I write better
with a little something
stuck to my heart,

latched on for dear
life, trying not to lose
grip, be forgotten.

Sometimes I’ll let it
hang, just to feel the pull,
and eventually it will

climb back up,
like a cat coming home
for food.

And sometimes, my
brain, it says

“Hey! Have you
forgotten about me,
or something?”

But, I say no, because
none of these words

would actually
make sense, otherwise.

Just random blotches
of red ink, and illogical

patterns would stain
this page.

On the last day
of the calendar week

the quiet folk sit
at the edge of shore
watching sun set.

Day and night
meeting in the middle,
(together a short while)

ships hardening
into black silhouettes.

Darkness spreads—
sights now set on
greeting the streets,

following me back,
among
evening cheer,

deteriorating into late-night
glimpses at mediocre peace.

Wanting to go back to sleep
I argue with the sun,

bed sheets mimicking rude hand
gestures—

and already, these
coiled memories are unraveling themselves

like intestines from a soldier's
stomach.

I have witnessed the point
where it all loses meaning.

Nothing climbing, nothing
falling. When everything rides
on that next line, but it is

missed, for you were not yet
satisfied, though it had its place.

Blindness unseen for it
is not there. Scratching our
heads at direct profanity,

when it is someone else's
back we should be scratching,
or our own to be heralding.

We take our chances
where we find them— An
abandoned ticket, or

an unattended beverage;
accepting our losses as
they come.

Reconstructing the issue,
recycling old towns.

Make vacant
these dirtied cupboards.

Dust ridden,
and fluff driven.

Lifeless items of
thoughtless praise.

Somebody's and
nobodys, who's to say.

Collective
discernment

determining what is
beloved, and

what gets thrown
away.

Entering unknown,
sitting, drinking, waiting.

Staring down from
pub balconies, out
large windows;

I see how
people go places,

how they look like
other people.

Turning my head,
I notice how my eyes
are avoided,

a space as small as
a hotel room.

Connecting past with
present,

familiarity grows,
like an extra limb from
the center of my chest.

However many people,
        whatever the disparity,
if drawn,
        always there will be
one agreement.

        (it's a given)

        So with that in mind,
knowing only
        one similarity
can help combine
        a satisfying hunger
for more
                  than just
        distraction,

        easy it does become
                  to consider,
        while realising,
                  there is no harm in
          contrast.

Picture each day
not as a day, but an idea

printed on
a piece of paper,

put into a hat,
drawn from at random.

That you were to live
your life

scheduled to these ideas;
ideas unheard of by you.

Ideas so unlike you
they became

nothing but gestural,

no option but
to improvise your life...

what would
you do?

Perfection in retrospect.
Did we, or did we not?
In mediocrity and

dysfunctional colognes,
shallowness, and complex
symmetry.

Black and white, conflict,
striving for diversity.

It will be there, always.
Surpassing the grime,
fearlessly.

I'd like for us to
have the chance

to find that place
we call our own.

The kind you'd
visit as a child,

making beds in the grass,
drawing stories in the dirt;

climbing fences
that prevented cows
from getting out.

The kind with a view,
a wide-stretched vista;
sun, hills and sky;

another world
created purely for
it's viewer.

—And I remember
as a child,

I'd resort in
covering my face,

when there was
nowhere left to hide.

But with dirtied
hands it's not so easy,

my shadows
take good care of that,

and I save my light
for whoever sees past
them, before

knowing what was
really there.

Out of the fire,
quick! into dawn—

passion,
and point of faith.

Digging
at the heart
for moisture
in the dirt,

curtains turning gold
from yellow sunlight.

If these years
were not strategically
blessed,

were a larger
paradigm deposited,

such time
would find me dead,
swallowed up.

Lightning could
strike, or a puddle
may blush,

a hole in the path
could take away our
chances,

but magic is
magic.

—

Will you
marry me, karma?

the outer world
travels at such a speed

(from within this
carriage)

it causes dizziness
or is that the other passengers?

To be involved in
what's out there,

would be to stand
still.

Away from this train,

and the ticket-
checkers checked on
by camera gods.

Oh that's another
dizziness.

Can you determine
the inevitable,

stop and turn the
other cheek, standing
in your place?

Do you know your
way now,

which way it is you
point?

"look toward the
light shying inward
from the strife."

Mind the gap.

Have a nice
day.

Not shy, scared
of what I can

and cannot say,
because all my

opinions state
that I don't care.

Conversations
are a drag—

I smoke, I drink,
and they all tell me
the same things.

I listen,
but not quite.

Then again,
I'm forever
repeating myself,

and no one
ever,
*******,

listens, to me.

The fact is
my mind's
a miniature
circus—

thoughts are
the fleas,

jumping back and
forth
from ideas

thin as tightropes,
air dry as cotton, a
stoners mouth.

I can't even
listen to myself.

As we
  withdraw from
one another,
   (when our
day is through)
   parts of you
stick like salt from
  the sea,
which in turn,
   I cling to,
instead.

Introspective
  trier.
A record of unfinished
panic attacks.
      The complete
difference
between feeling and
thought -
  to respect and
  ignore...
and

Man about house,
king of composure,
cleanliness, charity-

backfired or
minimal return.

All above or none at all—
thoughtful disposer,

I keep a clean cage.

Like a sunrise after
too much coffee. When
hangover is gone,

or punching you
in the face.

Eyes protected, because
this poem is about sunrise,

and I am of punctual nature,
a procedure that must occur.

An option to defer,
a referee and an ounce of

hurt, yet a
comfortable situation.

I never want to get burnt again.
White doves no desire for them

if they cost too much or manipulate economy.

Beg my pardon, I am stressed and mean no harm.

Twist my arm I fold when I fold
and right now I am holding on.

what cure can be found in a band-aid but to slowly heal,
be it a small enough wound.

A large disaster, a surgical mind,
a black hat, perhaps?

Hero, villain, that is what I am,
a man—

Medication.

Happy times,
important ways.

Home cooking,
frantic banter.

Drinks
poured in cups,

cigarettes in
mouths.

Strange bonds,
peculiar faces.

Vibrant
metropolis,

Hollywood
superstars

Too far,
incoherent,

incognito,
"What's a burrito?"

Deja vu,
scented paths.

Funny,
good times.

Important
ways.

What can one do
when forced to stay
inside, but cry?

We are not products
on a shelf, nor should we
bid our lives.
—
What was fades
away,

unfortunate designs
disrupt and take over,

demeaning
rights of simple thought,
ancient way.
—
Positively empty,
first to congratulate,

king of my highest
mountain—

more than lucky
stars will have been
thanked.
—
Hello being amused,
not bemused, by
mistakes.

So long
departures.

"Google! Tell me
what time it is."

Another frenzy, or
take it to go.

Out of pocket, or
on the other hand lavender:
a protection breed.

Go away
goosebumps
caressing my
sanctum,

allow blessed to
restrict silliness, rapping
monstrously at my door,

restricted outcomes
in all dire obsessions,

bleak outlets, and placid
outcries.

An inkling to keep going,
told to rest.

Incidentally a
climbing world champion,

elegant hurdler
despite cramping in bed,
a dusty one at that.
—
Riches to come, decisions
to be overruled.

Leave it up
to imagination, ay.

Forte-incredible, majestic,
indispensable.

Irrational deception,
I just about deceive myself.

Energy rules the curse
where I come from, now,
baby, give me yours.

Fresh, and tainted are
the milestones of my heart.

There is a
garden waiting for me,

but whose is most like
a desert?

Words that curse,
drugs that bring you
back this way,

unblinking as an
untouched forest.

i
Scoping the sky
I see a trail of birds
cross a path within,

split, and marry
upon other side of a hill.

Now time to find my own
path.

Within the next
few days witness a sky
as bright as this,

unite and conform
with obligation, just as
each morning is lit.

Although, for now,
(this very moment) I can
relax,

observe the refurbishment
of an isolated city—

take note of it's destruction,
and how it's managed,

as I do my best to breath
in its success.


ii
the river seems to
treat him well, more so
then the food.

No food for me today;
coffee, and the hunt for
a cigarette.

The man is gone.
An unfinished structure,
it's rigidness planned,

missing bits plea for
imagination.
—
Everything seems to
move much slower than
yesterday.

The river
remains the same,

minus the wake of
a few small boats.

Today is stiff, but
I don't care,

I'll save my worry
for tomorrow.

iii
Today
the river fails

to reflect
the charisma
I need

to keep me
from

this
city's isolated
silence.

The nooks
and crannies
only those

with a
whole lot of nothing
and a lot to show for it
could ever care
to visit.
—
Today
I become one

with all those
who are

homeless,

whose voices go
unnoticed,

hearts as
worn as their
attire.
—
Today
the system
fails me,

as I do
myself—

and as the
day gathers its
momentum,

as
laborers
force dust
into

the sky,

as first birds
seize flight
in search for food

I search to find my
place of rest.

iv
As I look to what is
now forgotten, and all
brand new,

instead of dirt I see children
secured by
wooden architecture,

insecure if nothing,
elevated above an array of
Freshly planted trees,

allocated seats for the parents.

I count my blessings, think no
real thought at all
—
The universe
will thank me soon,

yet not until
this city has completely
transformed,

all these children,
climbing high,

have long forgotten
this day.

A spot by the rocks for
old time's sake, a river wide
divides city from

richer suburbs, trailing
the other side.

Thi city's buildings don't
exist,

only the primary colours
of distant windows,

port, and starboard marks
remain,

pixelated, and
dispersed upon the surface
of the river's

shimmering body.

The river is a road
without traffic,

I give way to the
nuances of its natural
behavior.

This poem mimics
boredom.

These words have waited
patiently

for their chorus.

This is a story
of a man sat quietly
at his desk,

searching for
substance to chew on
spit out, and

still resume its
flavour.

In moments of growth
you are with me.

In places special to me,
and those that are not.

Your name
seeking to reveal itself.

Whisper in my
ear, head upon my chest,

guessing
the image of you.

If it's all meant to be
then I believe,

You are here,
now and forever.

Nothing left to fear,
it is clear

you are with me.

The unseen
coloured sirens,
and the kind

scaring me awake
from my
day walking fantasies—

both chasing
street lights, plus
criminals in

the loose-ends of
night.

My window
allowing each but
one party to exit,

so in my head
the other does stay.

A stain that
comes and goes;

an unpredictable
house guest.

Time falls silent

Lights vaguely
obstructed,
shimmering outside.

Tiny portions of
what things used
to look like.

Trying to forget,
sporting infamous,
five-star curiosity.

All apologies accepted,
all rewards approved.

I was to lay myself down
upon cool, dry sand,
listen as the waves came

rushing in, as if each carried
its own confession.

Instead I found myself
nestled in roots of twisted tree,
building tiny villages, from

leaf and twig- parted from
the ocean.

Unestablished and without
identity.

Our lives
are like cardboard
boxes,

there's only so much
they can retain.

If the pressure's
too great

it will break,
shattering what's
inside.

I loved you
like childhood,

but I guess
we all have to grow up
sometimes.

Comfort by transit;
completion of an action state.

Energies functioning,
humbling the calling days.

—

Omnipresent aura
disciplined and playful,

brightest
jewel in the universe.

Proud and strangely
valid.

As regrets
transition from
doings,

into a single feeling,
it becomes

difficult to pin-point

what it was
that made you act
in such ways.

Time has passed,
and you can't help
blame

the little you
have inside on
what little is

received, or what
little effort you've
made to capture

anything
to fill the space.
—
So, when
those you meet
have stories,

stories to
traumatize the
soul,

you gather
your
absurdities,

realise there's
no use

comparing.