oh entropy, i am a leaning tower.

     i am a patchwork raincoat
     i tried to fill the holes
     with someone else's fabric
     but the rain comes in hard
     and my patchwork is destroyed

     i am made of brick
     and slowly i am being disassembled
     one crumbling red slab after another
     until fragments of me
     lay scattered and naked in an unsightly pile

     i once stood tall
     carrying my own weight
     carrying your weight too
     i once had strong shoulders,
     strong mind, strong heart

          but i am a leaning tower
          and slowly i am being dismantled
          my patches are being dissolved
          and i am returning to Nothing,
          to a place where i can be rebuilt.

it is funny, you will be dead some day.
By you the mouth hair eyes,and i mean
the unique and nervously obscene

need;it’s funny.  They will all be dead

knead of lustfulhunched deeplytoplay
lips and stare the gross fuzzy-pash
—dead—and the dark gold delicately smash….
grass,and the stars,of my shoulder in stead.

It is a funny,thing.  And you will be

and i and all the days and nights that matter
knocked by sun moon jabbed ****** with ecstasy
….tremble (not knowing how much better

than me will you like the rain’s face and

the rich improbable hands of the Wind)

The paper was a bit shy and ***** from the past few years of neglect, nothing ever grew more alone and distant than the faded words of a poet unfinished.

"The cold light filled the night as a wolf cried out, the moons eye a ghostly dancer."

Now so it seemed such a sad thing that there was never to be an answer; time would be the master and the minutes forebode disaster.

But of course, never the light of day. Stuck forever to twilight haze it filled an eerie air.
I watched from this broken phrase all the while in a poets grave, rotting from abused paper.

my lips fill with ash and dead sins of popular voice.
sunk forward by shredded noise and spin
further into a stale wine.

caught tongue in cheek and words to speak
a cup of your liking.
was it a just a minor sapling to ignore?

oh ghostly tidings,
i found the lark falling into blackness.
mirrored sightings of maddening spores,
the fall full of darling ******.

inviting and pleading a forward sound of feeling
that no longer could ignore.

the chance of silence to be explored.

Oh Natalie, where did you go!
Over the fence under the road?
You make my heart sick
And my voice numb.

The November wind blows cold
Sweet girl
When will you come home?

And now I smoke vinataba
from Vietnam.

The taste is bitter the luck grows thinner, and doubt fills every pore.
Am I to bold to fear the adventures you seek
Outside of gas and heat.

Be wise be free be wild be Natalie.
I know dear friend, I'll see you again.

Revised...

:) you sneaky little *****.

photogenic smiles and true to the few
we take the flashing light and run with it.
pinned up in time and backed up hard drives
remember us when were gone.

repressed and tied too this one life
always reaching for visibility
to give a life worth feeling
in a single frame.

what every second means to the hand
holding moments temporal.
hold, laugh, smile.

camera cued and magic fuse
superstitious  and wild,
hung with glowing eyes.

The arrow does not quiver,
pulled from tongue to articulate
language from the heart;
Glowing red ash of comet dust,
fills pointed Orion's arch.

Scorched cigarette  eyes that
burned only for astronomic
Recognition,
mapping a planets line in black.

Pick pocketed mind--
Struck out a balanced path
Of magnetic luck drawn,
Invisible moment poised for action;
A bow and target thought.