in my own time
there is no more time

two swollen feet
two bad knees can not go far
bad news on bad knees
put more space in the wrong place

karen dalton died of aids
in a trailer
i live

by doing as close to nothing as possible
then looking around for someone to blame

there's a few names written on the wall
who do i think of first
what am i afraid of most
looking around the ***** room

When was the last time
I felt a raving hunger for life?
When had I but an eternity in moments,
on the edge of something vastly different?

How was it me and not you
who staked her soul high
on rolling hills of green,
took long draughts to savour, to condense
the weight of the world into one precious drink,

cup the shortest days in her palm and release them,
for her thoughts to balloon into the wild?

The delectable now—
ripe as berries for plucking in winter,
and all things, like music
must peter
into silence.

So I suppose my question to you
is not concerned with
the stack of newly-minted green in your pocket,
nor the fleet of shiny cars, but
your pure self, simply being.
It’s prodding the heart,
a tiny critter fluttering with wings, wondering:

when will you ever get a second chance at this—
all this storm
and inexplicable happiness—

or will you
go hunting for things,
whirling at mere traces
of power in your name—

or will you turn around
only to find a life
or a lie,
staring back wide-eyed
in endless shame?

© BT

Though our streets are flooded,
towns and cities destroyed,
we will rebuild,
lots of help has been deployed.

Harvey brought it's wrath,
but Texans fight with heart,
though it will take a while,
there will be a brand new start.

From Rockport to Beaumont,
and the towns in between,
soon we'll be back on the beach,
drinking beer, wearing sunscreen.

With the sounds of hammers,
and of saws and drills,
don't worry about Texas,
be assured she will heal.

Take your head off,
I'll take mine off, too.
Let us uncover our thoughts,
And smother our bodies, too.

Just spill your mind onto my lap,
Burying me in your dreams.
We can fight the Monday blues together,
Ignore all that we weather....
Just me and you..
You and me..
Just be.

We can paint a better picture,
Mold it into all that we desire...
We'll form two bodies that rest into one
And just stick it onto the shelf for all to admire.

Sit among the rustling leaves.
Listen for life,
Listen for death.

You'll find that life lives among the trees
Audible by whistles.
The freedom a seagull must feel.
Favorite food: tourist's french fries.

I once heard a story about a buoy.
From Maine to Europe it
Drifted for years.
Is that freedom?

Did the current grab it's limbs like
The medieval rack and dislocate it's ability?
Buoys can't cry for help as cargo ships float by.
The salt tastes like ignorance.

How would a bird feel to be stripped of it's feathers?
Ask a magicians dove.
What is the correlation between disappearance and freedom?
Ask the buoy. You can't get 10 years back.

orchids exotic captured
the man's botanical eye
they were so beautiful
in display
with delicate petals
and a scent
of heady romance


the wheelchair bound New York
cop saw defining evidence
of the exquisite
bloom
his heart elated
by the flower's
gorgeous
loom

there under his real
name of Raymond Burr
he established
an orchid garden
on a Fiji island
the climate perfect
for growing
and nurturing
the plant species
arresting of sight
so sublime
its vision's delight