we’re in different worlds, You and i,
but still i reached out and spoke
words that would
      carry themselves
                across the driest of deserts;
words that would
                 light
the darkest of midnight jungles,
                        for you,
i have reached out and spoke
into Your deafened ears,
all the while You sit at the picnic bench watching automobiles
                                                      speed by.
You mumble for a moment,
And pretend to be assuring.

we’re in different worlds, You and i,
with different ideas despite
these familiar glances in silence
          deafened
by elementary school bells.

i suppose we were aware,
               at least
full of apprehension.
but all the hollow words you sang
                           sprung forth
             like ectoplasm,
most haunting,
leaving me with something i’d never shake.

we’re in different worlds, You and i,
i’ve yet to see him with heart in hand,
but as i watch You saunter there,
                                 from my sunset,
i see him.
he in his veil and cape, and
i can’t help but wonder,

“would it have been worthwhile”

to strip the ground of the foundation we poured,
built upon transparent, adamant stone and
   raised
on the blocks
of the Poets of Old.

“would it have been worth it, after all”


we’re in different worlds, You and i,
after the plans and promises of night,
the discussions of Cummings
              over midnight wine,
and the times we smoked the pipe together.

“would it have been worth it, after all”

With all the senseless pain of the world
dancing within the corridors of the flooded mind,
running… no,
            gushing
       like the torrential
      mud in a flooded mine.
and all the rumination of nuances that leave me wondering if i speak too truthfully.

we’re in different worlds, You and i,
with miles and miles of endless wonder

             between us

that ***** the air from the room
                             dry,
and finally,
finally, all the truth,
or whatever it’s called,
all the hope,
and all the rest of life
is ****** from the environment as You leave
                 before standing.

we’re in different worlds, you and I,
and so I’ll say I always knew.

The west rests alone at moments of rise,
while holeproof hosiery and midnight rhymes
        were built in these momentous afternoons.

we won’t look to the west when the sun comes to rise,
  instead we’ll stand staring at white lined horizons,
      with hands and breath held
               as if this moment would transcend time,
                                                     leaving us there,                 on the roof top, forever.

                                                     And all too often
                                               In the dark we’ll dance
                                                        too blinded by
                                                    pollution of light
                                                             to notice
the stags in the corner.
No one ever looks to the west during a sunrise.

We won’t look to the west when the city stirs,
                                        no, not when the dust rolls in
                                               covering our lives like
                                                 Father Hooper’s veil;
separation from the world,
                             but drawing closer to its ways and evils.
                                              We’ll talk about change,
                                                                 hopes
                                                           and dreams,
                                      And feed our kids the same ****.
they’ll know right from wrong,
but no one looks west when the city stirs.

We won’t look to the west ‘til the sun fades,
                             And all existence is demanded its notice.
                                        Our cities in darkened silence
                                               forgotten, as brilliant
                                          flashes of red fill the sky.

                                                These aren’t the songs
                                                for future generations
                                               To sing, or sing about.                                    
                                           These are songs that begin,
the time we turn to the west to watch the sun fade.

Morose breath of inspiring gods
forms over the gun barrel gray lake
Awakening Creativity and Conviction
as I discover all the vices that form
in this stagnant pool of a life
which has kept me tied,
face-down,
nose-ground,
and drunk on digression.

Sing to me, Calliope,
something dark and expressive,
something relevant and real,

for the days of late have worn me
                                thin as this paper’s edge.

My head falls
             out,
and my teeth go
               bald,
but still I dance
                 for
              the piper.
Please, Erato,
I beg of you, please,
spit some oil paint
                   wash,
                        and prime the canvas.
Summon all souls of creativity, old friend –

For no friend
of mine paints the sky today.

So may it be
that passionate poets
                     bleed
                          forth through the head of my
                                                   pen.
May the
Mad Poets’, Sad Poets’,
Passionate Poets’ cries
                      be my own.

For if not, then with
sincerity and severity
the envious moon
        will
    rise,
and
shoot all the stars
                   dead,

even this Golden Boy.


Blue blood will
               flow,
sending all into shock.
As this proxy poet
                  falls
                       into
                         a cave
with fragrant, vacant sign at hoist,

cobwebs
        quickly
crawling
        in place,

the song poet sings with no voice,
and the Muses all retire.