Somethings are just golden,
Even if gold doesn't stay,
Somethings don't fade away.

I am golden,
An idea that refuses to fade,
I am brave.

the cold bites back, and the wind does not exist in
sunny california. difference? between
cloudy and gloomy. it's wet and there's ice,
and i'm dressed in nothing but jeans, blue wool, crocs,
admiring a closed loan shop, no street tacos yet,
but a pizza shop firing up their stoves, ovens,
the yeast and olive oil pressed into bowls of
dough, to form nothing but endless
platters and platters of margaritas, pepperoni,
a side of breadsticks.

a man curls up like a kitten seeking warmth on a
bus bench, waiting for the great big fireball to
embrace everything again.
but it is winter, creeping into the shadows,
into my blankets, into nighttime when the rain begins
to clean up when no one else is awake

the moon smiles fondly, and the insomniacs
find solace in the peace of night, when their time
is in no one else's hands but their own,
not in the hands of their mother, warm by
observing the rest of the world
from their perch like a ****** of crows
waiting for the next fallen fry or crumb that
falls in their line of sight

there’s a woman walking, in her mid thirties
and holding a bag of tomatoes, i think
it's not coincidence; she looks like an aunt or
grandma i've seen at church, and there’s a
man probably in his twenties who trails after her
not far like a son

All things are still lives

in themselves, unpretentious --


what they are there for.

Time is forgiving at times
Giving you things which last
Meanwhile you are preoccupied
Worried about the finish
Looking at the glass emptying
Drinking but not quite enjoying
Restless for some blissful
Forgetting to savour the sweetness
So becoming bitter with emptiness
Perhaps anger which boils over
At things not being as expected
However as this concoction rages
Something else is simmering
Waiting for you to realise
Revealing itself with tenderness

The rain sounds like you
soft at first, then heavier,
like the words I never said.

Clouds gather, pressing against my chest,
thick with unsaid confessions.
I hold them in,
tight as the sky before the storm.

Maybe I’ll break like thunder,
spilling everything all at once.
Or maybe I’ll just keep raining,
slow, quiet, unnoticed
but drowning all the same.