If you’ve ever struggled to keep your eyes fixed
on two passing ships as they drift
onto opposite directions,
then you have a sense
of what it is like
to walk in New York City.
The city of old and new,
a close knit community of loners striving
even at failure.
Yet, the afternoon skies are honest,
gray and bright.
There’s warmth still
to be found on cold nights,
all sorts
come alive on that cement island of lights

feels like a re-run,
a cig you ***
when you’re down
on your luck.
something is about to break,
maybe it’s your day
or maybe
it’s just you.

Innocent is the unborn,
till it's first breath.
A product of guilty parties,
thus ignorance allows it's visceral cries.
I beg,
condemn them not,
their fate (like all) is sealed.
Death,
not one soul has yet forgotten.

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

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.

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.

Every gardener
knows what it is
to be pricked
by a rose’s thorn.
to that end,
-wear gloves.

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 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.

Old New York stared back -resolute,
as I tried to write.
Every line seemed trite.
A scribble here,
A doodle there,
The paper was pale with frustration
And my hands were distraught with tension;
couldn't write a decent line.
Not even after a few glasses of wine.
I love the city and how nothing stops moving,
but perhaps
It moved too fast.

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.

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.

There is this scream;
a voice that is loud,
but often incoherent,
yet powerful.
The walls of my mind echo
this scream
and pages are filled
with lousy reproductions.
For it is delayed
and smoothed out.
The raw shrillness
stays hidden within.

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.

"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!

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.

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?

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.

It's sink or swim
till the words pour in.

Nothing becomes everything
beneath the mighty pen.

And a smile on your face
is worth the pages and the waste.

But, I won't walk you through it,
I'll just get you to the door.

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.

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

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

Been drinking
as if the whiskey
will grow stale.
Meanwhile
not  a single word's been written
since the start of this hell.
I don't mind the silence,
it is the nights that bother me;
the moon and starlight
reminding me hope once lived!

It’s waiting
jut round the bend.
not a lover
nor a friend.

was there at the beginning,
will be there at the end.
For now it waits,
till we meet again.

-Minding my step
sidewalk’s cracked and broken.
promises littered
throughout the streets.

Unaware
of what awaits,
call it the secret
of the Fates.

Life is there
in the in-between;
those moments
that build...

and death
is just
something we seldom
talk about.

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?

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.