Beware of the man
with the sharpened wit
He be a swordsmen in disguise
Using the air in his lungs
he duels with his tongue
splitting damnable truths
between lies

i keep looking for excuses to get upset.

and i wish i could stop finding them.

Life is this tiny space
between
infinities

A finger‘s width full of
love and despair and
the desire to be
free

We are empty whiskey bottles
Apologizing for always helping the helpless
Damning the ******
Liquifying any motivation
To make things better
Pouring ourselves out
To soak in sorrows
Begging and wishing
Someone would pour us back

Flies swarm when the floodlights come on.
They **** and they fight, live and die.
In the space of an hour
turf becomes a bed of glass wings-
none are left
straining for the light.
It looks like a mass suicide.
Eggs hatch in the sweat of night.
Tachycardic at birth,
one brief exultation
enough to still the lung,
nullify the heart.
Yawn out of existence,
bullfrogs croak miserably
as bodies fall from the sky.
You ask me why I cannot sleep-
I saw a thousand deaths tonight.

I thought of you this evening
heart tethered to the ceiling
fingers teasing the hem of your dress
our stolen names
our clumsy address

Thought of you on Parliament Square
holding a clipboard
and shouting in the rain
tied a ribbon to your hair
with a silver paper crane

Thought of you with innocence
thought of you with ***
all the miserable spaces in between
the collisions we forget

I thought of you this evening
by the milky blindness moon
argued on the cause of death
agreed it came too son

Thought of you this afternoon
thought of leaving too
this artless life
I lie beside
in the wake of you

Thought of you and all the thieves
that chanced upon my way
I never counted you among them
I still love you to this day

I thought of you this evening
eyes tethered to the ceiling
numb and dense with pills and regret
you taught me the art of forgiving
even when I could not forget

It was never about the stars,
the breeze,the tides
or the ocean

it was about us,
the way we made everything relevant,
the way everything existed,
in the aura of what we had,

we lived in it,
loved our naked realities in it,
everything else just crept in,
just to be alive and exist for us,
so next time you feel a breeze,
or hear the tides,

remember you are with me,
and we shall hold it till eternity.

It’s four in the morning
half-******, alone
slouching towards brilliance
on the back of a half pack
of cigarettes and a lifetime
spent staring out the faces
in the ceiling.

Been this way since evening
unshaven, undressed
striving to be beautiful
amongst flashbulb memories
of my fingers between her legs
and her phantom song
that cut through the smoke

and tore the heart of every man
left standing
in the room.

I sometimes search the Internet
Looking for my father’s Rickenbacker guitar
Though I rarely heard him play it
That sliding sound, with my bedroom door ajar

More often I can see it still
In our parlor in its dedicated space
It must be strum while sitting down
Its elevated strings silent in its case

I couldn’t comprehend it then
Though looking back now it seems a little cruel
That on the day my father died
Like any other day, I went on to school

That day began as usual
My father and I-an ordinary ride
Until he swerved right off the road
While I lurched to his side and watched while he died

His heart had stopped, and even now
I try to remember a look or a trace
Wondering why his lips turned blue
And a wave of pale, deep pain was on his face

His death was never talked about
I was clueless about what to do or say
No one ever spoke to me then
When I was driven to school on that same day

I can’t remember anything
About the details of our lives before then
I catch up watching family films
He left when I was only 9, almost 10

I know we have gifts that differ
I believe according to my Father’s Grace
That the gift my father left me
I sometimes see it written on my own face

And in strains of music heard
That sliding, soulful sound in Hawaiian songs
Or when Neil’s Harvest album plays
I stop-and like a prayer I sing along

I looked for his guitar again
It’s now worth so many thousand dollars more
All I have is faded memories
Haunting strains of music coming through my door

She might have needed 50 bucks
When I asked it was the story she would tell
About my dad’s Rickenbacker
That I fiercely begged my mother not to sell