You were always friendly, with those that you liked
but enemies were easily met. I guess they just didn’t
understand you. Its easier to push someone away
rather than try and relate. Convenience is a burden
in disguise. I didn’t know at the time, but you were
the legend of this town.
Hopping the fence near the river, we settle near
the over-grown grass and weeds,  
At that age you don’t drink for
the right reasons, you drink to have fun
but as men, we drink to stay young.
You grew up much too fast, and things
got ugly.
Often times I wondered about you.
So beat, and covered in soot, but
in passing, finding love. Happiness is
only an appearance, I guess. We pretend
to find joy in things to try and forget that
we are alone. He never forgot. I guess that is why
it was so easy for him to walk away.
In my imagination, I saw you passing
a space-bag full of merlot to another
lonely companion in the back of a freight
train; hoping to make it to D.C. before
morning arrived. Old and crusty, but
young in years, almost like
Cassady or Kerouac, but without the gusto.
Too afraid to stay in a single place.

Half the moon was hidden,
half of it howled, once the
horizon did dissolve.
Waves cave in and crash
along the beach,
along the shore
and in my heart,
well, you can't ever be too sure.

When we laugh,
thats poetry, and
when I get that feeling,
an emotion I cannot quite
reciprocate, Oh, that
is sweet, raw artistry.
Isn’t this beautiful,
You’re falling into place
right next to me.
Non-Material,
above picturesque!
An emotion so robust, yet humble;
Seen in a frame on a wall, or in sand
along the shore, or in my notebook
from which pages have been torn;
my God, that is where poetry is born.
Our fears are poetry,
our peers, the influence.
An Empirical, transcendental
accumulation and a work in progress.
Something a lens only tries to uphold,
but cannot truly experience;
that is poetry.
It breathes along in time.

our hearts are quick
in this we are alike
quick to speak my heart
you are puzzled by me
and my awkward speech
Oh! But with words on paper
I could make you swoon
over not any other, ever.
Alone, and silence, and comfort;
that's how I want to be, but only
If I can be with you, and I am ill,
sick with worry that life is intangible.
[7.18.10]