Laid now on his smooth bed
For the last time, watching dully
Through heavy eyelids the day's colour
Widow the sky, what can he say
Worthy of record, the books all open,
Pens ready, the faces, sad,
Waiting gravely for the tired lips
To move once -- what can he say?

His tongue wrestles to force one word
Past the thick phlegm; no speech, no phrases
For the day's news, just the one word ‘sorry';
Sorry for the lies, for the long failure
In the poet's war; that he preferred
The easier rhythms of the heart
To the mind's scansion; that now he dies
Intestate, having nothing to leave
But a few songs, cold as stones
In the thin hands that asked for bread.

A trowel and an infinite supply of spackle. Leave me to work, friends. I perceive your cracks, everyone, every one. Canyons, hairline crevices, they trace your backs like rain down windowsills. I've never quite been able to predict where the fissure will turn.

A trowel and an infinite supply of patience. Leave me to my duty, friends. Let me fill in your fractures, I can saturate them to their basin with reparations, reconciliations. I will breathe forgiveness, companionship, love, whatever you need onto my mendings, they will harden. Paint over them what shades you will, I’ll hold your hand as you hold the brush.

A trowel and an infinite supply of compassion. Leave me to my compulsion, friends. Maintain my repairs, I beg of you. You let them become brittle and they flake off of your faces like paper Mache masks. You, let the paint fade. Your work, our work, to fix the fissures, it’s crumbling through your fingers, outstretched, dumbfounded you stare. Pick up the trowel and spackle your own canyons. Spread the fleeting putty across your faces till your eyes cry dust when you blink.

Oh look, upon your left eyelid. A fracture. A trowel. Leave me to my love, friends.

a clever retort has never been my forte
but neither has conversation
not because of shyness nor hatred of others
but perhaps because of other's hatred for me

Walking a little bit sideways
While on the wrong side of the road
several weeks flow into days
and every prince is just a toad
though the nothings are a something
'cause the world is viewed through eyes
of a vocalist that cannot sing
and fancy men without a tie
cause suicide is just another way to die

I see your heartbeat in every man
and I can hear your mind
even though you hide
behind the sun.
You disappear
into places of mystery    
where you survive
inside your fun.

You see yourself
as the lost make believe
and leave no room for reality
to ever be the same.
All those bridges you are burning
have you drowning
inside of your
own shame.

You want to vanish
into a spiraling truth
and be heard
by your feelings
while reaching out.  
There is no such thing as honor
when sitting on a velvet seat
where you only shout.

Your tears will soon pass
when you think
of the anticipation
of the dreams you had
in your cradle.  
Harmony breathes in a quiet breath
lasts forever
if it is able.