I've been going through
a long dry spell, an arid
wasteland of the mind.
Writer's block is hell.
It's an empty nest,
a dead baby bird in
the wet grass--ant eaten eyes.
It smells like plastic flowers on
a tombstone.
I'm lost and starving in
the Whiteness.
Why can't I write?
Have I drank my mind
into mush?
The poems don't come like
they used to; the click is gone.
Sometimes, there were
four or five a night.
They swam from the
rivers of my soul.
They were my food and my light,
and my wings.
A good poem is like
smacking the ball out of
the park, or like coming together after
hours of foreplay.
Writer's block is a
limp ****, a miscarriage, an empty gun.
It's like having a stomach ache,
and not being able to *****.

Everywhere I go, I am
surrounded by convicts, and a
maze of walls.
My mind and spirit are
not in prison though.
They fly over the razor wire like
the falcon I saw through the
bars on the window.
It pierced the clouds like a bullet.
I will make the next
poem a feast.
Blood and feathers will
fall from my chin.
Ambrosia will course through
my veins, and I will
sing and soar from
the depths of my cage.

I’m at that
Moment where
Death seems right
And living is suffering

The moon rose pink and silent, an adornment on the lawn, I bet 9 whorls around
This thumbnail sketch the
Sun rises red near Cairo.
Too bad you lost it on a
Good strech,
An operational hazard,
Some lame 45, long on memory, short on talent.
Bet you cleaned up on the margins, but I bet you can't explain the stain on your shirt.
I think it's a hoot.
All those dark horses,
Come creeping in under the radar on a blue Sunday
With the sparrows lifting
One way then the other,
Silent, back to the wire again,
As cars hiss below the marginal scenery.
It's a dreary 9 to 5,
Nothing shaking on semanics
Catching 500 buses for the coast. Those suckers came and went while we watched
The moon rise over Memphis
But the sink drips and I think
Of olives stuffed with pimento, As a sweet thing
Walks across my window,
All legs and shining in the sun. When you make it free
You only make it worse.
Until then: create mythical
Creatures in the air.
Redo the blue laws every
Seven years. Tip the Triple Crown toward the sun.
Leave your shark tooth smile
At the door.
Its not really misinformation,
Its a hundred dead dreams
Lying on the stoop.
As the fan sails silent overhead. And trains run backward
On the other side of the Earth.

That power pole is leaning hard
It’s like the tilt of a dog’s head as it considers something.
Or the way she leans against my car
Or the way I bunch forward to lament her lean.

I can’t unsee that obtuse incline
I can’t internalize it less.
I hope that ******* pole falls.

Looking through as glass darkly, Silhouettes and shadows gathering in the corner, with old books and half burned candles losing their scent,
And you knew you'd end up here, riding out the off season. Where cars fade
In the window, And
Pilate washes at the sink.
While Grandpa shaves with a straight razor,
Smiling without those Sunday dentures.

C'mon all scruffy behind the ears, Let up partake of evening, with the ghosts of dead Uncles.
As dreams remember what we've forgotten,
As an eyelash falls to the floor.

Still water
resting
at the
bottom
of a
Pacific ocean
tide
pool,

reflections
of you
in my
mind
in the
Sunday
morning
light.

sometimes
I can imagine
I hear you
laughter
carried in
harmony
to me
on a
a salt-kissed
circling
wind.

and I
sit for
a moment
and smile.

I always
smile.

it is
a giving
thing that
you do.

your gentle
manner
of truth
and innocence.

I can always
feel it
there in
you eyes...

you are


where
good  poets
go to
die.