What a sensation
to have a ribbon between your fingers;
it flutters and bends at your whim,
it's graceful and elegant no matter how tight the knot.
As soft as the threads that hold it together,
remove a seam and it all falls apart -
descending like unkempt hair
that waves and spills
over a hermit heart.

What a feeling to hold a pen;
like God molding Adam's rib
into the most innocent
yet corruptible
being -
the creation's breathe
and it sounds like the scratch of pen-point on paper.

Undefined character arcs wait at the
mercy of the next line,
the next stroke.

What a sensation
to be flooded with sound,
yet deaf to anything on the outside.
The lyrics and sounds -
recited perfectly year after year -
change their meanings
and morph the mind
every
single
time
the beat penetrates the void.

This moment is a song,
and you're the next note,
but this song won't repeat.

What a feeling to have,
What a feeling to have...

Control.

Freedom to express
The reality of art,
Fantasy of life.

Staring out at the bridge
Lit like the city it connects.
Patches of snow scattered,
The city is frozen in time-
Still and silent.

                                                        It's hard to medicate a broken heart
                                                                           When the medicine is gone.

The spot where we stood,
Your eyes bright like city lights,
Empty now-
The magic followed you everywhere.

                                                                     Holding a picture frame
                                                 Containing smiling faces and empty spaces

Winter's claws gripping at my cheeks,
I stare and amaze
At how the moon, the stars
Persist.

                                                                    I've lost sober sanity,
                                                                   I'm craving drunken clarity.

I wrote a story-
The Bird With A Broken Wing-
And his youth transformed
A raven into
A hummingbird.

                                                                              Liquid comfort holds me
                                                                                       To solid ground.

Trapped in a monument
Dedicated to what was not
Insured.

                                                                      Motivated by haunted illusions,
                                                                            I stand and stumble as
                                                            The bridge glistens off in the distance.

I return home,
Greeted by the sound
Of ghosts I used to know,
I used to love.

                                                                            Standing on the bridge
                                                                                  Where we departed.
                                                                             Crunching metal piercing
                                                                                      my memory,
                                                                                   Two lifeless bodies
                                                                                have consumed me.
                                                                                Staring out at city lights-
                                                                           Pretending they're her eyes-
                                                                                  I fall, I sink
                                                                                And watch as dark waters
                                                                                     Turn off the lights.

It’s nice to see you again.
You’re always a click away.
I did a thing today.
Will you like it for me right away?
I see you found a new hobby,
you post a link that I copy,
and I like it,
because I like you.

I share my new piece,
take a look at your niece,
you seem happy and it puts me at peace.
But I’m stuck...
I’ve signed a new lease.
Look at this photo, I’ve used new hair grease.
You like it,
and I think it means you like me.

You fall in love and I like
that picture of you and them on that hike;
it feels like I’m with you all the time,
but this bond is only as strong
as our connection to Wi-Fi.

I’ve lost some friends but I deflect
by sharing songs to connect,
but these prevailing thoughts interject:

I’m all alone.
It’s just the screen,
and me.

I look at likes like they’re currency
and I’m currently
using poetry -
a writer’s diplomacy -
to scream “woe is me!”
but I bet you can see
right through me,
can’t you?

My digital friend,
where did this begin,
and where does it end?
Are we bound to do this dance
‘till we’re echoes of dust,
or call it like it is:
you and me, we’re just...

I can’t.

You post a picture.
I like it,
because I like you.

I am a mirror.

My father looked at me
and he saw a disappointment;
so he ran away
to find someone with a kinder reflection.

My friend took a peek,
and they saw something pleasant:
They saw themselves in a different light.
So they put me in a place where
I was never more than a glance away.

A former lover glanced at me
as she passed by;
she saw something unstable,
so she found a mirror
whose glass she could bend at her every will.

My mother stood before me
and she saw her hopes and dreams -
I've never known someone to admire their reflection
more than themselves,
so that's why I love her in return.

I can see it all:
the beauty,
the filth;
In fact,
the only thing
I've never seen
is me.

They come and go,
like empty greetings
and rising tides.

They influence the way you walk,
the way you see the world,
even the way that you look;
and you're so willing to obey.

They are rebirth and death -
beauty,
and whatever you call
frozen piles of dirt.

They are the bliss of the sun,
the bite of a blizzard,
the glow of a fire,
and the innocence of morning dew.

Though you clench to the moment,
though they tell you that things are changing,
you always depress
once the colors begin to fade.

You may have a favorite,
but no amount of love or devotion
can freeze the calendar in time;
so Summer becomes Autumn,
Winter becomes Spring,
and all you can hope for
is a roof over your head -

- and even those come and go.

Sea salt spray - the air
absolves you of all the rest.
You are an island.

So alluring,
the way the dark spreads itself
across a sea of shining stars
and makes us forget the infinities we haven’t seen.
I question myself
and I think about how the starlight we see
is a gift from centuries ago.
I’m alive in the dark.
I’m lethargic in the light.
And yet the darkest corners of my imagination
are the places I dread the most.

I’m alone in the light.
I’m a force in the dark.
My wrists tremble at the thought of
another night of telling stories
with ambiguous intent
and metaphors that strike my knees -
bow to the dark -
and yet I’m the only fool who reads my words.

The gift of the dark
is the great balance of life;
when time is stuck in one end of the dichotomy,
these little spots of grey pour out over the blue in my eyes.

And as the colors are muffled
like the road workers
covering up an artist’s graffiti,
I begin to understand why there’s two sides to a coin.

I’m alive in the dark,
tired in the light,
and the shadows of the night have become my favorite audience.

The smell of something putrid
protrudes up through your nostrils
as you walk down these dimply lit streets.
You hear the fire crackling, you see the glow off the side of an abandoned building.

Is this one of those fires you see on the news -
set ablaze by anger and retaliation?

No.
It's the burning wounds along Jacob Blake's back.
It's the marks of oppression -
the scars we "distract" ourselves from.

There's a fire burning in America
and the source is plain to see:
while bodies line up along the streets,
people following along on their TV screens
say a prayer for broken windows.
They mourn items that are looted
as if it wasn't a life that was looted first.

There's a fire burning
and it melts the black skin right off their bones.
A skeleton has no color
yet they blame corpses for their own murders.

There's a fire burning
from Sanford to Staten Island,
from Louisville to Kenosha.
But those very flames were ignited
by the people designated to put them out.

Who watches the watchmen?
Who stands with the people?

The hammer has dropped.
The bullets have left the chamber.
As long as our brothers and sisters
have to fight for their right to live,
Red, White and Blue lives don't matter.

We pass over to see what's on the other side
- They say that the grass is always greener
and I haven't seen vibrant colors in so long.
This melancholy feeling of fate
and choice is paralyzing
and uplifting.  

Cross over
the same spot that many before
found a dead end carved out by a stream.
Instead, they sat by the tallest tree
and divulged their secrets -
oh if the leaves could talk!

The water under the bridge
lies beneath to be forgotten.
But it flows steady
so that deer and pheasants can sip;
the splashing, rippling tide
echoes like our footsteps
as we pass into oblivion.

Once our feet hit the ground,
we take note of those around:
those who stayed behind
are the dandelion seeds surrounding us, drifting in the wind.
those who joined us
are the trees lined along the path.

If you try to back-track,
you'll find that the bridge can only be crossed once.