Tears serve a purpose.
Preserve your water.
There will be days so dry
You'll cry vapour.

Tears serve a purpose.
Put pressure on your heart
Until the bleeding stops.
Get up and dance along.

Baby steps in the right direction.
All you know of this place is
It's between horizons.
Why so sad, little one?

Tears serve a purpose.
They're yesterdays leaving
The present. Blurring your vision
When looking back.

That's not where you're heading.
Come. There's more this way.
You'll smile. You'll laugh until
You cry.

Until your tears serve their purpose.

Cottonmouth kingdom.
Bloodshot million-gallon-gaze.
Brewery breath.
Battlescars.

Headache like horses over the hills.

Bukowski without the
Brilliance.

Her still warm
Imprint on the bed
Body and
Wings

Feathers on whole
Pillows

I wake up in Heaven
Alive.

Staying awake tonight, I will render myself suffering
Poet with a house full of only myself
And my thoughts.

There's food and drink, but all I care for is keeping the
Fire going as I sit. And look. At nothing. Everything.
With my thoughts

Silent, for once. As if all shields up and all angels sword
Drawn circling me, like a wall of Soulhome.
Soulrest. My thoughts

Go out to the part of myself that will never find
His way. The Last Living Astronaut, the last shard of Earth,
The last thing the dying solar system thought before

The Nova turned Super and all eyes blind.
I am alone; an unfolded antenna to capture every frequency's
Every whisper that was ever thought into these ancient walls,

And I project the process onto my device, in blind belief that
I can play the Tetris of Words around the moment I am in;
Where I am God. Quiet. Thinking. *Telling.

Nothing tastes quite like a
Freshly stolen apple from
Outside a very expensive house

After someone you're in love
With has just laughed into
The first bite of it,

Hands it to you
And whispers
*Thanks. Thief.

Fashionably
Against.  

Loudly.
Blood on blood.

Lie for a lie.
Truth for a truth.

Theory of Subjectivity.
Nothing I do is

-When it comes down to it-
For anyone but me.  

My warmest deeds were done
To feel good and uncold.

I find peace in it.
Reassurance.

Comfort even, when catching
Myself feeling good about hating

The haters, having completely
Forgotten the point of it all.

To not
Hate.

That died fighting
To free itself from
The cobweb

Inside the ventilation
Shaft between
Fifth and

Sixth floor still
Has its
Colours

Laughter hot on the
Trail of your tears. A

Mother's gentle breath
Soothing a bruised knee.

There,
Now.

Broken heart healed, see?
Scar free and good as new.

Winds follow rains;
Spring winter.

Hell, even Lieutenant Dan's legs
Grew back in the end.

Funny how a four year old
Can answer "because that's
Just what that does" to a

Question, knowing full well
That the grown up is the
Spiteful one, who refuses to

Hear such solid
Truth and find it
Enough.

Bringing my
Beautiful girlfriend to watch
My talented brother
Perform on stage

Don't know of
Whom I am the most
Proud
Perhaps

The scriptwriters
That compose my life
The guys at the soundtrack
Department

Deserve an award
Also  
Good job, people
I would like to thank

The casting crew as
Well
Female lead this season
Is an adventure of an actor

Everything beautiful I
Didn't lose
I broke.

Now all that's left
Is real.
I'm too old

For things
That
Aren't. And so

I embrace the
Ashes and dust
I am.

Losing physical weight as my
Mind expands.
I have been mouth for as long
As I can remember,

Now let me be hands. Hands, so
I may release you and hunger on.
Blessed be all things un-eternal.
I can only sleep in burning houses.

I'll pick seashells for a century.
Build you a castle.
I'll pave each floor with
Individual grains of sand.

One for each breath I took
That carried whispers of my
Wanting you.
I'll carve pictures into the

Walls with my fingertips.
Spending years on each detailed
Feature of your smile.
Diving the depths of every ocean

For pearls to render it just right.
I'll mine with my bare hands
Through mountains' hearts for
The black diamonds of your pupils.

Foundations built with my bones.
My blood a crimson fountain in the
Centre of its innermost room.
I'll shape a throne from the ashes

Of your every threat. Facing a fireplace
Spaceous enough to hold suns.
Here, rest your feet on a stool of
Your worries. Behind a door so heavy

Only loved ones can open it.
No ill intentions may cross this moat.
Sleep in a starlit tower room,
On a bed of clean contentment.

Stronghold of pure, divine beauty.
As you are to me. I'd create it for you,
With nothing but myself. Just because
You'd never, ever ask me to.

Your life.
You are the hero.

Start from
There.

Now
Write.

Every page is
Blank after

This
One.

That is
Power.

Pen
Power.

God is a
Poet.

You have that in
Common.

From afar
Seated busdriver
Patting little, old man
-In a rediculous hat
That once wasn't-
On the shoulder.

I lipread
No problem, just take
A seat, ol'-timer
Answered with gratitude
Like a little, old sun
On his little, old face.

Letting him in
Free of charge
As all should be for
Any senior.

Love. Your every
Guise
Charms me.

Last night, out on town
I had my first one three hours
After the others.

Had one with their
Every second.
All night.

I could smell the city
On my girlfriend's hair.
Feel the warmth

Of her hand when I
Held it to keep
Her steady.

I was there. Almost
Completely sober.
Present.

I could sense everything.

Woke up feeling
Fresh. Unafraid.
Not guilty.

I think I
Won
One.

I am a man against violence.
See my own blood spilled, rather
Than that of any other.

But I have a wall full of knives.
I've collected them my whole life.
Still do. Tools of war.

Tools of craftmanship.
I know the story behind every
Blade, Bowie or handmade

Russian letter opener.
I am not a man of religion.
I see God in every thing.

Worship all; therefore none.
But I collect rosaries.
The one on my desk, I bought in

Vatican City. The one above my
Bed was brought to me from
Transilvania.

I know the story behind each
One. I may seem confused at
Times; contradictory.

Construction working poet.
Heavy metal loving meditator.
iPad wielding viking.

I collect interacting opposites.
Wear snakeskin boots with my
Funeral suit.

Shave only my head at times.
Warrior monk. Knives and rosaries.
Stabbing at

Gods. Praying
For my
Enemies.

"How come you are the one
Comforting me,"* she says after
Blowing her nose with the
Tissue I dispensed,

"...when I am the one leaving
You?"

So I comfort.
Swallow my own despair
And dry tears with my name on
Them that missed by a heart's

Depth and hit her face.

"You're not my girl anymore," I say,
Watching a red moon rise over
Woodland summer nightscapes.

"But that only changes so much.
I'm here for you. Just like before."

That's what friends are for.

Sometimes, when my cat Ulven ("The Wolf") sleeps
Like a bundle of unhungry contentment in the
Sunlight, I stand above her and look down, shaking
My head as I whisper   

I always were a dog-person...

She offers one eye open. One.
Streches in her own pace.
*Yeah, right.
Shut up and
Scratch,
Human.

The Devil took on the shape
Of a city crow.
You should have seen him
Manouver through the streets
On the warm gusts of wind.

Beak silver, feet golden,
Wings as wide as the smile
Of a demon's fresh from
Heaven's grasp.
He turned his head, exposing

An eye; a window to his lack
Of soul, as black as the center of
Nothing. Fresh wounds from
Needles in the arm of a girl
On the pavement below

Were sunsets and rainbows
To him; he croaked with the
Voice of a hundred crying mothers:
Your opened veins are my gates.
Syringe keys and ****** handles.

No single sin is anything
Without the eye that judges it.
Behold: Within the skies above
Is only air, no godly love.

No devil neither rests beneath,  
As blade within an earthly sheath.
Behind this blackness you will find
The consciousness of Humankind.

The crow looked up and lifted off
With a giant rustling flap.
Then, mid-air, changed into a dove
Of summer-cloud white; glided above the roof
Tops; became one with the sunlight

That stroked itself across the face
Of the girl in the street.
She looked up at a passing
Child. One that didn't cringe at the look
Of her weary, weathered features, but smiled

As if knowing her.
I swore I could see the chemical veil lift
From her eyes.
Who needs gods or devils, I thought.
*They're only devided by heart.

I have no room for new scars.
My heart is more glued seams than pieces of
Hope and muscle.

My smile is as pale as the back of a
Dalí painting; all canvas and
Dirt.

I have opened my arms for a hug and
Stood accused of impersonating Christ.
Meditation rendered me unsocial.

As misunderstood as Latin, yet
I yell at the walls of common reality with
The dead language of my innersoul,

Cursing and blaspheming for the attention
Of deities. Some may listen; not one needs
To reply.

All I want is to break down the wall
Between myself and any creator
Listening,

And say Thank You. The Love
Of my Life is
My life.

What I love the most about my
Life is  
It.

Yes, I may get sour, even  
Angry, at things where my
Reaction has effects.

Caring little about spending
Myself on distant affairs,
I am an ambassador of common

Decency. Not some moral police,
But a surrenderer of seat
To an elder standing in the

Aisle. I'll find the owner of that
Dog left out in the rain. You may
Be a brother to me; still

I'll ask you to keep your
Voice down if I see
That it bothers

Others. I've been that guy myself.
A thirty-something-year-old acting
Fifteen, making others change tables,

Or even leave the premises.
I've taken up more space than I
Require. I don't wish that

Retrospective shame and regret
On any of my friends.
I'll not throw a stone at a sinner,

That I haven't already
Flung at a
Mirror.

The crimson tips of
Sundown's deep orange
Fingers
Trace each detail of the
Landscape; slowly yielding
To the wall of steel gray
Promise of storm
Swallowing blue.

Let us bring this bottle
And a chair out onto the
Entrance stairs; under shelter.
Sit on my lap as
It all hits.

Everything is drum.
A roofless room
Water walled
Deluge draped
Pink noise of drops;
Multitudes of molecules.

I love you, my woman.  
I love you slightly more
When it rains.

Not quite sure
How we

Ended up
Without clothes

I hold you
My chest to your

Back
Eyes interlocked

In mirror
I help myself

To your every
Treasure

You try to close
Your eyes

But we are too
Beautiful

To be
Unwitnessed

You lean an ocean
Of raven hair

Against my
Face

And whisper
The Devil's honest

Truth: Everything
You see

Is
Yours

I
Know

So sweet now, my life.
The sounds my woman makes from
The next room
Pronounce home.
Pronounce unalone.

So sweet now, my life.
Winter is over and tonight we sleep
By open windows.
The sounds of the night shape
Our dreams; we awake remembering
Adventures.

So sweet now, my life.
A palace of contentment raised on
The sound foundations of
Tragedies and pure ecstacy in equal
Amounts.
As any life should be.

So sweet, so sweet. Belly full of milk,
Mouth full of honey.
Rain is a cool shower,
Snow confetti.
The Dome of Sky a hand above me
That assures that all is safe.

No step I take lands wrong.
No step brings me away
From anything
Sweet. So sweet now;
My life. My *life.

So sweet now, my life.
My life.
Held by stronger foothold,
Rested warm with woman,
Goosebumped from kisses fresh
From lips tasting of
Love that longs to outlast itself.
Sweet. So sweet.

I have a shell of angels' wings to
Warm my infant human heart.
A cage of their swords' steel to keep
Any threat of real nature

Off my path. I fear not Sister Death.
Not even destructive criticism.
Leave me. Ridicule me.
Lie about me.

Nothing changes within me, I'll  
Only grow more undaunted.
For I have my eyes fixed on the
Above.

A dome. Of sky. An ever changing
Painting reminding me that rain, thunder,
Rainbow or clearest blue, sky remains
Sky;

I remain
*I.

I give you my eyes.
I have only these two.
World through my ears.
I'll hear it from you.

I give you my eyes.
Give you all that they've seen.
And here are my hands and
The places they've been.

Remember the way that she felt underneath
The streetlight that flowed with the snow to the street.
Snow in her hair; on her nose; on her mouth.
A hat she regret having left home without.

Forget not her smile -it is there, in my eyes-
The sweetest of weapons in brilliant disguise.
Here are my feet, seems we're just the same size.
They've jumped at the moon, they have kicked at the skies.

These legs may be worn, but they've done fairly good.
Supported me whether I ran, sat or stood.
My head you don't want, you should hear it from me:
It's as narrow as ocean, as shallow as sea.

So rip me apart all the way to the core.
Pry protone from neutrone, rob hadrone of quark.
Within my within there is her, nothing more.
She's half of my whole, it is her that I'm for.

Take all that I am, all I'll be and have been.
So the concept of man stands alone and is seen.
There are just three limbs from which I won't part.
One is my braided beard, one is my heart.

My girlfriend's father turned
Sixty. The party was legendary.

I remember everything.
By the sea.

She was beautiful.
The microphone stang my

Lips as I read the
Worrior's Poem.

Her dress was the closest I came
To pyjamas this morning.  

Now her father won't stop
Laughing.

Bailey's and IPA for breakfast.
Sometimes eggs deserve to

Remain unbroken.
She's warm and naked in bed, and

I'm laughing all the way
To her.

Mid-winter
Snow like white sand

Walking, listening to William
Fitzsimmons

An elk the size of a
Huge... elk

Approaches the paddock
Where horses stand unsuspecting

Suppose he just wanted to say
Hello to this antlerless creature

So much like
Him

Startled horse
Startles elk

And I watch tons of animal
Flee from

Itself
Disappointed

Having hoped to see interaction
So unlike that of us

Humans, but
No.

I don't mind death, as long it
Comes under an open sky.

Crows and magpies go for the
Eyes first.

The dead need them the
Least.

Lack of life renders once living
Things more alien within

Walls. So
I don't mind death as long as it

Comes under an open sky.
Among trees, mountains,

Soil, and stones,
I'll surrender my

Eyes gladly to the
Birds.

I know it's late, but I'm
At home alone with
A couple of six-
Packs and a guitar and the
Love of my life just gave
That Old *******
Cancer the finger, so I'm

Drinking and playing and
Singing until my liver,
Fingertips and throat are
Bleeding
Since the radiation and
Chemo don't have to
Make her bleed any

More, and
I've got something to celebrate
Unlike anything I thought I
Ever would in a life that
I mistakenly thought of
As rich until
This.

I look out of my window at
Stars and a moon that
Pretend not to
Give a **** in their
Neutral shining and stuff,
And I'm less poet than lover.
I've got all night

For this evening.
It's mine, and like
All else that is: Hers.
I know she's with friends.
I know she laughs.
I hope she misses me less
Than I do her,

And just celebrates her
Beautiful new
Lily-like blossoming into
Deathlessness.
It's as alien to her
As Life to a
Newborn.

I give her the blueprints to
My Death Star, and reaching
The core of my love is as easy
As bulls-eying womp rats in
Her T-16 back home; not much
More than two metres
From my heart.

Her eyes are the exact shade of
Force that an Ilum Crystal
Powering a light sabre
Emits when ignited,
And her hands can choke a
Weak man from a hundred
Imperial Standard Yards

Away. She's Leia to my Solo,
And the Vader tattoo on the
Back of her leg
Stares at me when she tip-toes
Past me, shower fresh and
Towel-less, inviting me over
To the Dark Side

Of sci-fi, *** and rock'n roll,
And I know from the
Bottom of my everything of
Everythings that she is
Indeed the *******
Droid I've been
Looking for.

I hammer will into wealth.
I harden principles,
sharpen my sense of
value.

wipe beads of sweat from
forehead and face, leaving
streaks of oil and blood upon
features

weathered by yesterday's
scolding self-loathing.
it took me nowhere.
gave me nothing.

I put chisel to the weld uniting
days past with those to come,
and divorce the need to
regret. to bang

my head against the wall of
who I once were.
the hurt I've dealt.
the stupid things a young man

can say under influence and not.
my whitest coals were the
trust I placed; the handle of my
hammer in the hands of

any authority seeming capable  
to swing it against an anvil
more often empty than not.
no more. not again.

I forge my own future.
breathing on hot coals, thrusting
raw metal into the red heart of
the fire.

this is my forgery.
I built it with my own two hands.
the only two
that may create within it.

Appreciation in the
Beggar's eyes when your
Coins sing against the others
In his cup.

You look around to see
If anyone saw you,
Then walk on,
Proud of your

Charitable heart.
Oh, so proud.
Well, I thank you on
Behalf of my broke brother,

Sad, though, that your ego
Speaks so loudly no-one
Can hear what your soul is
Trying to say.

Not much scars as
Ugly as bite marks
On your feeding-
Hand.

I was one too.
Taking pleasure in pains of the
Past; addicted nearly, to the
Pity and attention
Of others.

Now I keep it locked away.
Private pearls of an adventure life,
Wounds long healed;
Faded scars. My smiles now deserved.
I wish the same contentment

To all those others, the
Happy unhappy. Who can only
Recognize themselves
In broken
Mirrors.

I cannot fix
What is broken
Inside you.
All I can, is to be a
Band-Aid; a soothing
Breath upon the bruised
Knees of your heart's
History.

The healing itself
Is up to
You.

I look for repetition in my
Poetry  
Run my hands through
Months of whittling and
Fitting
Words into figurines to
Detect

Boredom by border between
Own style and
Self-copying crossed
I find

The strongest move
I can make
Is to keep writing
However the Hell I
Want.

For Billy and Madison.


Brother more than
Friend

Everyday soldier
Hero/father

Nyack, NY
Windows down

Watching water
And its frame

From bed/
Seat

Appreciating all
Except the

Missing of so much
More than

Some*
Own

Flesh and
Blood

Chose peace over
Own victory

I know
The Hudson River

Knows
Too

In our humble
Eyes

All your
Battles

Are
Won

-

Rivers flow
Fathers sacrifice

Between volumes and syllables.
From a piece of paper
Folded with smitten hands and
Hidden between

Books of lesser interest to a
Young heart in first love,
To the isles and isles of scrolled
Knowledge lost in the blasphemous

Fires of Alexandria, my story
Remains only for as long as I
Do. Punctuations and dreams
That will forever matter less to

Another than their own. My
Story is my doing. My being.
My loves and dislikes.
My failures and successes weigh

Exactly as little as names of
Kings and gods long forgotten,
When printed with other drops
Of the same ink as theirs.

I love my girlfriend's answer
To questions of an afterlife:
*"I hope it all ends when it ends.
I have been given enough.

Give my space to other souls.
All I am; all I have,  
I am comforted to think I only
Borrow."

The time has come to hang up both
My party going boots.
35 and still alive, now
It is time to choose.
I've lost a little, still I have so
Much I yet could lose.
Hang those habits one by one,
Refuse to not refuse.

It will take a lot more than
An apple every day
To keep the doctor and the reaper
One scythe's length away.
I like it here, to live and breathe,
But how long I can stay
Depends on just how well I turn
And change my poison ways.

So here I sit, a bachelor fresh
With best friend at my side.
We drink and sing and celebrate,
And toast to those who died.
The final little binge, a bang,
Like last time that we tried.
(Sobriety is better faced
With alcohol inside.)

Some of our scars join up
Like ink lines on two torn
Parts of a treasure map.

My heart asks hers:  
"You wouldn't happen to
Carry the other half of

This medallion?"
Oh, this new love between
Old souls.

We embrace the mortality
Of infatuation, and our flirtations
With Death,

Our ancient, common friend.
Live every day together like we
Did our first one,

Each one apart as if it's the last.
Yes, we'll lose each other.
But let's wait a while,

While my bad heart and your
Cells that always will carry the
Threat of relapse

Save the last,
Beautiful dance for
Each other.

Some of our
Scars line up
Perfectly.

They've taken us
This far, adventurer.
I know your legs aren't tired

Yet.

She looks up at me from the
Stroller, eyes wide open as
If she's never seen a shaved
Head before.
I'm guessing it's the head.

The tram is packed full of people,
And my country boy soul cringes
At the touch and smell of a
Hundred strangers.
So I focus on the little angel princess
Strapped gently to her

Throne on wheels, and in the
Vast space that our eyes meeting
Creates, I breathe pure, fresh air.
The tram is a hall we have to
Ourselves, and I'd trek to
The end of the universe

To find the last piece of candy
In existence, just to return,
Travel worn and outer space
Accustomed, just to place it
In her tiny hands
In gratitude.

Arms to the ground.
I have fought my last
Battle.

Boots off, socks too.
I will search; explore
No more.

Head down, to rest upon
My woman's chest.
Not one night

On solitary pillow
Ever again.
The end of my life

As I have known it.
I'll never be less than
Two. Sad pen to

The ground. This might
Be the last poem I'll ever
Need to write.

Bandaged wounds that
Bled ink healing. All my
Smiles are unwriteable, now.

She raises her glass of red
To the moon.

Each mirror the other.
Like lake surfaces;

The laughing eyes of old
People together, and

Other things that shine.
Her friend since forever.

A mother; she holds galaxies
In her heart, supernovas within.

The moon is her only witness.
And I.