He carves words he has spoken
Of promises unbroken
whispering into the dark
Chiselling delicately into her bones
With tobacco juice to bring out the tones
Quietly engraving symbols and psalms
Living for the night
Working through to the light
Communing only through dreams
In daylight she's secure
Inside a white Alder tree
Protected and respected
Her spirit flies free

too many of us waste the day
looking for answers to questions
we have completely forgotten

we are lost out on a road
that is going nowhere
we sleep in beds
that are dreamless

we fill our hearts
with artificial sweetener
because we fear being alone
our bodies sit side by side
while our minds drift off
to separate worlds
and we define this as love

strangers to each other
strangers to ourselves

we ignore our true passions
our true desires
afraid of the fire
afraid of letting our blood
bleed through our chests
afraid of the only thing
we shouldn’t fear

the true beauty of love

and if we could face our fear
what would we find
what questions would we ask
if we found ourselves in front of

the true beauty of love

would we have any questions
or would we only have the answer
to a question that
never had to be asked
that never dared wander
through the chambers of our hearts
the hallways of our minds

then were would
this road take us
what dreams would
we find in our beds

what would we become
if we filled our lives
our lungs
our hearts
with the true beauty of love

we are just insects trapped
in crystalized amber
unable to move away from today
broken clocks strapped to our wrists
believing in something that doesn't exist
forty hours a week to survive
the illusion we've made out of life
blood and bones worth less
than the cogs in a machine
pointless spinning in circles
hamsters on the wheel
rats safe in the maze
happy to fight in a cage
over scraps of cheese
waiting for our beds
to become coffins
we sleep with lies in our hearts
afraid of our reflection
as it still holds onto
the last remnants
of a dying dream
what a monster we've allowed
the new american way to become
a false ideology
only ******* and breeding
to keep the all mighty dollar alive
love only a mask
and an excuse to avoid
the feeling of loneliness
as we become more
and more alone together
no one is left with the quite desperation
to walk the path less traveled
as we move like pawns
one square at a time
chasing the carrot on a stick
that will only lead us
to our death beds
with nothing more than a chest
empty of anything but a few crumbs
and like insects we crawl along
a moebius strip that only leads
to us repeating today
day after day

I hear the nightlife scream its thrill, raucous calls
of unadulterated glee.
Drunken voices resolve, then pass, fading
into their night.
I realize love lost for a city I dared lay a claim to.

Keep me awake and I'll finish this poem. I'm into some
serious sleep-debt. One problem
is being too willing to see the other side.

Despite misgivings that've run amok, I trust my ethics enough
to study the dark arts.

The poetry section is small
and somewhat hidden
Bukowski still floods the shelves
Baudelaire’s flowers still in bloom
eternity lives here
pressed between the pages
taken into our lungs
and released in every word

lucky for us
the dead write remarkably well
considering the are either ash
or dry bones
names long ago engraved into stone
printed along the spine of new books
and why should death
stop anyone from writing
it makes life more bearable for the living
and more hopeful for the dying

at least
sometimes it does

books, poems, fairy songs
somewhere to escape
something to escape with

writers, poets, storytellers
hiding in plain sight
sipping coffee
drinking wine
shooting whiskey

a sketch pad or journal isn’t official
until it has a stain of some type
a ring left behind
from a cup or mug or bottle
a splash of this or that

we tend to admire the dead
more than the living
as if living is something
we just  need to survive
as we wait our turn in line
to grow old
to become useless
to reach the wastebasket
that we can dump our dreams into
to let go of the burden of hope
and just settle into our caskets
our coffins
and wait for sleep
to become death

and that wait is made easier
by the dead who still write
as most of the living
seem to have forgotten
the color of their dreams
and what they had to live for

I can barely remember
there was something though
some dream
that feels a lifetime ago
or a lifetime away

maybe I could remember
if I could just sleep
through waking up
and wake up
while still dreaming

maybe I could read
some more Bukowski
while walking through
Baudelaire’s flower
lost somewhere in a bookstore
found between the lines of eternity