In the forgotten corner
of my junk drawer
I found the remains
of a love poem
I once tried
to write for you,
and I remembered
a different life,
back when you cared
and I said I did too.

I awoke covered in sweat,
The steam rising from my body,
The light skims in through the curtains;
A small murmur of breath escapes
Into the enormous solitude
As I think about all that is wrong
With me:
I panic because I'm depressed again,
The light is too far from me
And my body craves the dead mans sleep.
The silence is full of noise
And what I hear is myself thinking,
I cannot run away from thought,
The silence is deafening.
      What can I do in my darkness?
      Sadness of the abyss,
      The hole inside me filled with
       Sorrow's song.
And I break from myself,
I try to capture the positive attitude,
That foray into psychological betterment,
The ragged form of relief...
   OK, I pick up my bones,
   Flipping the switch I see my pen,
   2a.m.,great wings of black full
   Of my epileptic thoughts seize
   The page, littered with pieces
   Of me I fill the paper with shadows,
   A simple verse will not suffice,
   But the immenseness of emptiness
   Has become full of something's
   Verses, write away,
   Write away the darkness....

It comes, it stays, it goes and flees
Hand in hand with your hope,
I reach out my hand and I cannot
Fathom the waters murky essense,
I want to be happy!
What does that mean?
The lights are there, but they seem
Faint and faroff, it swells my eyes,
The tears of an unending journey,
At times I smile at all the pain,
These words, these words of myself,
They sail inward, as if to the source,
The source of what?
    I **** the lights after all the words
    Have filled three pages,
    They bled me dry,
    Tears and ink mixed with pieces
    Of my inner reflections,
    Who will know or even care to read?
The thought scorns me,
I lay down, the silence grew silent,
A release of pain and sorrow,
That is my little death,
My little resurrection,
Everyday.

An early waking
For today
Remembering christs
Stone rolled
Away.
We have hope
In the new
Next day
Forever living
Beyond the grave.

~    
        All the poems I write
     are just the beginning
                              and end
               of every thought
   I've ever had about you.

i have turned
to collect myself
to inspect myself
to inject myself
with an unknown matter
a random chatter
an endless ladder
i have skin
of an ancient breed
a visitors need
an implanted seed
a timeless fear
a broken gear
that leads me here
wondering what it is
i am missing

i hope  she thinks of you
when the sun shines
in her morning window
and when the moon is full at night
i hope is your face what comes to her mind

when beautiful songs play on the radio
i hope she wants to share them with you
cause i know music is like therapy to you

i hope she thinks of you
before closing her eyes at night
and in her dreams she kisses you
a billion times
i hope she smiles at your picture in b&w;
that she sees all the beauty you carry
inside,
outside.

i hope she talks with you
and she wonders if you're feeling all right
if you had lunch
if you sleep enough
if you rest at night
i hope she asks you about your fears
and dreams
i hope she's there for you
when pain hits you the worst.

i hope she doesn't hurt you.

i hope she gives you the happiness
i could never bring to you
i hope she cares about you
at least as much
as i do.

i hope she loves you

We create trespasses
With our tongue
We create blessings
As well. Your lips can
Lead you to heaven
Your tongue can
Lead you to
Hell.

for we all fall into love, sin , life
into abominations which our fathers
might scold,  

we may fall into darknesses ,
where the only light
is so dim only one star

light might find us, there
so few of us escape, the blind
rage , the animal instinct

among the others caged the same,
we might mistake sameness
for right for reality, and

for the few , who manage to climb
out with skin wedged under
our nails think ,

there is one of a million,
that one who saw the light
of the one star

it's brilliance as not sanctifying
brutality , who , then
saw more than one star

but heaven, saw man's potential
truly, his sins as nature,
and his future

of the world growing
more godlike, more
forgiving

betrayed the rest,
to climb out using them as
ladders,

for our sake, for our
future, nurturing
like a mother and her baby

peace , sanctity
in man, in nature together,
in abandoning

the past, for
what grace does the past
remember?

Poetry is plunder. Ages provide words. Dig.
An immense temple to pillage. Random pieces. Mine.
Fit them to your hands. Create in you what is new.
Craft, not magic. Become a better maker, Strive.
Content created hound snaps. Only ignore. Cur.
What will you do with these little fragments. Frown.
Camels have seductive eyes but remain ugly.
Difficult metaphors in bow ties, black swans, duchesses.
Screaming trees fuse with sound. Crows. Funereal fowl.
Dancing butterflies darken sky. The chairs are leaving.
Piece together fragments against your ruin. Futility.
On other mornings, seek silence. You won't find it.
What you loveth well remains. Of the heart. Be.
You are an artist. Shut the **** up. Do your art.
     Most of the time you will fail,
     but sometimes, your poems will sail.

  ~mce

Each afternoon in June,
I loiter-linger on the corner of 37th avenue,
Both eyes asleep,
A summer’s sunset smile on my face,
A flock of fairies in free float round my head.

My habit, a daily pause,
Plant my haunch against the blue barrel mail box,  
Old empty drum, anachronism, stubborn antique.

I cringe at the mad jazz of shrieks and horns on cue,
The hatter’s rush at end of day,
There is purpose in this cacophony,
My city boasts and brags with noise,
Intoxicated on aroma,
A frequency with every smell.

Baptiste’s Pizza owns the breeze at 4 p.m.
Inhale this baker’s breath,
An oven-joy in one warm gust,
Blond baked crust,
Tomatoes boil and bubble cheese,
Salt fresh anchovies, red peppers,
A currency of meats.
I salivate and lick the wind,
Hunger is desire.

Sudden harmony in one sweet waft,
A pleasant jet stream,
A toker passes by,
And gifts me with a 60’s contact high.

A small girl’s mouthful voice,
A jam cram of donuts is my guess.

The rattle, clap and black lung cough,
An old school diesel delivery truck,
The air brakes squeal for release,
It’s quitting time and everything wants to be free

A homeboy,  my local jive,
I know his dreams,
A lacquered finish,
In love with his axe,
You feel me... tap, bump and go.

Vinegar and toxic spice,
A window washer’s delight,
He squeals a squeaky clean

Fresh roses, oh a hopeful night, bonne chance,
The catastrophe of a cigarette,
The killer joy of a fresh cigar,
An uptown girl's stealth perfume,
She knows her prey,
He knows her ploy,
A mid west girl and a downtown boy

Daylight begs to dim,
The sun will witness just enough, no more,
My corner holds its own,
Each afternoon my part in scenes,
I dream,
And never wish, but often wonder,
About the life that might have been.