Sometimes I still catch myself
Driving down your street
Where I sit with the engine idling,
Contemplating losing my keys
Somewhere in your unmowed lawn
But i guess it's just a phase

I keep wanting to run into you
In places we used to go
So I can tell you off
But I'm afraid that in that moment
There would be no cardboard shield
To hide behind,
No couch cushion fortress to spout from
And I'd have to settle
With ignoring you instead

The truth is I hate you more than Katy Perry
Because you're catchier and
Her words are far less hypnotizing

So consider this my cease and desist
I just hope that when I pull the sheets from over my eyes
Your image will be gone

Am I allowed to waste my day?
Who gives permission anyway?
Can I skip all of the daily grind?
Wonder just what I might find.

A curtained room with little light,
A longing for day to turn to night.
A phone shut off and a locked door,
Six loads of laundry piled on floor.

Dishes overflowing the kitchen sink,
They can stay there, I know they stink.
Unmowed grass out on the lawn,
Fridge all empty cause food's all gone.

Knots from my sleep still in my hair,
Neglected boat just begging for care.
Unfinished deck, and bathroom a mess.
Today, to be honest, I could care less.

Am I allowed to waste my day?
Who gives permission anyway?
I can decide to skip todays' daily grind!
But what a mess in the a.m. I'm gonna find.

Kyrie Eleison*

Father, my Father, Glory unto Thee, creator and sustainer of our Earth, hear my prayer. I found a single strand of hair in my car, long and reddish brown, and I wept.

I wept not for myself, or for something that I had lost, but for an idea which that represented, a yearning for something greater than myself, for a finale end to this loneliness I have run from for uncounted years.

Yet I understood that we, your children, are more than abstractions, more than symbols, more than mere variations on a theme.

We are the landscaper who left a single bunch of flowers unmowed in an open field, we are the children attending a theater in Palestine dedicated to self expression and non-violence, we are the penitent kneeling at the pillar of St. Simon in Syria, we are the bus driver giving free rides in Queens, we are the random person who pulled a needle out of my friend's arm one night, we are humanity, and our journey is a long one.

Many of us feel abandoned by You, many don't believe in You at all, and many, such as myself, are merely lost and wondering, searching for signs You have left along the way, managing as best we can to get back to that place where You live.

I thank You though, thank You for the beauty that is all around us, but more than that, I thank You for helping me to see it, to see the World, not as I am, but as You are. I am trying, and perhaps one day I shall succeed.

I live in a dying city.
With more for sale signs than inhabitants.
When walking through the streets i see no activity, no joy and no people.
This city has no malls, no gas stations, no schools.
When passing by the old buildings who used to house laughter and learning i only see the unmowed lawns and crumbeling structure. Yesterday i heard an ambulance.
Now there is one less inhabitant and one more for sale sign.
This city is dying, if we leave, it will be gone forever, if we stay it will die with us.
Im not sure the title, city, fits anymore.
I live in a place with small rows of houses and more for sale signs that inhabitants.
I live in a place where laughter is no more and where failure is written on the street names, i live in a place that is dying with no hope for resurection.
And no, it is not our fault, it is not your fault, we can not blame anyone for the deception our city has caused.
We live here, we stay here, and we will fight for our right to call this place a city for as long as there are inhabitants.
Untill all there is, is for sale signs, we will be living in this dying city.

Come mid -winter
they will wait

wait to hear
this lease of life,
call, frost-lipped
on the shortest watch...

To crystallize
the pent unmowed
with isolated vocals,
I draw breath...

address
the talling Solstice
as some celebrant
of picturesque...

I shape the names
of absent faces

warm against
December sky

Upon the land stupidity reigns,
common sense lost to time,
righteous indignation flowing thorough veins,
anything deemed offensive is a crime.

There is no rhyme or no reason,
vocal minorities lead the charge,
they killed history and holiday seasons,
with every day their ranks enlarge.

Lost in a lie that life is fair,
think through participation, they are owed,
but being human they only err,
but the weeds of life go unmowed.

Soon a jungle covers the land,
and no one gets to say their piece,
it's now a slippery *****, full of quicksand,
no one escapes the thought police.

Genders bent and words outlawed,
what once was funny is now shunned,
where there was laughter once guffawed,
we all sit in silence stunned.

An apprentice,
A median,
A string being pulled by a thousand barefoot Ishmaels,
A jinxed runner breaking a sweat with no chances at all to win,
A malicious old lover spoiling the blood and your afternoon drink with friends,
An undecided star ready to fall yet condescending those who do,
A train-wreck in the middle of her shadow,
A drunk ladybug running circles on purple sand,
An ancient God duct-taped to the front window of an old cadillac,
A modern Prometheus bringing the light to those smoking in need,
A hard-timer,
A heart-stopper,
A poor jew,
A rich gipsy,
A legend told to many yet known by few,
An another turmoil on the road,
A brick in a wooden wall,
A book on a toilet shelf of Eris,
An argument without a sober ending,
A limbo of hangovers and beggars,
An all-time vagabond,
A Harvard-educated vagrant,
A millennial beatnik with hipster beard and a smoothie,
A long, long, infinitely long prayer,
An infidel,
A blasphemer,
A judge being served with a lawsuit and a rib-eye,
A piece of rotten meat stuck between tusks of mediocrity,
An unrightfully convicted man stuck between a cloak and a dagger,
A taxi-cab full of infidelity, *** and trumpet prophecies,
A Dean Moriarty of Israel and Palestine,
A Mohammed Ali of subdued conscience,
A drug-dealing moralist of unmowed lawns,
A blood sample taken from a freshly mopped crime scene,
A freshly ground coffee inside a sleeping pill,
A critic of virtues and a defender of vices,
An empty drawer of one’s imagination,
An unborn citizen of no-where,
A creaky moss-grown pier,
A sound of a lighter,
A smell of a wet cigarette,
A shade of a read book,
A touch of a salty wind blowing on you,
A hand in your hair,
A new dawn.