in the background
chattering updates

a wolf howling
listening out for answers

deep in the marrow
unseen forces

someone pressed enter
all forever changelings

the wolves
stick to the same language.

Today, early on a
Saturday morning, I'm
trying a little trick I
learned from Bukowski.
I put on some classical
music and I am trying
to write.
Beethoven's 5th in C minor.

I sit in my favorite chair and
watch my black cat lie on the
back of the loveseat and
watch the snowfall.
She looks triumphant,
but it could just be the music.
The philodendrons that hang
around the house and the
bamboo plants seem happier, too.
There's no hope for the palm tree.

Well, the main thing is that I put the
pen to paper, and Beethoven,
my cat and you came along for the
ride.

Maybe the cellos, violins, and
trombones will fertilize my
creativity.
Now, my other two cats have joined
the fun.
They wrestle by the heater and laugh at
all the fat, rich *******.

Evening is on the take
The sun herself senses it
Her heat is slipping away
Eclipsed by cold, arctic tendrils
Rilling through the fragile geography
Earth is a strong fighter though
Able to restore itself in serene defiance
Light she brings to keep night in its place

Every splash of ink,
Every drag of this pen.

Is another gift in the face of common man,
An honor that is art to the human soul.

For if not for this music,
Spirits would grow old, crumbling in the cold.

Shadows dance along walls
Cold, undulating fire
Threatens to suffocate
My thoughts,—I go on walks
Outside, the golden leaves
Know how to be better.

A dormant forest sees
Balance between forces,
Ever-changing seasons,
The purposeful movement
Of critters and giants.

Is the forest moral?
Wolves know moderation
Better than most of us.
My reason breaks:
Do humans still bother
With being good
These days?

pharamones, fluidity of chemical signals
unseen, unheard wafting mix
conjoined minds invisible visable unity
one goal one purpose
peace to all creatures, Bees with sheathed stings.

Time draws close for dispersal.

Coming summer there'll be no traces
of the faces beaming at the gate.

Eyes sparkling lips apart
breaking into one more dance
to be in the sunlight under sky.

Hugs and kisses fly in the wind
maybe one last embrace
for all time to come.

They'll see the world differently
and their paths will never meet,
most likely.

The most intimate will become strangers
before once more
they disperse at the gate.

I turn back with the weight of this memory.

God favoring us this year,
Locked in a way it appears,
You can not hold on to fear,
Its a different atmosphere,
All of these secrets crawling out from under the staircase, don't lose ya' peers,
The world ain't really ending , its nearly beginning,
We all gotta' try to get there,

Being as graceful as swingin like cindy , I know I shine like silk.
Rubbin them Vatican symbols off oreo cookies with no milk.
You don't wanna get in bed with that,
Instead of hatin' , research the facts,
they'll stay up late just to plot on you,
No Insomniacs,
We're born into it , we just love deceit.
Aware of things that we could never reach.

I'm sleep to da' , black men that don't treat their women right,
I'm sleep to da' , people that go out without a fight,
I'm sleep to da' , chaos that trump will bring in this country,
I'm sleep to da , women only wanting men just for money,
What is America ? I'm not American , very Indigenous,
Don't worry bout' what I got over here , mind ya' business,
think and over think , Don't be dumb, that'll cost you,
The one that walked out of the matrix, now they
behind you,

Being as graceful as swingin like cindy , I know I shine like silk.
Rubbin them Vatican symbols off oreo cookies with no milk.
You don't wanna get in bed with that,
Instead of hatin' , research the facts,
they'll stay up late just to plot on you,
No Insomniacs,
We're born into it , we just love deceit.
Aware of things that we could never reach.

This one goes out to
the rambling, gambling madman
from Aspen- the late great
Hunter S. Thompson.
My drinking has landed me
in prison for a short stint.
To occupy my time,
I read and write,
it keeps my mind sharp
and the nursing homes at bay.
Also, a pen or a book in my
hand has the added benefit
of a signal to the other
inmates that I'm in my own
world, and I don't care to converse.

H.S.T's guerrilla approach to
writing, and his sharp gonzo wit
keep me laughing and thinking
on this carnival ride from hell.
And if I can laugh in prison,
I'm halfway home.
My mind will go where my
body can't.

Like Hunter, I'm a betting man who always
bets on the long shots.
So I'm putting a bundle on
me to pull out of this **** hole
and do something with my life.
** ** **, God Bless you, Doctor.
And as my old man used to say,
"They can **** us, but they
can't eat us."

A soft snow scurries across the town,
Drowning out the bright lights.
A soft darkness descends,
And the day stretches in slivers,
From the clouds.

And I see none of it,
I'm too focused on you.