the poetry is simple
just the little way
memory, place
gracias xie xie

one for my family
one I cannot say
one for desperate hope
Silent is the Way

Frosty mountain tops
Bright sun radiating heat
Spellbound winter day

Fatherhood. Daily life.
Get him through the hours
She broke my faithful heart
She gave me Hope for the Flowers

Florida. Sunshine.
A little Purple Rain
1987
Downbound Train

            Tray aya ayain!

Living the dream
Im Mr Munch
stuck
In the
scream.

I am dandy
A little
bit queer
Im Frans Hal
The laughing
Cavalier.

I am beautiful
I like to sing
Vermeer said
I could be
The girl with
A pearl earring.

Leonardo’s
Eyeball pleaser
Forever smiling,
I am Mona Lisa

Rembrandt
What have
you done
Look you ****
Im not the
prodigal son.

John Mahler Collier
His brush strokes
Went of course
I am
Lady Godiva
On a white horse.

I don’t know how it happens
but every nut job you meet in a bar
has a story they’d like to share with you
about their wild days of youth
or about how things and people were
decades ago without the usage
of what we have now.
they seem to be unstoppable,
their mouths are like pistons
running on an everlasting engine
pumping out these useless words,
these agonizing words that don’t
amount to anything
and the crazy part that blows my mind is
I continue to listen with great anguish
I am their ear, their therapy
I am the light to a handful of moths,
an oddity freely roving amongst them
these people were once people
a long time ago
fulfilling fantasies
they could never imagine
and now they have found me and latched on
as if anything had to do with anything
but I need them though, I need their agony
I need their glory and their damnation
because without their uselessness
how would I ever continue pumping out
these meaningless poems?