How your arms reach
Like the moonbeams
Over the Mexican jungle,
Only the smallest tips
Of light enter over her canopy,
    The vanity of
The first moon of the wet season,
The escaped light that hits
The grounds,
  How little the canopy
Can be seen when
Planted so firmly to
The ground!

I must readily admit
I am guilty of this deep pleasure
When it suits me to find a justifying reason to do so,
     But like a sweaty fat man
Waiting in line at an out door
Restroom,
I must admit that I find it
Quite uncomforting when
I find one written about me,
    As good as it may be,
Some lines genius and genuine
Grasping me to a T;
   I feel naked as a blank paper
Being written over and told this
Is what I will be, or am,
    Or will never achieve,
Archived in a thought,
    Popping my bubble of
Existence and letting a stanza
Didctate my life's
Unfortunate,
But very well writ poem
Stake me in the soul,
     How well they know me,
Plagiarism of my own
Confessions,
And I realise
They are just peices of poetry
I have pasted in the past
Cleverly put together
In some Rondeau' or
Dickinson flurry,
    And wonder what the truth
About a plagiarism's gambit,
    Hoping to nail me onto
The front page wall,
   Disguised as poetic license
To hang me out in the open,
Yet I have seen these lines,
    And no one can expose
Themselves better than I,
   Read between the lines
And there is a hint of envy,
The honor becomes mine.

We are lying together in a white room
Six arms, six legs, three hearts -all broken
And a magpie sits on the window ledge and screams
To the darkening sky,
We lie there together and listen as the world crumbles,
the sobbing not quite muffled by the walls
And know that this is the sound of a family shattering,
And your tears flow sticky and hot across your face
But this is sanctuary;
The only mountains our knees jutting up beneath the duvet
And we can wear the silence like armour, because what is anyone supposed to say,
In this bed you do not have to face the wall
Or think of what lies in wait outside the door
Or the sorrow of the magpie that calls it’s agony for you:
There is only us, and for a while that is enough.

These old sidewalks
Are still being poured,
Uncemented in my mind's
Evicted memory,
   Still as I walk them
With regards to the past,
When everything is changed,
    I loosened the locks on
Memoires that fall off the side
Of cliffs onto
Some ravine no one will recognise as once up so high.
    Here on the street,
With knuckles clamped
As if another Street fight might occur,
Though the innards of
My seasoned being
Archive the rotation
Of memory's grip,
    Such a daunting thing
To be grateful for all
The pain,
    I imagine ducking from
Grazing bullets,
  Eating laying down in the living
Room, privately
     To my self,
The self takes refuge here.
    A silent thing that creeps
Up
When times seem bad,
    One cam remember the worst,
And that 12 year old
Would smile,
Laydown and have some
Dinner shaking his head
With a humble smile.
    I think it's OK
To walk the worst
When things are bad,
   It's being like an old soul
Waving at a new born,
Experience is funny
Like that.

city lights shut eyes,
silence nets darkened night;
alone, still she waits.