And if the man from on high casts his eye upon you
you shall cower when faced with the reflection
A bird sits on a car side mirror
not alarmed by overwhelming footfalls
keeping rhythm with feet beneath desks to the universal drum track
white rabbit is peaking in the next room
while a scene of horror plays out
to be gossiped over intermission
you stand alone
in a small, dimly lit room
candle flame flickering against cream wall
ritual
your neighbors won't stop screaming into sofa cushions
as you laugh til it hurts on rerun avenue
go out and get after it kid
by this time tomorrow it'll be gone
whatever it is

Get drunk
Or high
Work out
Apathy
Hypersensitivity
Violence
Witty
Fathoms deep
Feel the swell of a universe
So full of life
It all repeats
Make the canvas
Something beautiful

It's rare you'll find me in my home town
straw in mouth
**** on shoes
i'm a country boy loving this acid washed city life of "Ima get what's mine"
but don't call me bumpkin
while I'm sitting out on a back porch
jameson and RJ Reynolds
I have a tendency to spout off words like an unattended hydrant on a ghetto summer day
not all of them make sense
not all of them are in good taste
or right
but whether it be suburban Midlothian
farming village Drax
or downtown Richmond
I find my home on page
beneath the low chattering of keys
scratching of pens
Each word you never had the heart to say
is my place of residence

The well groomed professional takes a sip
from his Styrofoam twenty ounce coffee
He glares at me - his eyes green with disgust
the night before I walked beside the moon
that morning I rose anew, born in flames
The well groomed professional takes a sip
from the corner of my eye I see her
standing waves of gold, porcelain smile
I glare at her - my eyes red with my lust
dancing to the flickering glow of bulbs
she pauses, a breath, Red Eye anyone?
The well groomed professional takes a sip
glaring at the mirror - his eyes black with
fear
I take my coffee and walk out the door
adrift in the cold Richmond winter air

Walking down the street I pass
a girl walking in her bundle of flannel and warmth
strut strut strut
I blow smoke from the corner of my mouth
to spare her the danger
of my second hand smoke

As she writes in day or moonlight
She contemplates definitions
Finding the figures televised
Are not models, but a condition
For the dead, it seems have become the dream
That man aim to worship and infatuate over
And this she find, as a woman, a girl
Is what's infecting the world like fever

Pale skin so white opposes the sight
Of her freckled, pinkly complexion
Vain within those whose malnutriton
Are posted as pure perfection
Lips of red the of which the dead
Show the blood that once flowed through vein
As Death runs his fingers through limp hair
The word "beauty” writhing in pain

And this, to the world, she also be the girl
The woman's aspiration, all in all?
This should be instead of true form
A copy, a replica, a doll?
To lie with each breath, beauty wrapped in death
To please mankind in sights of its end
Is a plight, in day or moonlight
She cannot and will not defend

Now darling, please,
Won't you bury your armor,
and let your shield down.
Your walls are to high,
for me to climb.
Like a wave, crush it,
what poisons your mind.

Now darling, please,
Let go of your worries,
they can only bring you harm.
Your shadows are too dark,
for me to see.
Your mask, hide it,
and show me those scars.

Now darling, please,
Let me take you home,
to the place only you and I know.
Your heart is too heavy,
for me to know.
My hand, take it,
and I'll lead you through.

you took the words of wise men on a whim
dug yourself out a nice shiny foxhole
to shelter from the ricochets of words best left unsaid
but your maw aches
and those wise words
fall fat and useless
so ******* anyways
I'll find my own wisdom
I'll be laughing in kingdoms of never more
once I find the right word

I'm not Shakespeare, not some romantic poet clad in flowers and doves
I'm no Fitzgerald, a dapper socialite at home with the intellectuals and aristocrats
I'd like to be Hemingway, a man in all senses of the word, guided by a certain wit and drive
Hell, I'd even take Bukowski, or Kerouac, drug addled and safe in the strength of my arrogance
I'm not your favorite department store
no recognizable brand
no jewelry
My love is not measured in the moments quenched with awe
no symphonies or trips to the opera house
In a dime store I trudge through the aisles of shelves
rummaging through the lost and found of people long forgotten and dead
I find a necklace, shells strung together on a piece of fishing line and I think of you
young and happy with a bucket and a *****
so curious as to the motion of the ocean, you slowly approach
only to run away - giddy in your fear - as the cold tide licks at your heels
digging up ***** to show to your Mom and Dad
I think of you, my hand clutching that Dime store necklace
I think of you now
Me so intrigued, I draw up my plans with tact
only to crumble before you
I am the shells you dug up
I am the fishing line your dad cut off for you
the knots he taught you to make
I am your lost and found
helplessly missing you always
I am your Dime Store love