My space, my corner;
herein I find false comfort
and hollow hold
like the icy embrace of an apparition.

No cold kiss
from lovers lost
to Hades Gate
awakens my woeful resistance.

It is the shining darkness
that dragged me to my nest.
I am the burden of leaden wings
the sun does try to melt.

How can I consider myself a poet?
I do not have a cat for a pet
(Instead I have a dog that thinks I’m her pet)

How can I call myself a poet?
I do not over indulge in alcohol
(Except the rarely occasional beer or whiskey)

How can I be a poet?
I do not consciously write with rhyme or rhythm in mind
(If it comes, it’s usually seldom or unintentional)

How can I be called a poet?
I don’t live in France nor have I ever been
(Though given the chance, I would leave in a heartbeat)

How can I be considered a poet?
I don’t dress in all black clothes and smoke Clove cigarettes
(I love flannel and jeans and smoke Camel or American Spirits)

                                                      ­       *How can I consider myself a poet?
                                                 (Maybe the fact that I ask this question makes me a poet?*)

Perhapsingly on Sunday
If the bleak-end hacked for blood
I could take a spin in the old gorevette
Down to Blighton where the vibe is crude,
Where April rolls the coolest blunts
Dreading lilacs and their smoky crud
Of wishfulness. Beyond this extended ketaphor
Only reason spoils the mood.
Having none and wanting more -
A conceit started out so spicely, but finished far from good.
Oh well, I guess. The horror I suppose. The horror.

This is for the rainy days.
The heavy days,
Blanketed under a dark silver sky.

This is an image of
Timeless days.
Where both dawn and dusk
Fail to exist,
Because the gray never went away.

This is the light drizzle
Painting your glasses
With tiny cloudy droplets
That blur-out your vision

And makes the next step a mystery,,
As you pray
                  For a chance of sunshine.

This is for the helpless days.
Lonely days.
Where with every battle
Pits you against the world.
     And should you lose,
     Or should you win,
     Your victory is heard
            by only two ears.

These are the words for the
Mouse-like people.
The great number of quiet strugglers
Who say yes to the fat cat
                                  By Instinct!
So they won't be the meat
Of someone else's meal.
          \    \     \
But this is not to cast you down.
Not a giant- making pinching gestures
With people sized fingers.

This is a challenge!
A day to reach up into
Your oppressive heavens.
Cast aside the disciplinary
Blockade and- Breathe.

Breathe in the tastes
Of a life worth living.
Of the courage to be on your own feet.

And this is an urgency.
This is an urging that
All the doormat people
Sweep out from the heavy feet,
The ones you welcome for trampling.
Because|
               -You know exactly what you're
                 *Missing

The moon leaks through the tree-blinds as
Your body waits to be claimed,
Laid among the dead narra trees, in the night,
Solemn cries are heard; your flesh becomes one
with the earth, as the wet soil shaped like cradles covers you.

In the trembling rows of the village, behind locked doors.
A mother is holding her stomach, waiting for the release.
In the womb, you sense life beating.
They seem so far away.