eyes on the pavement,
the tiny architectects
of sky bound prayers.

the children draw dreams
with chalk-stained hands
on the cracked concrete,
flowers, and sky bound birds,
and home and stars and rainbows.

a shimmer of light on stone.

will the chalk bleed before the bloom?

Changing gear,
     my mind is on cruise,
becoming clear,
     as I start to muse,
about love and lust, *** and sinning,
     I'm starting to grin
          and I'm settling in
for a show that is just beginning.

Changing gear,
     her dress on the floor,
becoming clear,
     her skin shows more,
of lust and love, sinning and ***,
     She starts to smile,
          and looking a while
at the poet who is lustfully hexed.

a storm in stilettos.
her eyes once burned as brightly
as the neon signs above
shuttered stores.

night is standing in front of Walmart
selling dead flowers.
there are 2 young children with her.
the children are her sister's kids.

(the children are an asset
when you're trying to sell dead roses.)

night has a soul with no address
somewhere in the concrete prison.

she lives with the echo
of every fool
cradling their broken promises
cupped like the wilted roses
held in her hands.

she dances with shadows
and the night bends through her.

the silent witness to the center unraveling.

Walking through the fabled night
of ancient skies and gray sidewalks
Stepping into the world
of hot humid June

When metals towered over the sky,
Like match sticks lined up above stones
the luminescent streets blazed
into the night

Those glasses that shimmered
bright lights and yellow fireworks,
Falling with gravity,
relishing in sweet air and downfall

The wind from a distant land
that caressed the trees,
their shadows dancing
on the streets

I saw you there in broad shadows
when I marched amidst silence
I have lost my path
to the night that has fallen

But in your eternal flames, I stood
knowing that I’m still here

~
Two minutes of perseverance
two minutes of curiosity

Seeking out life
returning with ingenuity

It's all about surfaces and thresholds
and winter hemisphere

Each of us wants so badly
to be that next satellite

Or at least be allowed
to dream we're a small dark spot
moving across the Sun's face
~

tip toes to an imaginary line
drawn in the sand,
speaks in shadows,

tenderness, raw and sharp.

raised by wolves
she chews to the bone.

kiss the wind
my love is gone.

I write on paper,
A lot more,
Since the last six months,
It feels better,
Than staring down a screen,
Where I tie my artistry,
To the last echoing words,

I wish I let them pull me out,
Of all this,
Much sooner.