If by chance
your prayers be answered
ever, could I trouble you;

whilst your palms
be pressed together
and fair is fortune's mood;

could I trouble you to pray
there some time soon will come a day
your need of prayer is gone away,

without appearing rude?

Leaning on the grass
like the late September breeze,

she traces as a path,
the pattern pressed into my knees

to where the lines are thickest,
finds my fondest memories,

and softly drops her kisses
like the falling autumn leaves.

you can write poetry without being a poet
I feel Bukowski sometimes wrote without knowing how
or why
just because he was Poetry
like how Gogh painted for love
or for his next meal
not for me
not for we
like how an athlete runs for running
and a singer sings for singing
and a sinner sins for sinning
maybe you can't become a poet
it must be in you from the beginning

WE ARE TRANSFORMING
MATERIALS BORN OF LIFE
INTO THINGS THAT CANNOT
SUSTAIN LIFE, CREATE LIFE
WE ARE TRANSFORMING
THE EARTH, INTO DEATH.

IT IS OBVIOUS,
AT THIS POINT
THAT MAN,
-HATES LIFE.

"At least to all the other things living
whom have thought, -like mammals."

Imagine that an alien race has come to Earth....
What would you, "fix," about it?

FIX?
..ate,

eh'

In introspect,
hindsights stumbling over intuition.
Guts hard as a rock.
Minds eye coupling with superstition.
Feeling lost, without a paddle, up the stream facing tomorrow.
Trading calls, seizing, coughing out a scream. Laced with a sorrow.
Silence escapes the harrowed moment.
a siren: opaque.
Privately shamed, a borrowed atonement and a giant mistake.

Keep it short, keep it sweet.
Count to four and leap in deep.
If unsure just keep at ease.
Dreaming thru the leaves and trees.
Keep it short, keep it sweet.
Breaching shores to sweet relief
Keep it short, keep it sweet.
A mean retort. A breeze to seize.

Speak from the heart. The tip of the tongue.
Fly off the cuff, The hip of your gun.
Set scenes apart, a trip to the sun.
Getting High on the huff, the gifting of love.

Speak from the heart, easier said then done.
Treat it like art, Feeding the dread with glum.
Speak from the heart, easier said then done.
Freezing at start, leading the dead with guns.