Don't be discreet
Be my equal
sing like the winged ones
toward frightened woes

There we were
(posed in the right).

We are no longer
(shrouded in discontent).

vignettes of our past
still crowd thoughts,
like kids in
concert halls.

show us wicked wills
and unkempt lives

We are alive today;
caught in mid-stride.

afraid of this life
but some
one must always
ride the tide

We are alive!
I say
with constant thrive.

show us scarred pasts,
the ones
who cross lines.

Hissing near my window, as if the cobra were striking
screeching audible like the bald eagle of injustice were diving
haunted cities of poverty parading delinquency like a soldiers ribbon
little brother that receives the backlash of disturbance in his home and abroad
as if a whip were cracking, the angry, grotesque whip of prejudice.  

lonely wonderer click-clacking through memories that toll the scroll
and through tears and acceptance and black holes of the mind,
to survive this circus tent that is no more a fantasy than it is just,
no more a joke than the joke itself
and only cruel cowards and ravenous robbers are laughing, pointing
sharp fingers in our faces and shrieking about revenge.

Shady streets of Shattuck
and Telegraph, home to ever-present
drifters and hep, and ever-present woe
won't you sing beneath the stars and traffic lights?
for whether or not dawn is breeching, the moon
like a jealous sibling in cosmic conflict.
We need another glass
I fill mine with the good stuff
with a splash and to ignite a crutch
so that we might have pillows like  
clouds of smoke to rest our restless, gaping,
restless, wicked, pinned pupils, we make
our own boundaries, our own expectations, which,
in and of themselves are beautiful articulations of
day by day. This moment we wave goodbye.
Spitting out ill-gotten thoughts, unfiltered
with hope and prayer that in the morning
we will be back at the old familiar station
dripping with contentment and familiar
that home is right under our feet. The Bart,
more like a vessel than I have ever known
who makes voyages feel like calmly strolls
through parks which lead us to  San Leandro
to Oakland, to Daly City, to Ashby and Fremont
tasting and smelling home when we reach old San Jose
upon another transit that sways all the way
to Santa Cruz to home and relief, and the load lessens
to a stop, although I truly feel we've started over
to begin, although the bright, bright lights blink
off and on for me as we stray homeward, as if to say
"We will see."

Summer is finally here
and it feels nice to breathe
in the wild, wind-rustled
brightness of daylight
and earth.

existentially savory
it makes me sick, makes
my heart skip a beat.
O, what fierce illusions we are!
Dancing in the brilliance of
Buddhist Nirvana.

And what fruit of
the earth does the solstice
carry; a diamond star,
or an amber sun,
quiet,
until it falls.

Words can be weapons, and
words can be woes,
Words like soft grass
beneath your tender toes.
Words are sacred, and
carry a blade, say what you
will, we cannot forbade.
Words will try and get
the best of you, and
bring out the worst
As wordsmiths, we feel
and foster their curse.

I could never buy
all those things
that you sold.
I could never hear
all those tales
that you told.
Know now that
Gray is Old
Gray is Old.
Lets strike that
golden bell,
the children are holding,
for it seems so soft
and brass.
Let that melody resonate
Let its sound be the cure.