Tonight you are off, far away,
you've left this place,
left a space in hearts that hurts,
though you intend it not.
Your grand daughter is in knots.
Please appear in her dreams,
tell her all the things you love about her,
let her wake, a deep breath
to calm quaking hands,
and feel you smiling,
sipping tea,
happy to have been her grandpa.
She loves you endlessly...

Today I feel worthless. No ideas are flowing; my attempts are sporadic and trivial, just some drivel I've eked out. Poetry...barely breathing , a few gasps every week or two, beyond that it's suffocation. I'm boring, mundane, my creativity drained away, and I'm not even sure when I pulled the plug. Maybe I should take a bath, plunge myself underwater, look up at the surface, search for a purpose. I want to cry, I won't, I can't. Slip into a self-loathing depression. Hit my head against the wall till one or the other breaks, at least then I might have something to fill the pages, those ******* pages.

I'm starting to hear that tick,
the terrible tick of Time.
Yes, capital T,
a cliche thing that never nagged
at my dreams.

But now,
decline is not so
sublime.

Link to another world,
where the frigid wall dividing the dead and living
dissipates.
If I think hard enough, or empty enough,
will my steps be blessed,
allow me to pass on?
The only way to be sure
is to cross.

Your lips hang,
pulled by the murk, the grime,
smothering your face.
Separated from your kind, your kin.
Have you haunted these putrid waters,
patient for your time?
Or do you plot, terrible dreams of revenge,
to take the light?

Flowing water,
a blown kiss,
a red-jacket-catching sun.

One of my favorite things to be,
as long as its with you.
Whether in waking, lazing, or love-making,
your skin soothes.
Our bodies exude a connection,
made for one another
inside and out.
If you were God, I would be devout
(and that's saying something).

Woke up just after sunrise,
my partner already risen for work,
when, to my surprise,
the door flew open
and in she strode, flowers in hand,
followed by:
chocolate chip waffles, oranges,
strawberries, raspberries, blueberries,
bananas, bacon, eggs, toast,
mimosas!
She lit the room, set all down before me,
then joined me for the feast
while my heart beat,
and beat,
and beat!

seeping the darkness
into my skin,
the moon managing to mingle in
through the blinds,
creating a lined ceiling,
stealing thin strips of the night's space.
I lean back in a sigh,
close my eyes in an attempt,
a desperate attempt to part ways
with the woken world,
but no break comes,
no fissure from reality,
cut by cosmic scissors,
to swing down,
down,
down
in to
sleep.

A fall from the sky,
better than any angel,
and no need for wings,
to arrive in my waiting arms
filled with adrenaline love.
A gift to my eyes,
like rain pouring over
a dry savanna,
pooling into watering holes
for my parched soul.

Falling used to mean
plummeting, parachuteless,
toward an abrupt end.
Now it's more like floating,
knowing the return to Earth
will hold more,
that we will arrive safely,
gracefully,
and keep on lovin'.

Poetry is a drug,
production of rhyme the high,
the vast divide between the pen,
the paper, and the scribe's mind
causes the low.
When it goes, it goes.
I hate when I don't have it,
when I do, it's beyond pleasant,
it's heaven.
Too bad it seems I'm only a part-time angel,
flying for moments,
spending an eternity in hell.

It's days like these that I feel haunted.
A strange urge that I fed,
led me to set up a desk outside,
to provide a peaceful place
to read.
But a slight breeze
pulled ominously through the corridor,
a plane groaned endlessly,
a mournful moan.
Even though the sun was shining
I felt it in my bones,

hollow

I work next to a lake,
which spreads out from the base
of a mountain.
Everyday the stony guards
reflect off it's surface,
the trees motionless in the breezeless
landscape.
I never hear the birds,
nor the occasional fish splash,
too occupied by my dash,
the clicks, keyboards, spread sheets,
plugging away at the base of a mountain,
filling the frame
above my desk

Jake sits on the rocks,
perched above the watering hole,
silently observing Dad and I
hopping from stone to stone.

He doesn't want to get wet,
doesn't mind being alone,
I'm unconcerned, aware
of Jake's distaste for unnecessary dampness,
though Dad complains
that Jake never joins in the fun,
wanting close proximity to his son.

Water spills through boulders,
in no hurry to fill the watering hole below.
Fallen trees lean in,
stretching for a taste
of the cool liquid,
as if it could replenish their vitality,
stand them back up to their old grandeur.
Everywhere around them
humans splash in the pool
formed by the rocks,
causing a raucous,
their coolers, inflatable tubes, towels, beer cans, wrappers, bits of old food,
lay spread,
marring the landscape.
Do the fallen trees hate disrespect,
or are they satisfied knowing that, one day,
the human epidemic
will die.

More okay things?
No anger?
I need more laughter.

An acid trip disaster,
left him mentally shattered
for a few hours.

Everything is *****.
Take a shower!
I can't go in that giant sink.
Then go to sleep!

More okay things?
We could move planets with this.
No anger.
More okay things!?

I'm pulling myself from the cracks
of this apartment.
Scraps of memories,
tell-tale signs of my life.
It's not a harsh break up,
just a "it's-a-long-time-coming"
kind of thing.

I found a new space,
ready to be filled with loving,
songs, art,
a place to share,
to unfold,
to start.

Sometimes I retreat,
my feet strapped down,
my knees meet concrete.

I don't know what I speak.
Mumble, repeat, mumble.
A spelling stumble reminds me
to remain humble in a jumbled time.
Boxed up baubles, cobble together a bookcase.
Sort through, dispose, re-use,
erase distasteful fables, revised babbles,
scrap it all.

******* not meant to publish,
whisk it away with a quick wrist flick,
squeeze it out like a zit,
gargle and spit.

I try to pour this light
from my insides,
brighten up the walls
that hold you.

I should see a foot doctor.
My knees ache,
and it ain't like I've been
standing up for myself too much
or sitting down too long.
But they sing their song of pain
again, and again, and again.

I don't pen anything anymore,
maybe a jot there or a line here,
so am I a writer?
How long does it take a "while"
to become a "used to"?
I'm no Du Fu.
I'm no Li Bai.
I should say goodbye,
smile and wave as writing
passes me by.

Sipping coffee,
staring out the office window
at verdant trees, calm.
Children lay in the streets,
twitching from toxins
filled in their lungs.
A father clutched his two dead babies.
Humanity defeated by hatred,
or money.
Missiles launched,
tomahawks flung in the name of Democracy.
Missiles whose name is stolen,
painted over by Democracy's ****** wake.

But today, I am
sipping coffee,
staring out the office window
at verdant trees, calm.

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.

"I haven't bled."
She paused.

Now, two tests rest,
neatly packaged in friendly pink,
waiting to give their best guess -
baby or no baby?

Maybe it won't go too far,
turn into a "whew"
or a story to shake our heads to.

But if those little plastic
holders of destiny,
come up with two black lines, not one,
my blood will rush,
pulse against my skin's surface.
A little part of us destined for end,
for end,
for end.

Roused from sleep by the sound of sobbing,
I reached out for my sweet,
wondering over the wetness in her eyes.
Her cries filled the dark room
as she shook.
"His face, his face," she mutters into her hands.
That crook, that fiend,
that stain on society.
He is unconcerned, free, happy,
while she has terrors, anxiety.
I want to tell her that one day
he will get what's comin' to him,
that, inside, he knows he is ****,
that he will suffer in some way.
maybe today, maybe tomorrow,
maybe next year,

But then, my heart crumples in fear,
because there is no guarantee.
Instead I mumble.
"If we see him,
I will punch him in the face."
Violence with violence,
is there any other way?

Zoned in traffic,
alone with the greatest hits of the 90s,
going 25 when I want to be going 90.
It's a two way repeat most days of the week,
and an unfulfilling repeat at that.
Back-tracking would hardly remedy.

Peddling into old things.

The shades are drawn,
lights off, dark on,
projected documents fill the wall.
The staff, caught up, hinge on little things.
Big things to them
but I've checked out, far off,
wishing this time was with you,
sailing around the moon,
toasting champagne to stars,
far from the river of cars and exhaust
that I must swim
to be in your arms.

She ran,
clattering over the linoleum
which had been designed
to look like wood,
having just bolted from Asia's arms,
as if harm were imminent,
our intent evil-bent and cruel.
I reached out my hand,
trying to imbue tranquility
in my movements,
shrive any hostility.
When I brushed her head
her wide eyes —

they shook.

Staring straight in the the center
of a rose,
aroma drawing me closer,
the petals spread,
catching the light,
delight brightening my face.
The sight, the scent, are not enough,
I lean in
to have a taste.

Suddenly its been more than a year,
wait, holdonaminute,
There it goes--
It glows with a golden aura,
I coulda' sworn I'd determined to hold on to it,
jotted it down, photographed, videoed,
reminisced late at night.
It's alright, my tight grasp failed,
But it hasn't slipped through my fingers,
just drifted, calm, leaving a soft tingling on my arms,
then left me with a jolt,
a revolt against the turmoil that plagues me.
The future used to be dread, dead-ended
in routine monotony.
Now it has gotten me day dreaming fondly,
beaming in my sleep,
stretching toward it with fervor.
No wonder this year passed so quick,
it was just one tick
in the span of forever.

I'm sorry I'm debris,
I collect in the corners
slowly cluttering,
until you bonk your toes
against me,
but never enough to pick up
and toss out.
This feeling is prickly,
constantly picks at me.

I'm sorry
I can't shake it,
it has grabbed hold, twisted around
my intestines.
The worst is, I know that it's empty--

that it's an old enemy,
who used to claw at me,
since grown tired,
now gathered it's wits
to come back,
commit more atrocities.
I hope it won't tear you

from me.

Roof tops, dancing,
she's all alone in her sun flower dress.
I'm caught romancing,
haven't given my best in quite some time.
Wanna fall through it all with her,
land on my bed, take off that dress,
and press my hips to hers,
our skin saying things
we can't with words,
wether we're soft, gentle,
or bound up with chords.
The shaking a shimmy,
to shrive off ill feeling, hate,
the gasps to capture
the musk given off by our heat.
We will collapse, panting,
entangling our feet,
everything else will fall off
like your sun flower dress,
black and yellow,
mellow,
mellow,
mellow...

With each breath I exhale
a wish for you.
Every movement taken
is done so with an ache
to feel your hands on mine.
My body knows how much
I yearn for you,
instinctively relaxed by your scent,
clinging to your sweatshirt,

or aroused by the sound
of your silky words
being pulled playfully off your lips.
My hips twist in my sleep,
trying to find you under the covers,
to grind gently against you,
gain subtle reassurance that you
are resting, protected, nestled in,
that it's me you hold
to your heart within.

Sitting in the bathtub,
face flush, warm like the water,
as I sink in further
I think of you,
off on your adventure,
and wish the moon, like a bow,
could shoot me across the sky,
a flash of light
that you see with delight,
until I fall down at your feet,
my journey complete,
returned home again
at last.

I can feel you in my fingers,
my muscles remember having you
in my arms.
I live on little miracles,
like when we think of each other
at the same time.
My rumbling mind mulls over
every sign until I shush it
with a sigh.
I rub my tired eyes and tell myself,
        "Go to sleep!"
I listen half the time,
half the time I eat.
While I rummage through the kitchen
I imagine you singing
in the living room,
your velvet voice
laying soft on my heart.

Has the potion of poesy
been processed out by my liver?
Maybe I ****** it out with last weeks whiskey,
or forgot to sprinkle it
over my frozen "meals for two,"
which always end up as a meal for one.
Has the season changed so much
that the wind carried it away?
The bees cannot find its pollen to spread,
and I cannot smell it
drifting through the complex...

What comes next? What comes?
Life after poetry,
do you scatter,
dissolving, dispersing energy?
Do you matter,
to the Earth, the air, the galaxy?
Or do you slip into an early routine,
forget the touch, the taste,
the sound of words
bouncing in your mouth?

Can you be reborn, reincarnated
as something new, something with assonance,
consonance, brilliance and shine?
Can I somehow get back,
back,
please come back
gentle poesy,
gently rhyme,

be mine?

I stood by while the shopkeeper
rang up the tea stored in little Big Bens.
My girlfriend fiddled with some pens at the desk.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
We both replied, "California!"
"Ah, but you," he said,
looking her straight in the eye,
"where are you from originally?"
Her shoulders slumped.
She repressed a sigh.
"Well, my mom, and grandma, and grandpa,
and their parents, and their parents' parents
were all born in America,
but way back when my mom's side
came from Japan.
My dad's side is English though."
"Ah," said the shopkeeper, "So your mom
is from Japan. I could see something different
in your face."
Inside I cried'
"Where are you from originally?
It couldn't possibly be here,
you hair is the wrong color,
your skin a shade off,
so please give us your family history.
Or do you swear you're a Brit?
You were born here? Oh sure, but your mom?
Her too?
No, she must be a foreigner."

Instead, I handed over the notes,
grabbed the tea,
and left without saying a thing,
without saying a thing,
without saying a...

reaches to the end of the universe
and back.
Ever expanding, limitless,
beyond conception,
even for true hearted romantics,
of which I count myself one.
I'm pretty sure the sun goes down each day
because it's jealous of your beauty,
and it gets tired of being outshined.
Remember when we stood on a hill that night,
where you witnessed three shooting stars?
I didn't witness a single one,
my eyes intent on you.
Those missed wishes are alright,
my dreams are in the middle of coming true.
Each night we lay down together for bed,
every morning I get to kiss your forehead,
is a wish fulfilled.
Now, one year into it, I'm ever more thrilled,
to call you my one and only,
my love bug,
my world.

I missed you today,
on my way home from work.
The horizon was getting dark,
aside from the glow of tail lights,
and I knew that after the front door
closed behind me,
I would be alone.

her voice is the ring of a hundred
silver bells,
rolling across the Irish Sea
passed Cork and the cliffs of Moher,
then on out over the ocean,
spanning the great divide,
till their shining reaches the East Coast,
flows over the Great Plains,
and on through the Mojave desert,
to dance around my ears,
banishing all fears.
A hundred silver bells
to ward against the whispers.

Distance breeds jealousy,
the kind that clings to my chest,
nestles in around my ribs and
whispers up to my ears.
It tells me all kinds of things,
the city will take her from me,
that boy that's just a friend has his hands around her waist,
they're taking shots after going on a date, and there ain't nothing I can do about it.
I've tried shoving my fingers in my ears,
stuffing them with cotton and
expensive ear plugs,
somehow the whispers breach it all,
slip through the cracks in my walls,
giggling menacingly,
ecstatic to see me fall,
to ruin,
to ruin,
to ruin.

The wind howled after the divorce,
debris flew about in hordes
and I simply couldn't hold my myself in place.
Sure, I learned to navigate treacherous terrain
with sure-footed grace,
Everyone around weathered the winds
with the same style, same half smile,
all saying, "It will just be just a little longer."
Years after I'd given up, become numb to the rain,
you walked by with an umbrella,
on your way somewhere, seeking more permanent shelter.
You stopped and offered for me to join you
under the umbrella's cover,
even though it was a tight squeeze for two.
Gentle, powerful, miniscule, monumentous,
I love you.

Holiday jingles jangle faintly
behind the soup of conversation.
Occasional laughs, clacking dishes,
the sizzle of eggs hitting the heated grill.
It's as if a cosmic wind
swirls in, group after group,
toward the front counter, passed the coffee,
to settle them each at a table,
then a little later, up and on to their respective places,
school, work, the air port, to some other destination.
Meanwhile, the wind passes me by,
forgets to tug me toward destiny,
forgets I want to fly.
Instead, I pick myself up
and walk myself outside.

the light on the front porch
that leads me out from the storm,
the crackling in the fireplace
that keeps my cold soul warm,
the food lining the fridge shelves
that fill me when I'm starved,
and the blankets on the bed at night
that keep me bundled, safe from harm