sunlight blankets the room,
eyes protest
and soon
the heart awakens the aching chest.
this life i've been lent
make sense with you.
time misspent;
even lies sound true.
these arms find purpose,
lips evoke passion
and fingers in motion
bring about the prose.

whiskey helps,
but i can go without.
feeling it all
and no,
I am not lost
-not coming undone.

a line made of gold
and ink,
a sentiment floats
as it all sinks in.
hide, run or stay;
I'll love you either way.

It all stemmed from some longing,
he thought.
Something missing
or was never there
to begin with.
Either way this led to the prose
ans so there was no choice;
no exercise of will really,
but rather a duty.
-If other eyes peeked at the work,
then so be it!
For once committed to paper,
the work was done
and so was he.

The streets are empty,
lights are dim
and it is a cold night in New York.
Queens is usually much more alive,
but not tonight.
There's a feeling in the air,
felt by those still awake;
someone somewhere
has made
a grave mistake.

They come and go
these passions of the flesh.
Eyes of green,
brown and gray.
Near the big blue
they all look the same.
In the end
it's the ocean
and I
which remain.

Unaware of these scars
for they are beneath the skin.
The air of radiance and joy;
a facade,
one that fools even I.
Still, there's no escaping the night;
the lonesome quiet,
the heart's drumming,
the mind racing,
igniting a riot.
No calm by the sea
or by city light,
by white sand
or gray concrete.
This visceral yearning
will not cease.

Blue light streaks the sky,
              glazed eyes
                    wide,
                open mouths too.

              The light slowly fades,
               eyes blink,
                    mouths close
                   once more.

The faulty filament
caused the light bulb to flicker.
her need to blame him
caused them to bicker.
Tears are common
as the years, they loiter on.
Warmth received only from the sun.
Three words started it all,
it's easy to fly,
much harder to fall.

Wrote you
a note,
simple and crude,
three simple words
- I miss you.
Struck a few chords
-off key.
Played with some words;
Tenebrous
-adds fuel to the mystery.

Out of reach,
I stretch,
but still
this craving
cannot be fulfilled.
waiting
on fate; selfish ******
-always wanting more.

Your absence
is loud
and clear,
It's your
presence,
your complexity
I fear.
It's the
words
you've never said,
it
is the truth
I never
hear.

How young is she?
Looks like twenty,
but could be sixteen.
Says things as if she's thirty,
but listens to music like she's not.
She's sensual, yet innocent.
Drives and drinks;
doesn't do a good job of either.
Dances freely like a child,
but worries about things
like a teenager.
I don't know her,
but I am intrigued by her innocence.
She says she wants to dance with me,
I tell her no
and leave.
Still a thought lingers,
how young is she?

"No I don't like that,
But I do like this.
But, it cost too much.
No, that one is too big,
huh?
That one is too small!
-I guess that one works,
but do you have anything
a bit darker than this?
Oh, it's all you have...
Alright, I guess this works,
but wait, what about that one!

The youth
has gone away.

Only lines
of fun stay.

When I smile
they go astray.

Green smudge
stains
the purple shirt.
The heart nonstop,
and the night uncertain.
The three legged cat searches
for his owner,
and I search for sleep.

Mid-day beers taste best alone.
tv off, windows open
and the **** dog asleep.
Another day halfway gone
and why hang around,
why linger on?
Seen it all before,
days grown bored.
The night gets music and lights,
alcohol and ****,
who could bore of this?

This mind,
this ability to create,
and study and learn
and teach,
this is the tool which harms us.
This mumbling about meaning,
this world devoid of purpose,
the world from which it sprung.
-the struggle at it's root
and so the Absurd is born.

another ink blotch,
a sentiment in darkness,
timeless.
yet, one you forgot.
just a speck
trying to sound off.
a heart- restless,
learning to let go.
another drip of pen onto paper
and then,
type it up so (they) can murmur
and lie aloud again.

Longing once more,
I guess if you’re good at it…
Still, it is a tiresome state,
To stare into the distance, to wait.
But, if you can pull it off,
Naturally, with the proper gestures
It is a sight to behold.
A bored spectator in a sea of roars.

From the comfort of despair,
The tranquility of loneliness.
The aches,
Those thorns on flesh,
Bare.
It stems from here.
Keep your pity,
Calm the fright
And awake your intuition.
Silence
I can stand it,
Though not easily;
Won’t you pretend to care?

Perhaps fearing tranquility,
the quiet calm which is never here;
I stopped drinking beer,
only whiskey
or *** from now on.

less of a gut
and better poems or maybe not,
but it sure feels different.
looked up for a minute
and new words descend;

Tears, smiles
and laughter
along with fingers
pointing and eyes
with much intrigue- staring.

there we sat on a hammock
on a windy autumn night.
sharing a cigarette,
laughing at old jokes
and for a moment
lucid minds prevailed.
there in that uneventful, quiet night
and engaging in that common pleasure,
time hung back
and death was silent.
then as we took in our final drags
the moment passed.

The lights on the street are dimmed
As if shrinking to the cold.
This winter brittles the bones of the old
And tightens the skin of the young.
-Forgetting himself and any grand illusions,
Whether holy or earthly influenced;
With a smile upon his weary face.
Accepting all null and void resolutions.
Looking out his window, seeing the passersby below;
The young and old, couples and solitary figures, sheepish and bold…
His heart is now easily content
As he sees himself in them.

doubts
no longer
whisper,
but shout!
aged
stained
glass
-promises time forgot.
like the plucking of a rose,
death follows
always quiet,
it can wait
till the end of your speech.

Lines crisscross,
run amok.
An X
marks the spot;
a treasure time forgot.
waning passage,
blurry, creating distance
word by word;
an idea comes across.