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.

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.

There's talk of redemption
in crowded halls,
and as they adjust the dial
there's an addendum.
hard to tell
just who is right
although everyone knows
who is wrong.
no doorway in sight
in this mirror funhouse,
but the poor have TV's now
isn't that nice?

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

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

The youth
has gone away.

Only lines
of fun stay.

When I smile
they go astray.

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.

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

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.

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.

As if there is none,
be it by chance
or something other.

A wondering lights up interiors;
Such abundance of articles
more-overs out of use.

No stand is clearer than
a subject nearing sight.
I am.

Keeps searching,
Hoping.
If not this one,
The one still to come.
Heart is rapidly beating,
Constantly grieving.
Eyes flickering,
-Always losing,
Gaining years
And mascara infused tears.

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.

Dust sits on the shelf,
no books or papers
only dust,
remainders of life.
-Staring at it,
feeling nothing.
Hoping for nostalgia, but no.
This sudden detachment is worrisome.
The work can suffer
you know?

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.

"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!

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.

Constant

yet, ever-changing.

Just as waves

on the beach;

so are the years

and us.

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?

There's beauty there,
willfully beyond my reach,
yet ever so near.
Its light reflects
upon my eyes
and consumes
all clarity.
Not mine,
not free;
nor shining for me.
Still,
there's a skip
a rhythmic beat
within.

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.

Routinely these words
miss most
and reach only a few.

Some call them trite,
lame
or flat.

Not up to par;
nonetheless they fill this space
and await contemplation.

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.

When
At the end of the day
or in a lull of a moment
you won’t think of me.

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.

Within reach

as if a mirage

yet, this time

it's all too real.

thoughts are passing cars today;
ever changing,
constantly
on the move.
colors blur
and details clash.
one after the other,
the next
faster than
the last.

tippy toeing around once more,
still all that fails is true
and lies are grand for while,
until, always until.
-alone isn't always solitude
or lonely,
but it is.
I see the words in the air
and when I reach,
they scatter.
I'm keeping quiet
and very still,
maybe something will happen,
or someone might come in and talk
and I can put the pen down
and admit it's useless.

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.

The vast expanse
is worrisome.
The search is futile,
in the end is all very foolish.
Knowledge allows the proposition
that there’s a lot we’ll never know.
While ignorance is loud and obnoxious,
completely unaware of it’s shortcomings.
The struggle
takes place in between.

hollow hearts tear at the skin
lust and passion-idle friends
bottles clink during the day
shatter at night.
whispers turn to screams
as the end begins again

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.

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.

Vow to live.
To meet the days
in revolt.
Death will come nonetheless;
but make no time for death,
rather for life.

All this bottled up
nostalgia;
pour it
and drink up.
A dream
sustained
in the air;
a star
without
a name.
Ray of light
hides
between
these glaring eyes.

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.

Baby blue
against egg white,
silver framed mirror
near the pale light;
exposed bulb,
dust ridden.
~All mired in mediocrity,
stretching the lines
and still
falling short of meaning;
always lacking a certain capacity
to emote.

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.

Harboring dreams,
those that don't allow sleep.
Like nothing
it is still there
waiting for all
that won't come.

A Chimera
ardent in my veins,
like alcohol to an open wound.
Wakes me in the morn,
keeps me up at night.
These nights no more dark than eternal.

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

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.

aching muscles,
these memories;
a blood stained t shirt.
all the while
pretending
not to feel pain.

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.

This ache seems to be
like Papa's White Elephants;
valuable in a sense
I've yet to understand.

Busy body, tranquil mind,
a joke I say!
The fishing line
is ever tangled.

Another
wasted morning,
another
throwaway.

Akin to summer rain
or words you can't
seem to articulate
or the smile you feign,
The risk you take
once more.
Even coffee with an old friend,
or moments you regret.
‘bittersweet symphony’
on the radio.
And tears from your eyes
- right on cue.

Dawn shed its colors
as night passed by,
giving way to daylight.
Wide-eyed, constantly neglecting
dreams cast
somewhere on the pillow.

Tried, but certain warmth would not keep.
Waiting- traffic and work.
Meanwhile a yearning stagnantly weighs.
Once more committed. Another day to waste
whilst dreams lay
somewhere on the pillow.

Waves arrive at the shore
tired of such
   entanglement.
Your enamored stare;
Like the moon
    Stares at the sun.

In your hair you retain
White sand and a sea flower.
     You adorn my sight
With a bright reflection.
   and the ocean enraged,
              Mirrors our love.

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!

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.

Suddenly
you cast upon me
doubts and flaws;
not a single virtue
as resentment creeps.