I call on Blake for energy,
And Dickinson for everything.
And you my dark and distant muse
For new directions, founding stones,
The resurrection of a shrine,
Where I, an idler, hear your song--
Asleep and dreaming or awake,
Imagining your warm return.
White feathers of the world descend
On you, clear-hearted child of Jove
And memory.  I made you smile
Once through the night.  I'll try again,
If you're inclined, if you recall
Just how it worked as we reclined.

The days have become
cast lead ingots
that hold me under
The seconds a plague of locusts
That devour every shred of dignity
The weeks that lay ahead
leave me horizontally inclined
Now the years are rubber stamped overdue
or return to sender
The hours oscilliate from day to night to a monotonous finale
with every note short of breath
The months have compounded my interest of doubts
Leading to decades of debacles and debauchery
And to a lifetime devoid of hope

the silvers of the moon
sing their song of winter,
exhilarating above the black
rock and distant trees, her
fire lights the night like a
street lamp, the shadows
thrown back, muted,
echoing the near-teary darks
of the clouds. i sit on the
window sill, look out,
breathe deep the midnight sky
built of love and winter rose.

You can lead a fool to reason,
but you cannot make him think.

Tommy guns for insurance
And wads of sweaty cash
To build new empires with

But there are no guarantees
Crime, you see, doesn't pay
You can bank on it

So we already know how it ends:
They canceled his policy
And Dunaway with her

Mute that blare
Swing that low
There's no room
for the old oboe

Slide on down
Make no bones
Oh ! Mercy !
Mr. Trombone

*** on keys
Sax done deed
Clairinet nukes
that reed

Going down real
Feeeeeeel !
Jazz and coffee
So surreal