Building a life on cotton candy dreams
smells of the circus and carnival rides
Exuberant children in tousled sheets
Doing untrained acrobatics on a highwire of hope

Melted sugar nightmares crash without a net
Eyes burn in the stench of memories and laughter
Wearing that broken wire like a decade old prom dress
Wishing pieces of that life didn't still smell so sweet
Making everything sour by comparison

Ever wary of the remote reminiscence of
laughter and the exuberance of children
Flesh torn by that highwire gown
Whenever someone smells of the circus and carnival rides

It's always when the magic hits that blissful ****** up buzz I'm alone in the bar putting up the stools up closing down as usal.

I always have one behind the bar light a cigar just soak in the silence .
It's then when it all comes back in a flood to me .

The faces of those passsed my brothers.
I pour a shot of borbon for them each.
Always making mine a double .

I imagine there laughs the bad jokes and great conversations we no longer share .

William always playing the jukebox that trademark laugh that could light a room.
Bob Warren cracking people up hitting on the women he was a one man sideshow and a old vet.

Bone .
My closest brother the guy who ****** everyone off and always made me laugh .
We'd talk for hours kick back the drinks and torment everyone around us.

Cause if we didnt **** with you.
We truly didnt give a **** about you.
I had burried them all as alone now i stand .

The smoke hung in the air as i saw them all and for a moment i wasnt alone.

It always hit hardest on nights like these .
The women will all leave you .
Love is a fire that burns beyond are control.

But the memories are the tressure bury them deep only to dig them up when you are alone .

I drank each shot as one by one they vanished from sight.
I do not believe I can bury another .

I guess in all truth I hope the next is me..


I closed the door locked it behind me the air outside was frozen.
My breath shown on the walk home.

I was alone .

Sometimes the page is far more simple than reallity of this existence.
I'm glad to have shared one last round with friends .

We can write the ending.
But life always seems to see it a different way.

Cheers

Gonz

I thought coming here would magically change me
I always get it wrong
Sometimes what hurts isn't something you can remove
Sometimes I regret
Realizing nothing would ever change what's inside me
Reality got my tongue
We are fallen trees caught in a tornado wreaking havoc
We just want normalcy
Everyday becomes a living nightmare laced with pain
Every breathe a fight
Will I be locked up in this emotional turmoil eternally
Will I ever be free

Drastic measures must be taken to overcome the afternoon lull.
Seventeen obscure hardbound essays to consume, spines flaking
and half-eaten by dustmites. Their goodies
can only be extracted by torture, but my instruments are dulled
by shriekless hours and the fuddy-duddies
beside me, who god help me I’ll never become,
though I’m already bearded, and have started showing some dome.

Time, I think, to give something back:
a single bogie on a lone mission
to retake Stevens’  Noble Rider and the Sound of Words.
A big ask, I reckon, but this mischievous frisson
is deepness: It’ll probably be half, or at least a third
of my life before anyone finds my sleeper, my double agent
Amongst horses shedding their coats for the summer.
I smile at no one in particular, and return to my stack.
Keyboards clatter like rain, drowning out what little glamour
remains of the microfiche, leaping silent
over centuries in a smallish room in the corner.

Death is a ******
who never misses.
He stalks us all,
calmly awaiting
the proper moment,
takes perfect aim, fires,
and thinks we are gone.
Looking anxiously
over your shoulder
will not avail.
Death is patience incarnate.
He is a gatherer,
ceaselessly collecting,
eternally foraging,
and when he finds us
he slips us into his bag
and thinks we are gone.
Death is a messenger
delivering the telegram
that says our time is up.
He reads it to us
and thinks we are gone.
Death is a conductor
who calls a stop,
sees us off the train
and thinks we are gone.

But death is mistaken.

Death is certain,
but it is not final.
The world we touched
is changed forever
by our journey in it,
however brief or long.
Something of us remains
in a child, a garden,
a painting, a poem,
a kiss, a caress,
a gasping ******.
Our hearts stop beating,
but breath does not depart.
It floats in clouds
of atoms that we were.
Those we leave behind
have only to inhale
and once again
we are with them,
and within them.
Bodies die; love never does.
Each life, sacred and eternal,
inspires Creation.
We are never truly gone.

A song, a tone a scent that curls and spirals across the room
it all comes back
the lid of your eye
the corner of your lip
another moment
in folded time
now matching then
and for a brief moment
I dance again with you, then