Have you ever had one of those days
where sadness takes on an edge
of beauty?
It seems like a contradiction,
an oxymoron.
Although, you can't help but see how
it shines
around the shadow of depression.

All profits disappear: the gain
Of ease, the hoarded, secret sum;
And now grim digits of old pain
Return to litter up our home.

We hunt the cause of ruin, add,
Subtract, and put ourselves in pawn;
For all our scratching on the pad,
We cannot trace the error down.

What we are seeking is a fare
One way, a chance to be secure:
The lack that keeps us what we are,
The penny that usurps the poor.

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes
I saw my life flash before my eyes without the courtesy of dying
But instead
I found my soul

My poem may be yours indeed
In melody and tone,
If in its rhythm you can read
A music of your own;
If in its pale woof you can weave
Your lovelier design,
'Twill make my lyric, I believe,
More yours than mine.

I'm but a prompter at the best;
Crude cues are all I give.
In simple stanzas I suggest -
'Tis you who make them live.
My bit of rhyme is but a frame,
And if my lines you quote,
I think, although they bear my name,
'Tis you who wrote.

Yours is the beauty that you see
In any words I sing;
The magic and the melody
'Tis you, dear friend, who bring.
Yea, by the glory and the gleam,
The loveliness that lures
Your thought to starry heights of dream,
The poem's yours.

My grasp on reality
in patterns over my eyes
the vibrations, sensations,

  draw
        me
              far
                    from
   ­                        this
                                   life.

Down two pills,
climb two levels.
Mind rises to heaven,
Body falls to pebbles.

Smile brightly at the world,
with eyes that cast black shadows.

My mind is racing,
but my thoughts are spacing.

I taste the music's every word
close my eyes, and hide the blur.

My heart tuned to a hummingbird.
I'm providing depression with my own cure.

Another sleepless night awaits
for the colors and delusions my mind creates.
climbing back down with anger and pain,
hoping that no one will see my shame

In some time I will  be returning
to lay with my thoughts and try to rest
some ask if it's worth it, all things concerning,
and, for some reason, I always say yes.

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread

She was a ten
but that was way back when
before decimal coins
and long before the seams and several joins started to unpick
and now she looks sick.

Sick of the days
ticked off with those nights when she sits alone
frightened
so frightened if the phone starts to ring
or the doorbell chimes.

Not like those other times when she stood out in a crowd
her beauty (albeit plastic) would shout it out loud
'look at me
can you see you how good I feel',and still I would kneel at her feet
to me she's the sweet little lady
who one night in a Javanese bar said 'maybe' to me.

I see her now like never before
like today was the door that we came through
and if I knew then
even when she was a ten
that I'd still love her
a score of years on
when she is ill
I would still have gone it all the way
would still be here in love with her today
and that's the reason I believe
she'll get better when we leave
to count to ten
again.

Time never sits
always stands
constantly waving its wavering hands
and it brings me relief
also fills me with grief
and a terrible belief that it's waiting for me.

Time has a price
it's not free
wait and see what you pay
for tomorrow
today.

Time will throw you a rope and then hang you with hope
for more time
and time has its laugh it's a gas
until you pass the point where the two hand meet and you meet the great clockmaker who in time is going to take you for a walk.
There is silence in the talk of time, just whispers and you know that time's not mine or yours
a little sign
one little tick a bit of sickness,the thickness of
time catches in your throat and feeling just a little hot
time waits but time is all you've got
and then there is no time at all.