one little thing at a time
                 ...and bring a pen.



I feared i might sober up
and there wouldn't be much to write,
but slowing down to take a look,
moving at the pace of life,

not rushing it,
but taking it as it is,
seems so much more now to jot down,
I can hardly keep up with pen.

This is where the real poetry is,
and where it's always been...

Those loooong Journeys
cross-countries by foot,
and deeper still,
on more spiritual quests within.

Strolling along without worry or care,
relying on faith without understanding of a godlike dose of "luck"
that seems ta always just,     be  here.

The poetry is in the moment
when it's written, where it's found,
life exciting, breathing, be still and
          witness it all around.

Beauty headed to Brooklyn
on the N train
And I can't help but
noticing

Of course, I was waiting
for the R
But instead
boarded the same car

To look at legs
in form fitting jeans,
And try to make eye contact
  just once before she leaves ....

Make change. buy a loosy. *** a lite.
Sit down on the street outside.
Stare up at the moon,    and start to write.
.buzz from the smoke kinda gets me high,
Inside to pull my clothes from the washer and put them in to dry.
It's a new year now, 20 25, there's a coin hanging from my bag that reads,
                         "Grateful I'm Alive."

...wasn't sure if I still knew how to write.

My guitar, ignored, had gone out of tune.
It made noise anyway,
                  driving away
                   a bit of depression that loomed.

If I'm as sick as my secrets, but wear them on the outside, why in truth, do I have times when i feel so empty
                                                  ?..it's not right.

                 [Clothes are Dry]

My therapist wants me to unpack issues
  i keep rolled up tighter than my socks.
'Cause
           there are 2 "go-bags,"
              one under my bed,
                and one next to my heart..
I keep them both
  for when things fall apart,
             when things go dark
                 and I have to re-start.
'Cause,
     Something  inside  
        says I'll be running forever ,
                       No Matter how  long
                                           i seem
                                                        to
     ­                                                               st­op.

with no sleep i want to chop
people up into little pieces & set
them on fire for warmth 'neath
december's skyfall of snow.

e e cummings & eckart tolle make me tired at last,

but i have work and holiday cheer to spread around , somehow.

    *still, 175days without

The sun goes up
and down,
as days come
and go.

But time
is starting again now,
to move
so
      slow...



Gone is the warmth of
a friend like summer,
leaves severed dead
and cold.

My mind is set free
to wander,
but flesh seems tired
and old.

How other's spirit's rise
is a puzzle,
my highs, like the season,
just fall.

I feel a longing to
disappear in a crowd,
and sleepwalk there
with them all.

Ocean swells and cracks
Pushing foamy white lines
Higher and higher
Onto sand

Moon, so full
And unbelievably bright
Glows steady and far
This clear blue night

The burden of love
The burden I love
The comfort,
when disheartening discomfort
needs to be made

clear again


The salve that comes
To sooth my soul when
Fear & doubts
trickle out
And Communication

is met


My love is not easy, not much good is
But I'd never dream of you taking away, in hopes of unburdening me,
the opportunity to listen
and love you

through the pain.