Let the poetry of others repose in majestic halls:
My poems are filler for paper shredders,
For packing in shipping boxes,
And backing for flypaper sticky strips;
To wipe the muddy soles of shoes
That have seen too much of springtime
In the garden.

Others poetry fills the airwaves, and sits between the covers of books;
My poetry is for grocery lists,
And sudden messages you need to scribble while on the telephone,
And maps to undiscovered geneological treasures
That are only a township away-
To trace the faces of cool tombstones
Under a mid-day sun.

You won't find my poetry near any other kind of list
That doesn't say get bleach, dog food, and toilet paper.
Still, my poetry is from a well lettered life-
I have written all my heartbeats, and most of my sighs
Into sibylline hieroglyphics, from midnight initiations
In the secret brotherhood, of my own soul:
And I will die a freeman, because nobody
Will ever feel the need to own any of these words.

I saw her crying as her tears puddled beneath her feet,
as the garbage cans burned in a red glow.
I heard music in the distance muffled and stale,
as its sound passed through the sour smell of burning
       trash.
She cried, her tears glittered like pieces of broken glass,
that cut through her smooth cheeks.

Oh! My sweet dear,
Please! Don't cry,
for I love you;
those tattered clothes do you no justice,
for you are the most beautiful woman I know.

Broken hearts can be mended,
don't you cry,
for dreams may come true,
even in the dark alleys where those who sleep do not exist,
except for me,
to them,
to you......

Rough hands used to hold my own,
And still the small bird sings,
They shared my bed and shared my home,
The golden bird death brings,

The shadows seemed so far away ,
Attached to moonlight skin,
Who’d bring it back to where he stay,
And choke the song within,

A golden ray of light there lies,
Within a dreary hell,
Among translucent smog it dies,
A death toll time will tell,

The siren sobs its mournful cry,
Where gentle hands won’t tread,
I pray the little bird may fly,
I unravel like a thread,

I trip and fall a dozen times,
I sob a sirens mournful wail,
A feeling not expressed in rhymes,
I know m mind it will not fail,

A little bird within a cage,
The golden light it now does fade,
Fall to my knees so false is rage,
The bird like me a shade.

I whip myself towards them,
The shadows fall around,
******* forsaken graveyard town,
I scream without a sound.
    
Through blackened dust he does emerge,
Eyes wide shut like broken glass,
My mind and heart within me serge,
I turn to lips where rhyme would pass.

And at my feet lies a broken rose,
Not long without its stem,
Once in sweet compose,
Now in black condemn.

My head upon his coal filled chest,
Feels like my hearts undone,
The lullaby has paused to rest,
And now his song is sung.