In the cold of my car I shivered,
as the engine ran,
                     I sat still hoping to
dispense with the chill,
                 but my will said, 'accept it you are a wimp and an old cold one at that"
I was wearing my hat and my coat with light gloves,
                                                                ­        I loves to wear, they separate my fingers
            from the cold,
knitted grey and bold,
        they let me hold,
objects of metal like keys to hearts,  objects of stone like me very own heart,
                    objects of desire, that I keep secret until something transpires
                                                      ­               which warms better than fires,
on a dark and lonely night under the stars bright, wait was that my tire?
Oh where did I wonder off too,
                              as I was in thought, now lost,
   my wit, not sharp as the nail in my tire, the cost,
on a dark night in November, as six speeding police cars swoop past me,
on an urgent mission to stop a crime, their sirens wail as I am a
counterintuitive pantomime against the noise that assails me while
I am changing
a tire but remain the same,
metal tire rod tool in my hand, stone cold heart beating, against my ribs,
as I labor in disbelief that where I live is across from where I stand,
and with all technology you have to get on your hands and knees to
change a tire, I sneeze, I am not sure which is worse,
                                         my situation or these verse,
which decorate the night, not like stars,
as when spoken aloud every other word is profane,
while two homeless push there wares by me and laugh
                                                           ­     with disdain.
For in these transactions they have more street cred than I,
  and I would give them a bitcoin of my thoughts, but they
are two and I am one, alone and without a cell phone, and
this poem rolling around like lug nuts in a hubcap, as frost
creeps closer than the creeps who wish to reap of my misfortune.

Of which I now have some, that I can mix with theirs and then
I notice their bloodthirsty stares, so I begin to recite this poetry
and expound on the woe in me and send them packing covering their
ears with out attacking my hapless now three wheeled car.

When I was done I was nuttier than those lugs,
"good news" it was too cold for bugs,
and with good conscience you, from this, can unplug.


©DWE112013

photogenic smiles and true to the few
we take the flashing light and run with it.
pinned up in time and backed up hard drives
remember us when were gone.

repressed and tied too this one life
always reaching for visibility
to give a life worth feeling
in a single frame.

what every second means to the hand
holding moments temporal.
hold, laugh, smile.

camera cued and magic fuse
superstitious  and wild,
hung with glowing eyes.

The world is all beer can.
Glass towers made from yeast and tin
To be shot down by pellets from Redrider missiles of nickel and zinc
Followed with the laughter of boys with freckles.

They watch me fall from the shards as it cuts my fingers. They glide across the apex of crystal that is ethanol.

My breath hangs in your mouth as I exhaled it out.
I pulled my tongue out last night to say I love you. Now I'm swallowing it back. With a full gut.

I have borderline.

Between my pain and my plans. To follow the moths wing in the day to the river.
Or follow baby steps toward a shaky future.

Is this really my life? I wake up at night and know my reply.
Or life's aside.
It's shared.
The road forms a circle.
That circle is the spittle drinking around the mouth of the beer can.

Glass cuts the cords of fate.
As it falls with my severed hands.

I was sad.
So I told them.
I am sad. I said.
Is that so? They said.
Swallow these. They said.
So i did.

I was still sad.
And I told them this.
It's no better. I said.
Is that right? They said.
Well try these. They said.
And I did.

I got anxious.
I told them.
I am scared. I said.
You oughtn't be. They said.
Take this. They said.
I obliged.

I felt nothing.
So I told them.
I feel empty. I said.
Oh good. They said.
We're glad to help. They said.
And I sighed.

The sun shines on its own
It needs no help to be beautiful
It's aware of its light

The moon can not shine alone
It needs the help of the sun
To make it shine at night
It is not aware of its beauty
It needs help to give us light

No one thanks the sun for making the moon shine
No one thanks the moon for being there at night
Maybe they do not understand what they do
For people like me and you
Without them we would die

Maybe this'll sound cliché
Maybe you'll end up hating this poem
Honestly I don't mind
It wouldn't be the first time
I'll just go get my friends because
I am the moon and they are
My suns

My little brother cuts himself
And I wonder about the scars

Imagine that they are more like
the lines inside the trunk of a fallen tree
An indication of how long he has lived
or how fast he grew

and time is a funny thing now
Because it is easy to forget how old he is
because of how old he looks
and on the inside
who knows

I just think of counting rings
on a fallen tree stump
like a warped record

after the day grows quiet
if I placed a needle to the wood
What song would it play?