I make it a point to never plan on it.
I don't designate a time or a place for it.
I don't schedule my days around it.

I don't wish to sound smug when I say
I try to put the least bit of effort into it.
I don't allow it to bother me when the words don't come.
I don't think about those lost thoughts or that unused line that looked so good on paper. Yet somehow it still made its way into the garbage along with the dinner I couldn't eat, the dishes she broke and the beers I already drank.

To me it is all meant for paper.
The thoughts that rob me of my sleep.
The memories that keep me from ever being truly happy.
The damage I've kept hidden for so long now I often forget why it is the tears come when they do.

Bukowski had a Bluebird and wrote about it only once.
Dante looked to Virgil and mentioned him by name.

You can not force a miracle nor could you guarantee a masterpiece.
I'm alone with this, scared half to death about losing this.

I don't force it to come.
Though I do recognize the Muse when it makes its self known
and appears to me on paper.

Can't stand against the ageless winds while shedding sour tears now  amber from the ******.

The Locols were the only ones who ever parked cliffside off the highway and always ignored the signs.

You can't withhold anything the ocean wants.
What the Pacific always wants the Pacific always takes .

The rich have dug in without saying a word.
The generals and the enginers know there's no where for us to go.

Its all happend before, nothing ever new is something never known .
There's giants laying dead along our oceans floor.

It'll be the waters that bring about our end .

The bare bulbed cell lights broke through
the bars along the top floor of the old city hall.

My dreams locked in a battle with my memories
all the while it was the Poppy who kept me strong.

They cut their blocks with water and magic
the way the Mayans and the Templars once did.

Your likeness set in bronze
sit's ageless in the concrete.

Sirens yell in another part of the city
as your worries are left struggling
long after you've moved on.

There's not enough damage here,
come back and see me once she's gone.

I did'nt leave the pistol for too long and
I did'nt lie to her when I told her it was'nt enough.

Kept my word and spent my riches.
God knows I would'nt have it any other way.

Spend my final days puffing on forgetfullness.
I found my salvation in an ***** den.

I promised her I'd come back one day.

Not even 90 days in
and the idiot bombs Syria.


Opinions and belifes
don't mean ****.


Prophecy is all
that matters now.

I'm too paranoid for *******,
not social enough for alchohol.

Speed's not for me,
you gotta give up your dreams.
And I look forward to sleep.

I disliked **** once they
made it legal.
I can't mess with the pills
unless they're the happy ones
and a girl is involved.

I thought about my first
love, my first addiction.
There's no way I can say
I'll never do ****** again.

I'm not too sure about much
but I can say this for sure.
"Maybe one day my dear
but I can't go back to you today".

I leaned in close
enough to smell
the rubber of the hoses
now keeping him alive.

For the second time in my
life I was at a loss for words.

I rested my hand ontop of his own
and said,
"God is Real, Please Remember me."

The machine was now silent
as a families worth of tears
fell to the floor.

No more Pain.

I sat out front
on the large
concrete steps
and allowed my mind
to slip just to
see how it felt.

The occupants of
the Mad house
sat and moved
about around me.
Some held intense
conversations
with the air and
with all that wasn't
there.
Others picked at
scabs or picked
inside of noses.
Their polluted
minds wondered about
everything
except why I was
there.

A guy in furry
slippers and a women's
hat decided I was
there to give out cigarettes.
His face froze with
confusion and horror
when I told him
that I didn't smoke.
Another guy
danced on the sidewalk
in wide dramatic circles
to the music in his
head .
His eyes were
closed and his zipper
was down.

I stared across Beacon st.
along with some of the  Mad
and watched two winos
as they sat on a bench
in their park.
They each drank out of
***** paper bags,
an occasional
mumble exchanged.

The scavenging gulls
stood sentry
as the pigeons
picked at the
ground around
them.

I looked past the winos
through the palm fronds
and the eucalyptus.
A hulk of a container
ship slowly made
it's way along the
harbors main channel.
I thought about the
history of this place.

Where once sat a
library,a place to
seek out and to learn.
Now sits two winos
with their own
kind of knowledge.
And what was once a
YWCA a place for
recreation and youth.
Now serves as housing for
those whose minds have
wondered too far.
Those who dance on
Beacon st.,
alone.
To no ones music
but their own.