Crippled, skinny gull
puddles in the potholes
of empty streets

holes in the walls
the school closed, no one
who could leave stayed

after the riots
no one who was released
from the cells

Losses have been taken
suitcases packed
the water shut off

Old town, dead harbour
where I was at home and would
have liked to come back

clean your white steps
turn on your lights, please
turn on, turn on again

As a child, the 80 acres seemed like the whole world, with its ponds and streams and sunlit meadows.
It looked like Eden to my young eyes.
I chased the lambs and dragonflies, caught tortoises and toads.
The banks of the streams looked like cliffs to me, as I watched the suspended shadows of the bluegill in the water below.

With July's on broil, I found shade beneath a black locust tree, and tried to figure out, how I could use the thorns as fish hooks, to catch dinner for the night.
Evening set the sky on fire and the clouds were all a blaze.
Passion found me early, so much land, and nothing but time.

Then dusk turned gently into night and the summer Moon looked sad, like a giant porch light left on, for a lover that's never coming home.
As I lay in bed the cicadas buzz tucked me in, and from the pond came to bullfrog sad song, and I knew he was lonely like me.

Slow lava creeps up

on you and it swallows you --


There is nothing left.

Oh, these good old days...

how elusively little --


is left of them now.

You won’t see me when I enter. The crystals of glass
gliding past as I ride a sliver of moon glow

through your window and crumple to your floor.
You won’t see me when I rise and survey

the scene. A foreign body by your side. Books you’ll never
read. I slip a gossamer thumb into your slumbered

mind. Let me finger through your dreams. Taste you
from the inside. I’m not sure why I chose to arrive. But I’ll move

an object enough to leave a mark. And now, like before. You won’t
see me. I leave quietly in the night. The last thing you’d want

is an encore.

How lucky I feel to live for real,
melancholia that is hard to reveal
imagine.scribble. gives me chill
Live in austerity, an innocuous thrill

How lovely I feel to have this pen in my hand
you wanna look inside of me, and watch me write?
See it in a different point of view
Cause you only got one side of me, and nothin's new

Shocking to feel a positive charge
Unusual sensation in my heart
you wanna look inside of me, and watch me write?
Don't be surprised with a big invisible spark.

Is there something I can find
Buried deep in my mind,

An allure which ensures
Me of hope?

So pure and unadorned,
So naked, as was born,

Just a light, just a spark,
That which pulls upon
The heart,

To awaken, and allow
Me to see?

Is there something, buried deep,
Among the feelings I keep,

Is there hope for the one
Who has none?

No more sadness,
No more pain,

No more for a stain,
For a shadow of
What I once had?

No more crying,
No more lying,

No more wishing
I was dying,

Is there hope for the one,
Who has none?

Engraving each memory on a grain of sand
I captured time, for infinity, in a bottle
With tired eyes I sit there and mull
turning it around, over and over.

Will the sand ever pave the way forward?
Or will it cut deeper and deeper?
The grains may beckon over their own kind
wading through time, eroding like a river.

Perhaps there was a start to this all
A cold, unmelting person, thawing
as the lands shaped them, the scenery changed
but the river of memories just kept flowing.

It never makes it to the sea, oh no
never to float away, or to discover paradise
reaching the end only to turn back
oh, I've captured the sands of time.

The memories now all fade into one
of reliving each moment, the joy and the agony
the cascading grains all sing the same song
of the life I've lived, quite a symphony.


The glass is full, there's no more space
the fields passing by were never meant to last
a new course to be charted, to discover, to seek
to fill and measure with a new hourglass.