The old,grey cobblestone
leads to the archway
in front of the church
that supports the bell
which rings at seven.

How many footsteps have touched it's surface?
Footsteps that carried the dreams and sorrow of many.

At seven
as the bell rings
the lights start to glow
dangling from their cord
like a vine over the street.

People casually walk through the courtyard
peering into windows
talking and laughing
graciously being.

Voices slightly heard
through gradually darkening air
voices carefully crafting verses
in Spanish.

Life is easily seen
from the second floor terrace
peace in it's purest shape
trust and truth.

I wish I could see life again
the way I saw it
before the obnoxious ruled it
the athiest ran it
and the weak cried.
When it was full of color
and not just skin,but vibrance.
When trees would blossom
and spring was new.
When laughing was legal
and freedoms weren't taxed.
When kids would smile
for no reason.
Just because.
I wish I could see it that way,
before I was learned,
before I was taught.

Let me take a minute of your time to set the precarious scene,

It was a warm august night under a full moon and I could see the stars in abundance,

as I sat on the floor leaning on the couch looking out of the opened front door.

I was drinking relatively expensive  american red wine,

which goes to say it was probably lower grade on a global scale,

and drinking it from a beautiful crystal wine glass.

I sipped on the expensive swill, while over my right shoulder,

on the couch I could hear moans of happiness from the two girls making out just above me.

There lips could be heard pounding harmoniously along with Fur Elise by Beethoven

playing softly in the background

and the moon, the stars,the opened door and the pleasure could be heard not only from Beethoven,but also from there lips embarked in joy Chopin would not have acheived,

For judgement layed at the open door under the stars and the moon and for Chopin.

She kept bringing
abstracts out from
a huge cardboard box
as the next artwork
revealed itself
the box produced another
more bizarre than the last.

Drawn on pizza boxes
maccaroni,glued and painted
kleenex box canvases
and a few done in ketchup.

She kept pulling them out
and she was loaded.

I drank my beer
and I sort of saw
I kinda felt where
they came from.

The Greek laughed
and cursed
I've thrown them away many times
but she keeps digging them out of the trash

I'll throw them away again
into the trash
with her wine bottles
and stripper clothes
he sat down
hit his joint.

Why don't you
let her keep these
I asked the Greek.

Because it's garbage
she too is garbage
her,and her art
both garbage.

She mumbled
something not hearable
while clutching her
baby doll.

I walked to the can
and threw away
my empty bottle.

I wanted to give
this to you and
I handed Frankie
the drawing I had made him.

He seemed pleased
and handed me another beer.

The Greek thought it
was **** I could tell.

He told me my garbage
wasn't any better than
her garbage artwork.

The energy's gotta
go somewhere
might as well be on these
canvases and pizza
boxes I said.

We sat there
for a few more hours
as Frankie finished
my Ruin symbols on
his large,silver grinder.

The Greek and the girl
finally left the
room and i was
relieved and the
room slowly
lost it's superfluous
tension.

I sat there in
Vegas staring
at the box of
GARBAGE

moment in Italy

I knew I wasn’t dreaming

but it was like I was

walking slowly toward the sea

empty houses

off season I guess

or just quietness

shops with smiling people

I was almost alone

for many moments I could see no one else

slumber on a sunny afternoon

waves sang as I walked the beach

looking for a shell

proof that I had been there alone

rows of empty beach chairs

this time was mine with the sea

a much welcomed silence

to just be.

Another beer stained Sunday
Writing ,thinking and talking to myself
Sometimes I'm a good listener
But other times I just argue with my thoughts
I'm an ******* I think as I take a sip
Some of my critics would agree I respond
Those critics give me fire I mumble
The ones who need a formula
The ones who haven't been completely broke
Broke and giving up everything for the work
The art,
The ones who haven't lost anything
Or everything like I had done
Searching for the words,the voice
Oh well I wish them luck,I think
As I take another sip
Do you really wish them well?
I question myself
I think I do I say.
You've gone mad I exclaim
As I pace the floor relentlessly
Mad,Im more sane than ever
I'm quick to reply
I'm disagreeing with you after all
You wanted to keep things safe
Nice and easy with no risks
But I challenged you
When you wanted to fold
You're an ******* I think as I take a sip
On another beer stained Sunday.

I wasted time deliberating,
that was blatantly obvious.
With persistent search
I wasted time reading and writing.

The many colors of paint
dry on my hands
The truth is rarely needed.

I'm sure the artist knew.

The poet and the pain
the painter and the brush
words underlined in black Gothic ink
the wax dripping from the flame

a single file line
all in smiling poverty
divided, conquered.

When understanding is so clear
the truth is rarely needed.

I'm sure the artist knew.