She couldn't touch him
Not for one moment
Dead not on the cross
But at the crossroads
Crucified on the splintered tree
Speed
Speed
Rubber
Metal and grief
And he was buried in an empty coffin
Trash
Like a beer can
And his mother
The only one who really cared
Never even got to see him

He cast himself against the rocks
And the waves and the cold
Ground him into sand
Yet still
As a man
He tried to stand
But the surf
The power and the fury
Of the earth
Pounded him
And pounded him
Until he could no longer stand
And slowly
Wave by wave
He was taken out to sea

Echoes from the past

Bounced off of dim

Tobacco stained walls

Make their way

Into my room

Pastel green and blue

Mute the sound

Of

Poker chips and laughter

Chairs scraping the floor

Clinking and choking

Din and loudness

Makes me

Just as happy

As the room full of family

It chases the darkening night

And childhood fear

Like whispering smoke

Breathed from the dragons ’round the table

Downing whiskey and stories

Laughing

Not knowing

But singing sweet lullabies

In the dark

Singing down the hallway

Sweet goodnight

She was a child when she left

But when she returned

The man she used to know was gone

He had grown old

His bones thin

His belly fat

He still laughed

But the light in his eyes

Had grown dim

But still

She laughed along with him

And smiled at him

And pretended

That they were both

Still young

My pen is my saxophone

Played loud and lonely

In the night

Tunes of sorrow and joy

Running like honey

Singing sweet songs

Brass and breath

Heart beat and pen

Leaving languishing notes

Trailing in the dark still of night

Cold toast and salted ham
Just sitting in the sun
Warm skin
And hot coffee
Bringing in the day
Soft boiled eggs,
Breakfast honey
Suckled like morning dew
Brown beast,
Muscled madness
Laying at my feet
Just waiting
Perhaps
For breakfast in the sun

Why do you lie

While I sleep?

Telling things

That I should keep

Oh, Drunken pen

Trailing ink

Telling stories while I drink

Where are you

When I wake?

Gone, gone

But the ink

Just the ink

On paper traced

nothing left

But stories, Stories,

To be told

In the dark

Never, ever to be shown

in the light of day

But drunken pen

Why do you,

Yet sober stay

So far and  far away?