brittle leaves
swirl in circles
behind the motorcycle

Wear a bathrobe
when beating the keyboard,
when borrowing words from your muse;
Let the stale air in the
dim room
form as
     fragrant
beads of sweat,
thick with whiskey,
on your brow
Wonder if what you're
     writing
is poetry or ****
Proceed to not care and
write, write, write baby
because at the end of it all,
when the words are used up
and you've sobered up,
someone will tell you
     it's ****
and someone will tell you
     it's gold
But you don't give a ****, do you?
You just
     reach for the whiskey
bottle and ask your muse
     for some more
Netflix and chill
But hey, wear that bathrobe;
     it gives you character

the sting
of the needle
brings both pleasure and pain;
i’m addicted to getting new
tattoos

at my age
drinking whiskey
with young
Marines
is a poor choice
Decades of practice
and years of experience
keep me seemingly
sober
for longer -
I beat my nephew at
chess
in five moves
bragging about my skill and
prowess
but really, my nine shots
to his
three give me an
unfair advantage;
I’ve learned to handle
my whiskey
I mock these young
soldiers
for their lack of
stamina,
knowing all the while
they will wake at
0600,
run three miles,
and feel great
while I will
sleep
until 0900
and feel like
**** all day

the leaves fall;
my jasmine tea
scents the air

she lies on the bed facing me
the curve of her hips
giving shape to the
blankets

her bare shoulder and arm are
bent at a gentle angle
as she lightly runs her
fingers
through my hair
her tattoos a vibrant
splash
of color on her alabaster skin

half lidded eyes take me in
and she sighs, a Mona Lisa
smile
on her lips

A million thoughts run through my
mind, my manic mind,
while she caresses me in complacent
bliss

How did I end up here
with this woman
with her perfect peace contrasting my
inferior and harmful
psychosis -
my constant battle with myself
and the universe

How can she love me
a man
who screams in defiance
at the tempest
while she spreads her
arms wide
and turns her face into the
rain and glories in it

My thoughts swirl
and clash
with the outward serenity
of the bedroom

And this is normal for me

The surprise comes when,
in a single moment
of clarity,
in between one manic thought
and the next,
I sigh with her
release the knot in my chest -
say “**** it” and
kiss her eyelids

I join her in this
perfect
moment of contentment

even as she wonders at my
sudden exclamation

disease,
poverty, war -
hatred and bigotry
everywhere; yet each day birds
still sing

the false dawn
banishes
     false hopes
of finding sleep
ahead of the rising sun
transient glow accompanies
     first blush birdsong
the cardinal's aubade
     ushering
          greeting
     the brush's first stroke
across the canvas of night
twitching limbs
     bloodshot eyes
          nonstop freight train of thought
               all
                    night
                         long -
these afflictions allow me
to witness the lonely beauty
     of today's sunrise

the stained glass window in my bathroom is broken
I see it every time I ***
three shards of missing colored glass
bleeding non-filtered sunlight -
a washed-out contrast to the flavored
beams shining next to those jagged wounds

a more discerning eye might notice
  the scars
on two more pieces of tinted glass;
cracks that promise
to sacrifice their host, hint at
a future for the frame with less glass
and remind of it's eventual doom

I’ve often considered repairing that window
but I never do
the missing glass, spiderweb cracks  the flaws
make the window less ideal,
but more perfect

Washing my hands today, my face illuminated by
green light,
  red light,
    yellow light,
      broken light,
        and spidered light through cracks of glass
      I think again;
I really need to replace
that glass.

My arms held high, I glorify the night
which masks the horror of the world from me;
all the death, the sorrow and the spite.
I cannot fear that which I cannot see.

The night cries only to those who listen.
Deafened, I reach out and embrace the dark,
offering my soul in full submission.
And yet, the night cries dimly reach their mark.

The sweet comfort of night peels away
leaving ugly darkness and empty skies.
The keening leaves me in a disarray.
Frightened, I listen as the night cries.

The night cries torment me as there I stay;
I long only for the coming of day.