Perhaps this is the
best thing, although
my patience is lost
and my flame left
flickering
I'll find a way to douse it.
Life will be good and
clean and viral again.
It will have happenings
and magic and lust. But,
I just can't see us feeding
the Ducks, together,
again; not while
these dogs are barking.

bereft and struck, yet
brief in exile
the gatherers made
a day of the whole affair.

through standing afar
ghastly, conscious,
risen things gawked
as fixed upon; pigeons.

the eat your heart out feeling
swallows the gatherers whole
a breath of an opinion heard;
outspoken.

forget nothing but fallacy!
democracy of the estranged
fluctuating feelings for your
Father Dear.

Shamed to say--
Our eyes were transfixed--
a pig-tailed harlot in ******* gesture--
Our paradigm a construct of discontent and distraction,
a mockery.
All the while our minds made up--
The chemical ghost kept in its grave--
claims translucent as the agenda itself.
Shamed to say--
The audience engrossed with North West;
The East, a precarious little flame meandering on the sidelines
of a nightmare we haunt whole.
What will it take to break our gaze?
How much longer will we suffer scrutiny?
Take the helm and steer towards an effort for thought,
or remain in forlorn ignorance, remain
a mockery.

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.

If we were standing
side by side
we would still feel
indifferent between.
Amongst and beyond,
vexing us into desperation.
And at least we can stand
side by side
with our backs facing it
so long as our hearts
are still in it.

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.

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

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

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.

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

Wise words, wondrous and wicked
slicing up meaning.
Although we’re not at rest or ease
slightly drifting toward eternal slumber;
that which comes to claim us at a days end.

The autumnal tears of trees
and the ocean sways with a spit.
The gleaming pitch-dark,
my words fall short
at midnight in Summer.

The grass is wet with warmth
and there is a bead on the blade.
Sulking in radiant youth;
frightening away.
apart from me; always drifting.
I only knew you from the kitchen window.
We were.
Then faded away,
like color on the screen.
Ills too familiar,
like I'd plucked them
from a dream.

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.

When we were five,
maybe six
I heard an engine settle
out by the back gate.

Summer's affable grass
and bees swarming.

We were preoccupied
with the garden hose,
the plastic tub, our kitten,
Smokey,

I ran to the back gate though
left the nozzle behind me
"This is only temporary."

Then he left, and it seemed,
in such a hurry his ride did arrive,
while we were preoccupied
when we were six,
maybe five.

We've been **** so long,
our clothes itch when we're dressed.
We've been in thought so long,
it feels strange to speak.
We've been smoking too long,
to stay sober during the day.
We've been numb for so long,
it seems foolish to worry.
We've been absent-minded for too long,
to have reason enough to reason with.
We've been awake so long,
we don't have to sleep to dream.
We've been fighting so long,
we don't know if peace exists.
We've been dancing so long
that our toes twitch while we lay.

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

With each passing day we grow.
In the garden my fingers graze the blades of grass
then down your face; stopping to tease a dimple.
You are fastidious as I, in turn, am a static stone.
Yet we hold each other in place,
like an anchor that has found it's way.
Even in the garden we cannot stop the clock.
And isn't that every one's wish?
To remain in time immemorial?
When He arrives time quickens
and we wish even greater to slow it's pace,
but for other reasons, better reasons.
The tyranny of time, how it's never in our favor;
or quite the contrary.
And in the garden we watch Him grow with the grass;
for we are no longer up in arms with time.

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?

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

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.

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.

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."

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

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

Not a thing you couldn't guess
don't waste a moment for
preparation.
Don't you know that it is myself
I am most afraid of?
As if you couldn't tell,
you little analytical soul!
You sacred star of my heart.
Every word I ever spoke
was evidence enough.
I lied, but you kept secrets.
Can you honestly say
that there is a difference?
We don't believe them anymore;
their words are fiction.
Clever metaphors abstractly
hidden
within their diction.

Fake it if you must.
Let's pretend to have a soul
just to make sure
I'm not alone in this.
Just to insure a shelf
for you to place all your grief upon.
You can fill a glass, call it half empty.
You could blame it on the voices,
Let them speak for you,
because you've lost your own.
I'm asleep on your floor again.
The warm spot,
you left before I had a chance to say
something.

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.

tackling the semantics of song;
an attempt to cling to theme.
A single catalyst
through which we enter.
It’s the tears on paper,
the ink on your skin,
everything you hate
pulling at your limbs.

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.

Lick your wounds
procure a pallet of pastel shades
use them to paint your life on a page
just know you are the artist and the critic.

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.

A day to remember. I saw you in so many lights,
So many ways.
You found me, in the dark, deep place;
now made brighter.
I love you, I love you,
a shore right beside her.
Again we begin,
as a safe place, a warm rain,
a tender blow, caught up in The Rapture.

We seek spaces among places to call our own.
something breathing beneath us.
something to call our home.
Not a city ravaged by useless meanderings
in this now and where.
strangers are shadows among us.
Sheep in line, living like moss;
and underneath stones.

The rain drops are diamond and earth.
Arriving so quickly I thought they had cracked
our windshield.
Something else there.
We made it a memory.
And how is it?
I always feel like the glass.
You, a jewel.
Streaming down my surface.

Amber streaks of sun
filling up the country skies
And all around,
a buzz
a bark for the singing summer.

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]

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.

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.

Waiting in line for a change;
a smile with patience.
And in your bones, you know
nothing is sacred and eternal.
The lightness of being;
always needing a hand to hold.
So while you wait in line
keep your heart content
and your ear attuned and
listen to the laughter of the world,
it won’t be so heavy this time.

not just the beat and beating of my heart
but the mind that necessitates the rhythm--
the notion that begs to be spoken are often
the most complacent