Sitting in L.A traffic with no A.C
nodding in and out
of this constructed kind of reality.

Wondering about things like
where did the time go?
Where did my friends go?
Why so many lies?
How am I to convince her I've changed
when I've changed very little.

Cell phone rings and I ignore it.
A semi blast its semi horn and
pulls my chin away from my chest.

I'm tired but I don't sleep.
I have nightmares of a life without these
words.

Women all over this city,
can't go a day without seeing
one you'll never have.

Bar keeps and Cops talking about
politics and ball chasing men.
I stopped going to Bars once the
original Bar Fly had passed.

Going through the things I wrote
while up state in a prison cell .
Seems like only yesterday I was
longing for this city.
This city whose
toxic air , beautiful women
and cheap downtown ******  
together are slowly killing me.

Suicide's too easy I'd rather
sit it out and wait.

This traffic and these lipstick painted faces.
These hot summer days in October
and my poems all unsigned.

There's a secret and I know it,
our world was someone else's mine.

Scatter what's left of me
into the smog.
Burn me at death,
my only wish is to be forgotten.

Mothers smoking ***** from a bamboo pipe in the morning.
She peels bananas for breakfast with her hands that are never clean.
Father died in a rich mans mine.
Mother has found an Uncle to beat her on the weekends when the Wine runs out.
Uncle make sister touch his monster in the mornings.

The speakers of His word bring salvation and sugar cane husks for the children after class.
All the parents miss the sermon and drink early morning wine on a sunday.

In the cities and the suburbs girls chose the guys who can buy them jewels and give them children.
Security is what matters who cares how you feel.
A thousand smiles smile back as she holds the sparkling stone high for everyone to admire.

He felt safer with his sister towing buckets in the mine.
His Uncle didn't like it but the money bought more drink.
They always needed children to venture deeper in the Earth.
Slender hands and small bodies pulling Diamonds from the mines .

She secretly admired the promise on her finger as he pounded away on her ripe smelling flesh.
It takes a special kind of someone to fake it all for Gems .
Men so lonely they convince themselves it's Love ,when they really know it's Diamonds.

There's something about stones that take lifetimes to form .
A Gem so strong only the hands of a child can set them free.

   What a symbol for promise ,for Love and forever.
A stone pulled from the Earth by way of child labor and sometimes child blood.

Our time here is lacking.
The gifts have all been given.

Withheld by men in long coats and deep hats.
The mysteries have yet to be explored.

We are what makes up this space in time.
History will be decided by actions set forth by men not Gods.

We are in the time of the deprived.
Our time will never know the gifts of Magic.

Truth in our age is but a story better told by Liars.
It's a mass hypnosis that very few can comprehend.

The way of things will one day come to an end .
We are living in the age of Deceit.

If by Halloween night things
have still yet to be.
I'll consider myself lucky
if there's no October surprise
for me.

There is no truth .

It's all a rich mans joke.

The distant surf
crashes against the old
Spanish wall.
Sounding like slow
volleys of gunfire
ricocheting off
the jagged cliffs
above.

The sea side stillness
of the night is
disturbed by
my footsteps.
They crunch a
million grains
of sand with
every step
I take along
this jaded
asphalt.

At this hour
all of this is
closed,they put
hours and gates
around
whats free.

Wet feral cats
chase giant
wharf rats all
through the
cavernous
crevasses
between the
break walls
giant stones.

Across the Harbor
on the calm side.
Lights shine bright
from the
giant cranes
and the
deep green
Span dressed in
strands of
Blue.

The lights
reflected off
the still water
and danced
along small wakes
left behind by
passing boats.

The fumes
of sweet
scented fuel
hides just
beneath the
smell of
salt water and
the rotting
bait fish left
behind by
hopeful
fisherman in
chunks along
the rocks.

A quarter mile
out on the breakwalls end
the Gateway to
the Angels sits
as still and proud
as an ancient Oak.

Its dependable
Lighthouse
vigilance and wisdom
washes over me
as I pass this
night counting
the seconds
between
the shine.

I watered
my thoughts
with moments.

Tiny moments.
Moments forever
trapped
within the
cloudy hollows
of my
experience.

What has
bloomed forth
became
all of this.
This of which
has blossomed
from
tiny moments.

Tiny,
like the feet
of the girls
named
Jade in China.

Tiny moments.
Moments
I thought
grand enough
to share with you.