i can no longer understand how now,
this sleeplessness at night,
when the world is waking in other places
so far away from me,
to the ethereal powders of the breeze,
that paints the morning with its poetry,
as the phantom of the love i love,
causes me to awaken with a cry.

It's going to rain, rain, it's going to rain,
those sleek-silver drops will take me back again,
to those cobbled, winding streets,
the raucous, song-filled pubs,
and the green, the green, the red-brick,
granite and oh! the green,
the steaming Earl Grey tea,
of which i love with a yearning need,
waiting, waiting for me,
on that precious island on the sea.

I

i am so much smaller than you
and i can ever
                            believe...
and you are so much smaller
than you and
i know.

i sit within the winds,
those summer breezes,
some gusty gales, perhaps,
feeling
'the tug
               and toss
of its fabulous force
     rippling
     churning
combing the thinning grey hair on my tired head,
my clothing,
                          so indistinct,
flapping,
                  furling,
floating, --filled with this seen-un-seen presence,
     and i know

a am so small,
and my life so
ludicrous,
like the air
that comes
                      and goes
out of its own control,
but,
                                               i am too small,
and unable
to stop this, its invisible assault.

II


when i am a-float upon
the great lakes, the oceans
the
      rolling
                    rivers
i live
like a tiny slab of flotsam or
     driftwood
sailing
             slowly,
circularly,
(oh-so!) quietly
                                running,
reeling the peeling painted oars of my boat
against
the grainy flashing surface of the waters
                                 rumbling,
                                                                                  rolling
                                                                                       away
this insatiable yearning
to go wherever it takes me to go, but
i know
              i am very small,
and cannot control the eddy's creeping currents-
constant-currents
thus
          submitting
my wayfaring self
to the
unfathomable.

III
__

these trees towering
                                         above me
around me,
the sapling,
the blanketing
                              (in my lifetime)
                                blooming branches
creating
an emotional, outer, physical, inner, spiritual
                              dwindling
like the leaves left shivering beneath the cold winter's frost,
once casually
                falling,
                              dropping,
drying up around my soul
slipping
into silent winter slumber,
to awaken
                     again...
                                    --and then!
(to the dismay of my self-enlightened discovery)
i see
how small
                                            i am
only to return again
from that brownish-moist
soil-bed
                like a seed
beneath
                  the ground
                                        never sprouting,
only fogetting,
the once and always forvever
and ever
the natural
insignificance
                                                                 of being.

with no one to talk to
and
no plan as to where i should go,
i fall into a listless,
waking slumber
and
feel covered up in cold.

When I walk alone and by myself
for a day or two or perhaps a minute,
nothing makes sense and everything does,
and I want to write without words
and love myself while hating me, too,
and prove to you the world is ours
or maybe just yours
when all is paved in pain
like some puzzle missing pieces vital.
But only when I walk alone.

When I have to be with you
for an entire day or a few minutes,
it all makes sense and it doesn't
and I want to talk in silence
and be your friend and maybe more
and prove virility while wrestling the lions
or just by simply holding you
when the tears fall from your eyes
like the blood from one thousand wounds
but only when I have to be with you.

Coffee and Tea, I'll take them both,
Light me up another smoke,
Have a piece of Shoo-Fly pie,
Hear the birdies in the sky,
Take my pen in trembling hand,
Compose some poetry, if I can.

I am,
however, no hero,
just a lowly poet
in the always
and forever
quest for the pursuit of
truth...

with these, my tired, aging hands,
i would weave a floral garland strand,
create a wreath of petals sweet,
place it upon your head so neat,
and in the setting of the day,
we'd frolic and we'd dance and play,
like young lovers do and for all time,
you'd love me and i'd call you mine.

Has feathers,
sleeps in the nook,
by a red rock,
and the title of this poem,
made you look
at my ****.

__
To see a photo of my ****:
http://beautyineverything.com/5048983478

i want you if
even for the
shortest moment
of time
even if knowing
our hellos
will also be
goodbye.

i want
you

to hold me.

i am the saddest man on earth.
my rock is mud,
my life has lost its worth.

savage, heart
so hurt
and empty
blackened pools of
pain, not envy
given into sleepless nights,
and pain-filled days,
where nothing's real,
where nothing's right.

this is the way it is,
the way it seems to
be
now i peer into a
dusty mirror
seeing little left of me.

tracing our names in the sugar spilt
melts to the bar in sticky rings
stomach weighed with *** and guilt
heart in pieces and scorpion stings
the door swings
desert wind beckons
my stool erodes
am I falling?

fingers catch like grappling hooks
against the gravity, intoxication
I feel these *******’ ***** looks
burns the scalp, humiliation
the door shudders
night wind soothes
my knees buckle
I’m falling

tongues of blood lick the night
a passionate display of heat
embarrassing embrace of light
pushing this lump of flint to beat
the door locks
sand swallows prints
I’ve learned from
falling