Long I lay in a bed of dreams
Mourning the days of my youth
Gentle notes playing in my ear
And plucking apart my heart
I thought of all those I had known
Our paths twined for an instant
Before diverging on courses unknown
I drank deep of memory
And saw places long gone
Things that had passed
Wondering what might have been
In other lives

The ghost of her father brings her to tears,
She weeps on the floor alone with her fears,
In a bed full of ***** lies a man nearly dead,
He drank himself blind to hide from his head,
While a child lies awake with wide young eyes,
Swears never to drink till the day that he dies,
I sit in the cold and the dark with a rat,
Consider the world and smoke my last jack

In a rusty white van,
We meet with a dope man,
He climbs up in the back,
Says hand over the stack,
Then he breaks us off fat,
Now take a hit of that,
So we load up the stem,
Melt the sweet smoking chem,
Lips teeth and tongue go numb,
**** why am I so dumb,
But my heart starts to race,
My thoughts pick up the pace,
Feel the uplifting thrill,
As words begin to spill,
I could do this forever,
Be light as a feather,
And just forget it all,
I'll be ten miles tall,
I just need a bit more,
All I want is some more,
I just can't get enough,
'Cause the comedown is rough,
The thing I just can't face,
So instead I will chase,
Till the crack turns to ash,
And I cry as I crash.

Empty hollow meaningless shell,
broken shattered ceramic shards scattered in damp leaves and humus,
contents draining into trailing whirls that run,
gathering earthen flecks into glittering, gritty, mud.

Pear juice, cold chicken.
Cicadas fade in and out, the train blasts by high and long.
Deep green leaves bright red evening sun silhouettes against a blue blue sky.
Dayshadows.
Brown; wood chips on the ground & a warm wooden bench.
Plastic metal frozen in fantastic structures, colors, ordered and smooth and modern.
Buzzing hum of insects vibrating, atomic flying machines.
Melting trees, sunwoods.

Another another another another,
A fire at one end a fool at the other,
My soul is starving but I feed it hot air,
I'm dying inside but don't seem to care.

Eight years old beaten and bruised,
He fled from the house, lost and confused,
Running just running without a thought where,
A child seeking refuge in frigid night air,

He ran for a year, or perhaps just an hour,
Till he ran out his anger, and with it his power,
Casting about him alone in the dark,
He found himself trembling in a dead silent park,

A low haunting hoot cut through the night,
The poor lonely boy shivered in fright,
Cold and exhausted, alarmed by the sound,
He hurried along to a nearby playground,

Clearing the woodchips he lay down below,
A bed in cold dirt and a mind full of woe,
He lay there for ages, unable to sleep,
Then it started to rain and he started to weep,

Earth turned to mud, thunder was crashing,
And all through his shelter water was splashing,
The boy was soon soaked, sodden and drenched,
Sobbing curled in a ball, all bravery quenched,

He cursed his mad mother, he cursed the cold rain,
He cursed his bad life, he cursed all his pain,
The night ate his words and he started to pray,
For the sweetness of sleep to bring him the day,

He lay there for ages, wet to the bone,
The soft dirt beneath him colder than stone,
Stiff beyond movement he merely drew breath,
So done and defeated he wished only death,

And then he awoke, the black sky tinged grey,
Gave a cry of relief at the sight of the day,
He rose slow to his feet and shook off the night,
Stood numb in the chill air and waited for light,

Birds were soon singing to greet the fresh dawn,
He joined them with relish, his misery gone,
A golden glow crested, the day had begun,
He fell to his knees in the face of the sun.

An announcement, dear spoons, it has come to my attention,
That knives are in fact the superior invention,
They cut and they dice, and they bring us sliced bread,
While for spoons, I'm afraid there's not much to be said,
They're good for the stirring and sipping of soup,
They can help you eat anything; well, as long as its goop,
They can't even manage to show a proper reflection,
Try gazing at one, it upends your direction,
Oh spoons, you buffoons, you round-bellied fools,
Try slicing, not scooping, you inelegant tools,
Knives dress to ****, while you spoons are such slouches,
And knives are quite charming; you lot are all grouches,
It's clear that knives are the superior race,
They'll put you dumb spoons back into your place,
At the bottom of the drawer, way down with the forks,
Alongside the can opener, and a screwer of corks,
You're the **** of the table, I despise your skullduggery,
That's why I declare knives the finest of cutlery.

His name was James Clements
We called him Jimmy
I don't know why but
He drank away
His wife
His home
His children
He drove away his employees
And drove into 7 DUIs
Though that might have been
Just another lie
He cut a man's throat
Before rehab saved him
From prison
But not from death
I feared him
Worked for him
Befriended him
I drove him home when he was drunk
But did not attend his funeral

Alone at a bus stop one night I stood,
And thoughts of my life soon turned to despair,
At all I had done, and all I still could,
I lit up a jack to lessen my care,

No sooner had I exhaled the first puff,
Than stood there a vision, a man entire,
He spoke in a voice both smokey and gruff,
And bade me to name my heart's true desire,

"Tell me young man, what do you wish for?"
"Release I wish from the boredom of life,
I want to be free of the struggle for more,
I'm restless in peace, but seek it in strife,"

I started to say, then paused for a drag,
Spilling the smoke I went on with a breath,
"These days at my job make me want to gag,
If that's all there is then I wish for death."

A moment of silence shared in the night,
The dark form beside me once again spake,
"I can't grant what you ask, try though I might,
But one day your life I will surely take."

The figure departed, gone in a flash,
Vanished in flesh though still his voice lingers,
Alone at a bus stop, clutching at ash,
I stood in the dark with burning fingers.

A boy
Sitting on a bed
Clouds in his head
And the air
Holding a pipe
And a lighter
Dreaming of
A girl
Snorting adderall
And drinking
On the beach

In four white walls
He gently falls
In love with Mary Jane
In other rooms
The darkness looms
And grown men share their pain

Bowed head angel thinking,
Weeping,
Worrisome wonderer chills run down the spine as the serpent sits in back,
It's ice,
Working this lonely cold heart night,
Fire for the freed mind

There was an egg who dreamed a dream,
Of life in light,
A life of flight,
Some world of sight,
The egg did shiver in delight,
And lo,
Behold,
A crack was formed,
And through the rend,
The sunlight stormed,
SCRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEE
The egg abhorred the feel,
Of air flow through the shattered seal,
It bucked and jumped,
It smashed and pumped,
Till it was no more an egg.

How ancient is the memory, of a being such as thee?
Perhaps it's fate, that kept you here, to share of it with me.
But though you are a mighty thing, and regal as can be,
Your age is great, and if we wait,
I fear you'll fall on me.

Dancing,
            prancing,
                        spinning around,
Concern and sanity are nowhere to be found,
Spilling into music,
a river of eggs,
sound is reforming inside my head,
There's a hole in my skull,
my brain's leaking out,
stuffing it back in but I can't get out,
Turning and burning,
a feverish fright,
earning and yearning,
to last through the night.

Expansion of mind,
Implosion of self,
My consciousness is fragmented,
Crystal shards laying on the floor,
Scattered about,
Lost in the wash,
A river flowing beneath the soul.

Sparkling splendor deep dark round,
Pulling soft mind such sweet sound,
Gentle goddess silken brush soul,
Riven heart dove song made whole.

Sunset is a pretty thing, so bathed in mystery,
And yet it is the saddest thing, when drenched with memory,
Sodden sunset soak the tears,
That fall so endlessly,
Silent sunset take my hand, and bring me down with thee.

Twists and turns of phrase tumble loosely from my tongue,
In spirited spinning spirals of slipping song,
Strung and spun,
Like the waving whimsical white web of an eight legged dancer,
Diving and ducking,
Dreaming and draping,
Fine feathers of free floating feeling.

The texture of life is that of rough woven burlap,
With dreams of silk and fears of rags.

An old man watched the news today,
He heard the news reporter say,
Two journalists have been shot dead,
The old man sadly bowed his head,
And tears slid down his wrinkled face,
For dreams the dead could no more chase,
The woman was a bride to be,
The young man had a family,
How cruel the one who gunned them down,
And left the world in grief to drown,
The old man knew too well the cost,
For he had lived what they had lost.

Night is the time for the old to die,
Weary with long aching bones and sorrows,
Stiff in their muscles and ways,
Slipping down stairs into young memories,
Joyful yelling, puppy love,
Mother's cooking, and wooded glens,
And the sharp pining of broken hearts,
All so crisp,
So clear,
So at odds,
With the dull fog of life,
With eyes that blur,
Words that twist and crack,
The blink of years alone pales to centuries with the other half.

In the web of fate lives a spider,
An eight legged dancer,
Stepping to the rhythm of life,
Every twirl sends a shimmer,
Every leap a shudder,
Shaking,
Shivering,
Always in motion,
And so the web is woven.

The whole of life dances on a knife's edge,
Like a needle balanced on a golden thread.

I know of a great door which has no ****,
No handle to grip, no doorbell to throb,
Long ages I've sat against its base,
And dreamt of the wonders behind its face.

Spinning eye,
Around go I,
On this endless Ferris wheel,
The merry go round,
Has come to town,
To twinkle merrily,
The myriad lights,
All blurred with sound,
As I twirl round and round,
Then with a wistful twist,
It turns to mist,
And all goes tumbling down.

When conscious thought drips from a silver spoon,
And puddles on the floor,
The mind roams free and wanders loose,
To revel in mystery,
It sheds the weight of living flesh,
And dances on the sun,
The tablets of time spin slowly through space,
In a glimmering haze soft spun.

Sun-grey fragments of ***** ice,
Litter the street like scattered bones,
Puddles of rainbow shudder in translucent swirls,
Trailing color down the street,
Green glass shards of broken drink,
Glint vaguely in the gutter,
Sodden grey pulp of a wind blown flyer,
Melts slowly through the pavement,
And to top it all-
Falls an endless, white,
Snow.