i am the best
version of myself
when i am comfortable
surrounded by my loved ones
and knowing there are no time restrictions

Bill Baley bought the bank down on Boulder street
He rode the bus to work
years for every week

He always sat his
orbed *** down
upon the same old seat
The one you know with a view that was always so oblique

He liked the way the wind would swirl and
blow the trash around
It was a poor man's cheap ballet
but without the sound

If threatened . . .  with change . . . then he'd begin to fret
Just considering the consequences always made him sick

(Sometimes he'd get so riled he'd became a ****)


No one robs a bank these days
nor steals a railroad train
They'd illegally transfer digital money
and that's how they've named the game

If you stroke or tap the key
you'll become a millionaire
Join the frequent flyers club and go mostly anywhere  

Well Bill's bank on Blouder street
had all of its money drained
They took out everything
turning his blood icy in the vein

Bill then lost his everything . . .
His bank his house his cat
Even had to give up the blue Siberian Yak

He became a homeless man
and drifted with the wind
He never knew tomorrow or the troubles it would send

Someone stole the shoes
he wore
while he was drunken sleep
and he became another refugee begging on the street

As far as survival skills
he was worse than even lame
Most people avoided looking
thinking he was all to blame

Poor Bill Baley froze to death
On one of those freaking polar nìghts
The frigid northwest winds made sure he was frozen white

They took his remains
down
to the mortuary
The city had contracted them to dispose of indigents
with their crematory

He was torched by flames
that rose above the city
Now at this point and time I say purely it's a pity

For after all crime does pay  
yet it kills , ruins lives
and slanders
And we are the goose looking on stretching necks to gander


Now-a-days no one sits
on the bus
that Bill would use to take
The bus route run there was decided that they'd eliminate


Now nothing but black faces blankly stare when you're staring back
Those are the people who were born with no claim to either side of track

And as for Bill no one remembers now except those who lived aback
And not too many live that long
When you're tied down to the track

There is no moral to this story
No bands or whistles or
parades of glory

For what little we have will be taken away
. . .
when they open up the gateway

When the sun is down
The moon comes around to try & hug her
Night & day are lovers
Forever chasing each other
An endless endeavour like no other
They are meant for one another
Hiding their feelings behind the Earth's cover
During dusk & dawn, they blend their colours
It's their love they utter
The moon adores the sun more during summer
In awe of her in her element
Surrounded by stars, he stays celibate
Astounded by her being above par
Far above, yet still with benevolence
No one comes close, they're irrelevant
Shines so bright, she must be heaven sent

Out of time, pantomime.
The Meister of innocuous rhyme.
A seed of what we cannot hold.
Fulfillment of stories told.

An idea.

Dangerous things.

A person, long gone.
A recurring song.
'Stoic' or 'complacent'?
Interrupt 'merriment'.
There is time better spent.

Watching grass grow.

There is something to be said.
For the decree of of the 'serene'.
Those people are dead.
We need something to 'mean'.

Lost and lonely, adrift, a storm.
Tired, fruitless; colors worn.
Nonconsensually born.
Ripped, tattered and torn.

Years ago, in a snow drift
To right a wrong was done amiss
A coward not worth a ****
Wants to dictate your status

some
float
up

slowly

the wind taking his hair
the wind blowing through him
skin and bone
the wind whistling through his teeth

some ride into the abyss

some are bounded
to cling to the earth,
rock and soil

some hang on to the edge

some ride the wild wind
into the Abyss

some see the river and fish

some rise up
when the lonely one asks for the them

does the abyss wait for you,
or did an angel come for you, brother

and if the earth is but a grain of sand
in the vastness of all the grains of sand
on all the beaches of an unfolding soul
drifting into the ripples of time,

I need to know, Lord?

the box

my brother on the dining room table.
ashes and memories.