Nobody knows when
love will roll in and
waltz with your crippled
soul.
Nobody knows when
the chickens will come
home, or when the dog
will have its day.

I heard of a place where
silence blossoms into
flowers of wisdom, but
when I ask for directions,
nobody knows.

I taste the sadness of
the sky in every poisoned
drop of rain.
I was born to swallow it.
To be consumed by the
gray expanse.
I ask for the antidote,
the cure.
Nobody Knows.

What happened to the
street signs, the picket fences,
all the love and empty spaces?
People play games, and only
traces of humanity remain.
How do I pull the cord on
this parachute?
Nobody Knows.

Where did the literary
giants write their masterpieces?
Thoughts like this plague
me when my mind stews.

I heard that Hemingway
stood to write.
Did any of them write on
the toilet?
Straining to ****...
"Call me Ishmael"
Could that have been the genesis
for Moby ****?

I like to write in bed, sleep
competes with the creative
process, but I keep coffee on
my nightstand.
I prop myself with
Hawkeye pillows, and
arrange the vapes.
Cigarettes are gone, but the
nicotine addiction remains.

No ***** to spill on
the pages, and no woman to
vie for my affection.
Tonight, I make love to
the page.

There are days
when the fat
rain beats the
tent like a snare
drum.
Sleep is impossible,
a distant
memory from youth.
Beautiful flowers die,
and green isn't quite
green enough.
It turns to olive brown,
then black.
People don't behave
and we can't make them.
I hope there is
rest when it's all
said and done.

Of all the literary
devices, my favorite
one is living.
There's no substitute.

As poets, we pull back the
curtain to our view of life.
You can shape your craft as
you go.
Metaphors will come all
over the page.
Your imagery will become
pencil-sharp and vivid.
Be patient.

If you don't have to
write, it will be easier if
you choose not to.
There are more enjoyable
activities:
***
Eating a lobster at dawn
Fishing
Swimming
Playing with your dog
or cat
*******
traveling.
Even getting your teeth
pulled can be less frustrating.

But if you must write,
you will.
Try not to ***** when
you are sick to your
stomach.

Paint a picture with
words.
Frame it with phrases.
Shine a light into the
vast darkness of mankind's
soul.
Be the light.

Hope migrates to
sunny island shores.
There is no sorrow,
roses always bloom,
and the birds of paradise
fly forever free.
The salty ocean
cleanses the rot
from the skin
and the heart.

It didn't matter if it was
August, and the air felt like an
oven on broil, or if it was
February, and the dumpsters
were icecicles to the soul.
We needed *****, and since we
didn't have jobs, the cans, at
5 cents a piece were our
aluminum tickets to sweet relief.
The magic click.
Enough cans meant a bottle of
whiskey
*****
gin,
anything to dull the
sharp, vivid pain of life.

We sifted through
cat ****
catsup
***** diapers
discarded ***** mags,
and all the other
garbage from the
rich and the poor.

One winter morning,
I threw back a heavy metal lid,
and there was a fat
raccoon looking up at me.
If Bacchus or Dionysus were
smiling, we found a
full bottle.
It happened once in
a while during summer when
the college kids headed home.

Miles of walking,
freezing or burning up,
We were the aluminum
cowboys.

We became friends later.
On that day we were
combatants.
Two kids trying to
prove their manhood.

I circled left, shot a quick
jab.
I missed and Doug laughed.
He hit me fast with a right.
Laughed again.

I circled right, this time my
jab landed.
There was a gush of
blood from his nose.
He wiped at it, and said,

My ******* sister hits
harder than that.
I hit him again.

I'll bet she doesn't hit
harder than that, I said.
You'd lose that bet, Doug said.

Mr Jester came running out of
his house.
You boys quit fighting and shake
hands right now...I want you to
say something nice about each other.
He motioned towards me.

Well, Sir, Doug here has a tough sister.
She hits harder than most boys,
at least that's what I heard.
Doug grinned.

Oh, a regular Marciano, huh Doug?

Oh yes, sir.
She can be a real mean ***** when she
wants to be.

Mr Jester said,
Hey, watch your language you
little degenerate.
Who do you think you are,
John Dillinger?
Doug muttered some
sort of apology.

Go on, the old man said, it's
your turn.
"Tommy boy here has a
great curve ball.
He got five strikeouts last week."

"Hey, that's great son, you gonna be
in the major leagues when you grow up?"
Yes, Sir, I said.

Someone was mowing their lawn, and
the smell of fresh-cut grass filled the air.
We were young, green, and tough.

"How about you son, do you want to play
in the big leagues too?"  Jester asked.
Doug grinned.
"No sir, baseball isn't my thing.
When I get older, I'd like to ***** one of
your daughters."

Doug took off running.
He ran track for the team.
100-yard dash if I remember right.
I could hear Mr. Jester just
barely over the lawn mower.
Come here you rotten little
*******.

In every room
I've lived in,
all the dilapidated shacks
over the years that I've
stayed in, always had a
brown spider that crawled
the walls.
It had a little suitcase.

I thought to myself that it
planned on leaving, moving to
someplace better.
It never did.
It always just set up shop, and
spun a web in the corner and caught
flies, and occasionally a small moth.

On drunken sad moon nights,
I sang dirges to the trapped bugs.
They smiled and laughed, even though
they were dying.

On my last drunken escapade,
I was sitting in my girlfriend's
living room.
It was 3:28 am, I was *******
on a cheap bottle of *****, and
It was ******* the soul right
out of me.
I knew things needed to change.
She had just ****** me dry in
the bedroom, and I was losing
all my strength.
I had the wisdom of a snail,
inching along, waiting to be
crushed.

I wasn't drunk, just liquid smooth.
Contemplating and configuring the
degradation and the lack of
windmills to chase.
The mirror had become a horrible and
pitiful place. Out of the corner of
my eye, I saw a large shadow zip
across the wall.
A second later, our cat, Patches, leapt
into the air.
I heard a terrible

Squeak, tweet, squawk,

I ran to her and began prying
at her mouth.
It was a small night bird.
I took it from her and put it
outside.
It was still alive, and there was
no
blood on my hands.
I said,

Bad Patches.

It freaked me out.
I woke up my girlfriend and told
her what happened.
She said,
are you sure it wasn't a dream?
I went into the bathroom and looked
in the mirror.
I drained the last of the *****,
and walked to the hospital.
When it's time,
you just know.

The words and lines
aren't coming today.
I lie down for a nap.
I dreamt of metaphors
and similes.
I woke up.
The years swim away
like bass at spawning
time.