Lying on the bermuda grass
gazing at the stars,
we planned for our future
as if it's only a call away.

I remembered how you asked me,
"Why arent you writing anymore?"
And i sniffed, "Got no inspiration"
You kept silent, we had a fight that day.

And now Im alone,
Remembering where it went wrong
Like a strike of a lightning into a forbidden tree
I wasnt quite sure of the answer

All I know is that,
I lost the poet in me
When I found the love I am longing...
in you.

That's what love has taught me:
*YOU NEED TO LOSE YOURSELF TO FIND SOMEBODY

Night, I call you
the sanctuary of the lost
and the no-good,
like the hawk down
in my pillow case
full of forgotten dreams
that old hound time
tears apart like bones
tossed under the table,
so I pull on my new boots
and walk in the dark
with no place to go
but the road that leads
to the ferry by the river,
because unlike lost friends
and dead family, the cold
water will always take me in.

Every time I see a
McDonnell-Douglas
80,
Or MD-80,
I sweat the deadened
Drop
Of a labor
I’d wish not
Remember.

We called it,
“The Oven,”
Name and noun
For the belly,
The belly of the
Beast –
Texas high noon
And no water,
While
Tossing luggage:
*******,
Prongs
And cadavers,
Hours on end
Under Spanish howl
And deafening
Jet engines.

I soon left,
The tarmac,
The turmoil
And clamor
Of airport operations areas.
I picked up,
Walked to the
Cantina
‘Cross the way,
Grabbed a beer,
Grabbed a U-haul
And grabbed my
Girl
On the way out.
I’m here now,
North
And of no end to
Mechanism,
My commodity
Food,
My machine,
Now a car,
Though admittedly,
When I look to the
Sky
And spot an MD-80,
I remember my
Toil
And sympathize for my
Sister,
A blonde and the
Youngest of the brood
Who continues to
Stomach that very
Hell
I’d freed myself from.

There are fewer things
beautiful than ugly,
I know that stars are most
bright when they fall
from impassioned skies,
That when your skin
meets mine, I am like an
amnesiac being returned
a lifetime of memories.

I hate few things,
except, perhaps, the murky
lakes of your eyes,
The misty beaches we
explored until sunrise.
How you pressed your lips
to mine like a death wish,
that it was deplorable,
but we wanted more, more.

My body was a map
you tore apart when you
got tired of exploring it.
The ancient psalms of our
tongues cannot silence.
Ruins of ancient Rome
survive on your lips, yet
you still live, breathe.
You call yourself mortal.

"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be.*" - Wuthering Heights.

beauty, is in love's eyes,
i once read that if he still makes your heart
anchor itself to your abdomen,
after three months, it's love.

well, my metaphors are wasted on you,
my words are a fancy way of
expressing myself and they contain
too much of you.

you've got a temper,
enough to rumble under these streets,
and collapse what i've been building.

i get sick of building blocks,
love is child's play, and i just want
us to be adults.

i promised to love you, and i do in
my own odd ways,
you broke my heart, i broke yours.
i still want you to know,
a mosaic wouldn't be so beautiful,
without all the cracks.

Salient pools swarmed upon
Seas
Of blackened
Amber,
Reflected
Neon gazes,
And
The love that could never be.

She knew it.

I knew it.

Hell, Even my luggage knew it.

All that remained were the footsteps
And in opposite directions.

my senses can only detect 14 billion light years out
a little depressing- thinking how old the universe is
and the morality of replacing religious views
might be morally deceptive where
our sight is limited and science tries to explain expansion
maybe our views need fantasy and Gods to limit
the raging decadence of society
perhaps we need fairy tales
we need to stop finding new Galaxies
and go back to the
more constrictive Golden Rule
so I try to suspend reason
and get Faithful
but the engines and physics
and my attitude
put up barriers
and it's a great Paradox
a large conundrum
I cannot figure
alone
God i wish for a God

Slender and tenuous reasons
Run through the droplets of motive
Which impel us in our actions
Direct us to  our self-fulfilling fates
Our cleverly devised mistakes
For we each bear the scars
Of our own fatal flaws
Victims of our own design
As I have been of mine
Haven't you?

I am the saboteur of my dreams
Picking at the seams
Of a braver me
A wiser and unlikelier me
All my tendencies and traits
Conspire and defeat me
To subtly beat me
About my empty head
With every word I've said
Every thought I've had
And that's why

                       By Phil Roberts

The sands of El Dorado
Lash my tongue under tarp;
Wishes born something golden,
Fried eggs under beds
And homes, abodes in progress,
One peso at a time –
A tale and tear with every grain,
An allowance and granted only
Broken window.

The ragged lump of pillow
Where I now taste time,
Reeks of mescal with my
One white elbow
Tapping one bronze elbow;
Distant, under woven wanderings
And tattered dreams of parents
Wishing well – come subtle guilt,
Whilst the roofs of a prior Tibet
Tap atop my tether.

And while I ponder what strums –
Atriums, tempest and tubular,
I also reckon in what it means to be
Held and held alike
So that I can protect
And protect alike;
She’s waiting for me in “before”
And in Mexico, in the “now,”
So much sooner the past.
So to sooner, broken the future.

And so mothers will cry in kitchens,
Others laugh come the next fool
And yet others, abandon others
So that soon, recklessly soon, my feet
Make a wonderful twist toward away;
But at least I’d had this sunset –
Something to ride off into like the
Liquid dreams off a furrowed brow
And at least we’d had “we” on more time.

Just one more time.