The distant surf
crashes against the old
Spanish wall.
Sounding like slow
volleys of gunfire
ricocheting off
the jagged cliffs
above.

The sea side stillness
of the night is
disturbed by
my footsteps.
They crunch a
million grains
of sand with
every step
I take along
this jaded
asphalt.

At this hour
all of this is
closed,they put
hours and gates
around
whats free.

Wet feral cats
chase giant
wharf rats all
through the
cavernous
crevasses
between the
break walls
giant stones.

Across the Harbor
on the calm side.
Lights shine bright
from the
giant cranes
and the
deep green
Span dressed in
strands of
Blue.

The lights
reflected off
the still water
and danced
along small wakes
left behind by
passing boats.

The fumes
of sweet
scented fuel
hides just
beneath the
smell of
salt water and
the rotting
bait fish left
behind by
hopeful
fisherman in
chunks along
the rocks.

A quarter mile
out on the breakwalls end
the Gateway to
the Angels sits
as still and proud
as an ancient Oak.

Its dependable
Lighthouse
vigilance and wisdom
washes over me
as I pass this
night counting
the seconds
between
the shine.

Maybe it's that marvelous view as they walk away that never seems to compel me to call them back.

Maybe its the happiness of being alone the wind in your hair or the the highways empty embrace that just seems to keep me ruining far longer than the rest.

The bottle the music a simple soundtrack to the existance we only care to forget.

Passion doesn't exit online as machines can't breath life into your lungs but I can't certainly darken your door if only you'd allow me to tonight.

The party we will have only to forget.
You me and the page it's all in secret and  all for them to never truly understand .

Summer may you die.
As all the bad girls sing cheap motels were we gather the ice machine I vist to often underneath the stairs .

I sleep drink repeat .
Trying to find the lines I searched for all the these years past.

From the dust bit in Austin to the Kentucky bourbon embrace I will romanticize the decay only to show you the reality I to often ignore myself .

Another drink shared and hopefully another night with you.

The page can't capture passion .
But I believe I touched upon it more than once with her tonight .

i am in an odd mood
more down than i've been in awhile
and i want to reach out to poetry as the tried and true outlet
but

my pen won't write, the inkwell's dry, the paper's blank, my mind is fried.
a sentence too long, a nonexistent rhyme, a mixture of words without a beat or time.
i've forgotten my words, they're all left behind, i've received apathy in exchange for my four four time.
and i'd ask for help, i would, i swear, but the words all stick in my throat.
before i can voice a single concern it's been buried on the wayside of the road.

so here i am with this ****-poor ditty and thoughts that plague my night
and the only excuse i can give for them both is that i cannot ******* write

He was working the register at Save-a-Lot foods

The line slowly building towards the end of the store

I saw it

In the veins that stood out on the tip of his nose

In his white hair pushed back despite the receding hair line

In the sag of his lower lip

Making his jowls jiggle as he turned his head

I saw how his lower lip longed for the chewing tobacco it used to hold

I stood in line holding a cart full of lonely

And I wanted to tell him

“You look like the kind of man who’s only ever made daughters

And your hands

Are too calloused

for taking money

and bagging groceries

I know you

How the top of your gut is tight from the hunger

Of not having eaten yet

You were never meant for this

Man

You were never meant to work like this

Humbled by the heartache caused by a dime

We got the same change clangin’ in our pockets

Got the same sorrow

For not having made enough people happy

I know the minute the beer is full someone will take more

And the minute you sit down

And rub your calloused fingertips across your eyes

The phone will ring

Man

I know it wasn’t your fault

When the lady got mad that the prices were wrong

The prices are always wrong

I know

You’ve been here too long

We both

have been here too long

When my hair is grey

Today’s change will still ring off the countertops

And I'm sorry

For everything”

But I didn’t say any of that

I said

Hi

I did not use his name

Because I know how condescending it really sounds to do that

It was Patrick by the way

I gave him a twenty

He gave me a penny

It clanged in my pocket like the last bell on a broken wind chime

And then I said

Thanks Man

And left