Satellites
Holy sites
Rednecks on motor bikes

Trailer parks
Golden arcs
Street lights reduced to sparks

Trash piled up
Rusted trucks
Libraries filled with dust

Blood red streams
Child's screams
The united state of broken dreams

Gold finches give chase
Mourning doves keep their patience
House sparrows converge

Why must I always think in verse?
Is it a talent?
More like a curse
All day long songs pour through my head
But before they hit paper, they're usually dead
A few survive, most get archived and others quickly deleteted
It doesn't take more than a couple of lines to know you've been defeated

My heart is no ashtray
It's more like an urn
It holds onto what matters
Long after it burns

My poetry starts with a single cell that multiplies quickly
and spreads like hell

Words intoxicate me
like a really cheap wine
And I think silly thoughts
that I turn into rhymes

Some of it's good
A lot of it's bad
But it's the only DNA
I'll ever have