Makes me pause to wonder why
I conjour thoughts to let them fly,
Float them forth as dreams do sing
Of hope's eternal leavening.....
Leavening the quiet subdued
Of retrospection's agate mood,
As still as glass in hidden pool
Soft utterings of maudlin fool.

M.

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

i can't believe i wasted
poetry
on you.

large beer, with time to
waste. gulping in hopes
at abating stagnant
feel of current existence.
cold and clear night with Spring
hiding 'round the corner
ready to stab out perpetual
cycle for existence. such a
shaming from titled time-
spanse of weather by its
coming and going without
even illusion of choice.
(suppose the Universe never
had a major role in Romanticism)
suppose space will never find
need for periods defined through
titles; suppose man finds
comfort in definitions and syllabic
expression. haikus are, after all,
a buffer between worlds.
digressing with another cigarette,
knowing shouldn't what with
breath being true connection of
worlds. quality of being alluded
to quality of connection and a
vessel's sense of existence.
then, taking time to inhale,
knowing breath given finds
caustic continued life. realizing,
a drowning man cares naught for
quality of final fighting gasp.