her sneakers wrapped around a telephone wire

"tall stone monoliths and crumbled walls
hell is not a physical place
it is a spiritual realm

and this city of locked hearts
a prison of sorts
without barb wire," Kate tells me,

"and the high wire walkers
and the dice tossers
and the lonely ones...
all in search of the lost song."

"I want to sing songs
and dance far from this desolate stage,"
I'm telling Kate,
"I envision myself a tragic figure."

a tender smile and,
"who, Hamlet, Walter White?

we're walking down sunset avenue
occasionally passing other failed animals.
silent howling and teeth hidden in our
lost hearts
those parts too delicate to display
except in anger, rage, and want.

and my love touches in me places
I don't want to feel
and I love her like the mad hatter
loves alice.

it's summer.

we smoke a joint
and we're walking on the boardwalk.
we past the arcade
and a song is playing
and as we walk
down past the coffee shop
a different song is playing
further, another song.

"never tangled or twisted,
how do you do it?"
I asked her.

a serene smile
and Kate says,
"my life is quicksand
struggle you die
relax you float,
you survive."

her blue eyes
bright
my reluctant Cinderella laughs softly
and another song is playing
and i move closer to my heart.

I keep my poetry
                         On  the edge of my tongue            

            Like dew on the edge of a leaf
                       After the rain

                     Patiently waiting
                                with exquisite beauty
                                      
                          
                                     ­ To

                                          F

                  ­                           A

                                                L

           ­                                        L
                    Where I would like to believe
                         You'll be waiting patiently like grass

                                                                ­                            On a happy spring morning
          
                                            For me to land.

Mockingbirds, those beautiful creatures with feathers
as delicate as a whisper, find themselves trapped within
the confines of a cage, their melodic songs
silenced by the prison that surrounds them.

As they spin on the scale, their movements resemble
the graceful twirls of your hair, each strand reflecting the
music that dances in your soul. The sight leaves me awestruck,
my gaze fixated on the cracks in your eyes.
They tell tales of a life filled with both joy and sorrow, and
I can't help but be captivated by the depth within them.

But amidst this enchantment, I cannot help but feel
a pang of sadness for the little birdie that flew into a
deceptive net, its tiny body possibly breaking its delicate neck.
This mere accident, this twist of fate, has brought a sense
of loss and pain. In an attempt to make amends, to reclaim a
semblance of what was lost, I will venture back to the store.

I will seek out the mockingbird's freedom,
buying back its worth with the hopes of restoring
the balance that has been disrupted.

For in this act, I hope that I can bring a ray of light
to your world, honoring the beauty that lies within you
and the harmony that the mockingbirds sought to emulate.

May this small gesture of returning the caged bird symbolize
a larger journey towards reclaiming the freedom and worth
that was once taken away.

~
Are we all the same distance apart?
Are we nocturnal
because we buy into
rhythmic disturbance,
trying to find a memory
in a dark room?

In shadow of advancing myth,
there's evidence of hunters
in the glowlight,
with wings outstretched,
solitary and contrite,
we cut the night,
we cut the night.

From sticks to bitterness,
we cut the night,
we cut the night.
~