The words fight back,  accusing me
of moving their broke syllables--
a painful attempt to prevent
their distortion of my language--
into patterns they have never
become comfortable exposing,
apprenticed to the bonesetter
with no time for anesthesia,
working from memory and not
expecting any gratitude
from the flesh now decomposing
as we speak at four in the night,
unconscious of the pending dawn
and what will get left in the dark.

We live in confusion; who knows
whose words are strong enough cover
for the terrifying future?
Dare we expose the myth, my friend,
or is that why poets slant?
The ravens outside my window
Don't care that they're in this poem,
as long as i leave them alone,
which mostly i do except now
and then when i'm outside as they
alight to glean bugs from cut grass.
They're used to my distressed accent,
my pale reflection of the sky,
and my eye not on the sparrow.

Bare hedonistic middle road,
So periled and yet amorized
By ladies I have soul adored,
Lean gentlemen who spent long nights
In speculation on the grave.
Ascension charts the harder shot,
With tattered sails on fire and grey,
Unguarded heart that's not yet stopped.
Fast falling stars escape my reach,
While dim & smoky neon dives
Swell up a piece of history.
Come lovers, give it two more trys.
The moon ignores my open ears.
I'll need your help to man the oars.

For lack of better words, we say
Poems, prayers and incantations;
Numbers give us expectations.
Studying about that good old way,
Sunday afternoon river shore
Immersion is a passion play--
John casting for his Salome--
Few can remember anymore.
Of course we sang Shall We Gather?
Though not too well, acapella,
Afterwards risked salmonella,
As we broke the bread together.
I chased girls in my Sunday clothes,
And with the boys it came to blows.

It's quiet on the street tonight,
With staying in suggested now.
This city pavement's silent vow--
A gravel boneyard road late night--
Collects my mind and rattles it.
With little left to interfere
For those of us who've made it here,
Inside and out the counterfeit
Cross stages of this brutal script.
No angels left to take the call?
Tonight my friend learned how to fall,
And targeted perhaps the crypt.
Eighteen years of common hours--
Counted up on asphalt flowers.

Got a friend in Washington, the state,
says i'm the least judgmental person
she's ever known and of
course i wasn't even trying,
just my own form of rebellion
working its way through
the underappreciated universe.

She said I was an *******, and all due credit
Being given, I understand where
She was coming from.
She also said magnificent,
Which makes it better maybe--
Be good at what you are--
And I miss that kind of sass,
The price of fun, if you will,
Certainly kept me from getting
Overconfident
Because you know, when it looks easy
Someone has put in a lot of work.