The poets dwell
within their Hell
on a Sabbath day
witching hour

Their minds a wreck
Their hands  
of tech
They grind their teeth
in angst

Silence staid
The beds unmade
Searching for who
knows what

Snaps a pencil
It's indefensible
He can't go back
to bed

Quasimodo?
Was he noble ?
Played center for
Notre Dame

Came draft day
He was cast away
Which foot was it
you ask ?

Well the venom's drip
that sank a ship
Manned by mushroom
brained morons

Will be the first
to experience the worst
That trickles down
that piggies leg

"We all live in a yellow submarine"
It's just another "Day in the life"
After all happiness is a
warm warm gun

the bar was dark cave.

Dixie sang a song
and I pretended
she was singing to me.

two amateur fights,
2 black eyes
and a broken nose.

(and i couldn't get the silly grin off my face.)

"there is something beautiful
about the fall

to the canvass," I tell her,
"the sweet dreams only of you."

Dixie shook her head,
"why do you fight
when all you do is lose?"

"if you don't fight
you've already lost."

Dixie said I was crazy
and i scared her.

"but Dixie
you are my only friend.
we'll pull the stars down from the sky,
set the wicked night on fire."

Dixie tried hard not to,
but she smiles.

and there is something graceful
about the fall, golden leaves. the brevity
and the cooling air

and the nights we had by the lake.

a silent embrace...her warmth lingers against me,
a quiet tenderness beyond touch
and all we knew was a timeless "now."

when I closed my eyes I saw her,
the woman traversing his dreams
like the verticality of forests
the one breaking into many
she knits the storms in his fingers
keeps the poems of dawn composed
like the sea keeps the horizon folded into itself
she wears different densities of perfume or none at all
the intensity a mirror, the warmth tangible
and unsure like a velvet smile
her bodies a road map into the serenity of clouds
she is hot like the sand - it is always wild in the light
she fills his skin with her everything again
blackness collapses into wonder
she keeps piercing the name of pain
the semiotic self is rippling into the clarity
of clay

when I close my eyes I saw him
the man traversing her dreams
the one breaking into many
echoes fractals aches &
the vitality of blues

The burning brands . . .
plucked from the ashes of the fire
Are the castaways
The fragments of lives
The unworthy
The heedless . . .
are priceless to the great lover of empty souls

I'm minding my business, I've got things to do,
Yet my skin is tingling, I think I feel you
Do I just ignore it? Do I give into chase?
Either way I know I'm ****** once I see your face

A heartache so close, a whisper so far
Every shadow around me turns to where you are,
I pace this map, acting like I'm fine
But your presence sends electrical shivers down my spine

I said I was done, it was my means of escape
But I've always hit the exit gates just after it's too late,
You see my scratch marks, a residual trail for you how great

I never meant to linger, never meant to be seen,
But you track me like blood, like you know where I'll be,
I loop around my guilt, vault over your grace,
Still caught in your terror radius, heart stuck in this place.

lined, dotted, blank—
either way, words are written in me:
a thin piece of paper.

I carry what people write,
words I have no choice in,
but I hold them anyway,
with quiet glory.

and yet, despite bearing
the massive weight of ink,
vandalized,
I still get crumpled,thrown,
and worst of all—ignored.

perhaps it wasn’t exactly what they wanted to say,
but what went away in that moment.

A massive abundance on a gentle breeze.
Oh, how the clouds seem to move with ease.
Smooth and certain across the sky.
A visual feast for a hungry eye.

Thick grey centres, with edges soft and unkempt.
Oh, to be in that world of which I’ve only dreamt.
To feel the cool wetness I imagine I’d feel
If I could break gravity, and be in the clouds for real.

the ship sails on
the invitation to come aboard
-to all