…

I guess I’ll just take
the middle ground,
and say,

‘I like you.’

The scratch on your face heals
as my attraction comes and goes…

What am I up to?

Making something beautiful,

‘I don’t care.’

Easy as that,
and I’ve turned it into something ugly…

Paint me again
the poor boy that I am;
laugh at me
and pour me a drink.

All in one Sentence
if you please.

All in one motion…

Emotions have brought me
from here—

—to there.

Like reliving every
eventful stare.

Was it you or I
who cared?

I seem to forget…

Thank me again,
and receive your tip.

I think we’re similar enough,
after all,
we’re cut from the same fluff.

And knowing that is—

Far—

Too—

Much.
*(rough)

An hour is as fleeting as
the angle of the morning sun,
as brief as any moment has
a kinship with the current one.

The fabric of the world with all
its artwork, every sun-dried streak,
refits the future with a small
reworking of a brush technique.

touch my heart
the way the sun touches the clouds
at sunset, filling them with color,
with light.
touch my heart
like rain touches the earth,
softly,
breathing life in it,
making it bloom.
touch my heart,
touch my life,
touch my soul.

the green of the earth
has been well fed
weeded
coddled to look perfect
the grass lies even
measured by sight
and given the nod of approval
an empty head
an observant trust
comparisons to what's close
welcome to everyday americana
welcome to every neighborhood, USA
belted khakis
plaid short sleeved shirts
ball caps emblazoned with beloved teams
many digits in the bank
shiny car in the drive
1.2 kids
boasting chocolate covered faces
sticking out drooling tongues
dad's an *******
mom's a lush
but the fine schools accept them
the almighty dollar opens closed doors
"amen' on sundays
work on mondays
"oh, mr. smith" on top of the desk come tuesday
it's the continuation of what was
the non questioning of how it should be
a fat wallet
an obese gut
swollen lips bursting lustful obscenities
cooing lashes welcoming
a sweaty, squeezing grip
on the ***
everytown, USA
yourtown, of these United States
ablast with preversion
bloated with cash

what a sad state of affairs
do we project...