I stand out here alone in the night,

The sky is almost bright,

Birds tweeting, dogs barking in the distance, leaves dancing in the wind,

And Im smoking a cigarette, that is becoming shorter and shorter.

In front of me, is an old house,

And in that house is a flashy room in which a TV’s playing,

While everyone is long asleep, there is only me and the person in that room awake,

There is a strange  connection between us two now and he will never know.

Suddenly the dogs stopped barking, birds kept on tweeting, the room kept on flashing,

Smoke is rising to the almost bright night sky,

Vaporizing in the dancing leaves,

I’m waiting for something.

Sensing the inevitable loneliness around me in the deep night,

I thank for the moment of silence to heal my spirit from the wounds of yesterday,

The cigarette  is dying,
And so am I.

Pray the foghorn comes no closer;
bringing thunder over rolling waves.
A stampede across an open prarie
bellowing with ancient lungs.

Are there secrets with the crickets?
Whispering in harmony
to the rustling leaves?

There is no hospitality
in silence.
Conversation lives between everything that breathes.

if ya down wit dis listen
to this gayrap swallow it
like a fat jaypack it is anti-macho
against crews like humpty-packo

pitch-black baby ain't no rooster
will **** wit our ****-booster
we are too star for your underground
flows are miles-high and they glitter

it is lipstick-**** we're spitting poison
and your kid sound vanishes
look your raps are always "almost"
you'll be killed by our host

like the impaler this guy vlad
your midlife-crisis is cute
eminem is now called ruth
the new rapcolor is purple

I love the sound of the highway
Filling in the void between voices,
Like a sense of insurance, a reminder
that there are always people
Out on their way somewhere.

Without so much as a care left in place,
Perhaps for reasons more spiteful than just,
The only times I feel like I’m not being forgotten
Is when I’m leaving something else in the dust

The sound of the road means there’s a place to go.
A next, a forward, but not always for me.
Of all the times in the world to not feel lost,
It’s when I’m headed nowhere in particular,
Just listening to the march forth others make.

When headlights meet street lights,
And requiescence deluges the world,
Just before silence cracks through my mind,
Comes rumbling clear the ambience of the road.

a poem never writes itself,
but will guide us.
its sinister intent half-mechanical, as if by formula,
yet imbued with fresh shock
and sound. a word
settles on the bones
and then another--- another.
their emergence rings hollow
before unison and rings
loudly as a whole.
cascading rhythms,
parsed onto pen-pricked page,
gasping for more
and wanting less.