the gravel in back
kitty litter
i stop at the door
the spider tucks tight
in his shingled home
i'm not scared
but he is
he has kids

eyes as strange
like glimmering stone
in absent light
illuminate everyone as one
and we'll sit together
writing diatribes
on a porch as solemn
as i
as we
as everything is anything
it begs to be perceived

Dear old St. Francis
odd that familiar
parks and onyx apex
that starves for the skies
sandalwood     harbinger

As we walk the
camel     spine   streets
of South City to North Beach to
a westward seascape
brash   scaffold    lingering
steeped and sweet
for a gaze-eyed artist

Displace the era,
misdirected Guru that
owes nothing to reality

mimicking birds
we fled from the fields
full of balloon men
and their hearty work ethic
released from cages
we occupy the crude pastel
shades that take meaning out
of context
I breathe only to feel
my lungs collapsing
I run only to feel my
knees buckling

as I sit near the sill of my window; eyes of my home
the scent of jasmine tinges the air; my sensual bridge
that the bonfire blistering days of summer seasons approach me, I know
that the tiny rocks that rattle in the basin of my guitar
must be lonely and without sound to keep them company.

when I write I feel quaint
more so than thinking,
more so than living?
when I write about myself
I only tell the worst parts
and that keeps me hungry
where is the good?

knowledge cannot be attained
when one's mind is weary; give up the geist!
and revel in insanity. You will,
you will, always in time you will.

I wish I wrote like the greats
Not those whom have died in battle
But at the foot of a lonely bed
An empty bottle at their side.

O' Hara and Ginsberg
Bukowski and Blake
perhaps Shakespeare
wouldn't that be great?

Yet the pages pile up
at the corner of my room
one that is already lonely
one that the greats have
consumed.

April 27, 2011

pittering and pattering endlessly
the broken-record rain
to carpe diem

in my 22nd year
it is hard to breathe
in torturous sleet
in foggy, dismal humidity
like a gas mask

the stench of old age
illness, apathy
shoved out of pales
into larger ones
called heaven
or hell?

Harbored in my chest
something like a beast
as such
That, passions hold sway
over all
tossing reason out
the window
of My speeding car
Like rage like
discouragement
exacerbated in a
moment's breeze
turning my tables
with it