A soft golden tongue
flickering over oaken bark.
The leaf light patterns
playing through the trees.
A warm and gentle forest
to pause under in wonder,
then live in forever.
The depths of Mother Nature.
The jewels for the uncrowned
Queen of the World.

My electric guitar stands,
unplayed.
My girlfriend wakes,
at 4 am,
to go to a job she hates.
I spend 11 hours a day
getting to, then working, then leaving
a job that's okay,
so I can get paid enough
to spend my nights and two free days
in an apartment where I share
all the space.
How can I break the cycle?
Bring a smile to her face?
Make this life full of wonder,
excitement...
grace?

A friend advised
that I find inspiration
in other creations,
to not let an example of pristine craft
dissolve the lashing of my raft,
and plunge me into the freezing waters.

This morning I woke on the banks,
felt yellow under my face,
behind my eyes.
I took the chance, the fleeting chance,
before it faded
and created
this.

Things aren't so bad
when you're surrounded by dogs,
when the fog clears, beaten back
by sun-infused forearms,
shut off internal alarms.
Fresh breath from the wind swept set,
the serene scene aloes my singed ends.
In my grayed head
I feel a little flung off the handle,
like I went from cliff tops
to canyons, laying in shambles,
to resting at sea level.

The storm makes rivers of the streets.
They rage and tumble, pouring down hills,
through towns, filling them all with water.

Soaked, drenched, gloriously drenched.

In this place
chopping so much your hand cramps,
so you have to hold it by the wok
for five minutes before it unclenches,
is something to by proud of.

In this place
college students scoop and cook
to pay for school,
or pay off school,
instead of applying what they learned,
which cost them more than money.

In this place
the line never sleeps,
you are Pavlov's dogs
trained to a bell.
And if you are unlucky enough
to be put in the kitchen,
you'll find it worse than Hell.

I want a denim vest,
ripped at the sleeves,
grim patches and buttons.
So I searched through the thrift shops.
Everything was too large, or too tight,
or cut in a style thatt was not quite right.
In the isles were old ladies
who probably bought the clothes
donated by dead friends.
In a corner, marked off for books,
stood Ginsberg, bespectacled and urging,
"You are not a locomotive!"

But I chugged on by,
all steam and whistles,
neck a bristle with eerie misease
that Ginsberg is dead,
like the old ladies' friends,
and I can only find denim
with sleeves.