O how far
we are
from the benefit
of brotherly comfort

For if we
form agreement
that pain inflicted---
or of affliction---
is contemporary
in the minds of the wise,  
then, perhaps,
that river
of indifference will
be ******

O how wise
it would be to
bridge some pitfall---
at the bottom conflict---
to remove this apparatus
of affliction---this monkey
on the back of culture---
to yearn for healing---that
is the constant contaminant
of men, no need to look
any further
than art itself

Inside my box are some photographs,
every tattered frame captures
my passion
each one, another memory
not just one thousand
words,
words I wouldn't let roll
off my tongue, but
those that are like clockwork
on the inside
much like a brick house,
much like our home
the people are living like
moss
and underneath stones.

Inside my heart is gray
though, I am not old
like the photographs
on the outside
I can breathe
and work to make a living
that's what a young man does
so why do I feel so old?
Because I carry so much
weight with me?
Maybe I'd be happier if
I only existed in a frame
my heart would close its lid
like the box.

sitting around like dust
in dark rooms
dead skin, dead weight

a gold rush in my heart
one my habits won't permit
crippling writer's block

hardly seems worth my time
one that holds no
metaphoric water
doesn't do much for
the metaphysical mind

sometimes a new pen
is inspiration enough
sometimes I don't even
get out of bed
in the morning

sometimes all I need
is disaster, the sing-song
of your voice
your words of kindness
your distaste

sometimes that is
inspiration enough