Sleepless

The One

2012-02-01T16:48:00.000-08:00

One line
one direction:
tequila to hangover,
cause and then on
to effect.

No time machines, and
not enough forgiveness
to go around.

We all miss what never was
though we're supposed to know
what perfection was-
even before it shines clear in the
rear view mirror.

The past was, and remains all smokey eyes
and cringe-worthy first time drinks-
there's always that one, blinking
almost, burnt out filament
in the nasty bathroom
where we questioned everything the first time.

It all looks so perfect now.

We hate ourselves often;
catholic guilt if we're catholic
regret if we fall under the banner of
'everyone else'.

Nothing can be said
nothing can be done
but hope,
hope
to bump gently
on the shoulder of the future,

smile,

and carry on,
where we once were.

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Walking through a darkened house

2012-01-26T20:06:00.000-08:00

There is a moment in sleeplessness that I find myself;

when the flirting drowsiness has faded and the wretched, twitching mania has

subsided.

I stop feeling my own fingernails clawing over me,
I stop looking for the next sign of worth,

I stop cursing the birds flight and the dogs life of ease

and I stop dreading the silence of each darkened room

as I creak among the floorboards.

When I've stopped trying to find-

I am found.

I am found in the dark with eyes closed;

records spread out- carefully chosen albums of regret and triumph;
but none on the player.

I am found among

piles of notes straightened into yellow towers,
all of them scribbled with great intent

though, none worth remembering.

I'm found when the rain taps a paltry 'hello' at 5 am,
hovers momentarily over this particular address,
then washes away a moment later,
unamused.

I am found when, all at once, I feel the warmth of words in my heart, and they
pour like blood through my outstretched fingers
and pool together in front of me.

I am found when my hands stop shaking and my

eyes begin to see white dots bobbing in the haze of a mew morning.

I am found when I think of you.

I am found for that one moment

when I forget myself.

Staring Back at the Dark.

2012-01-21T20:11:00.000-08:00

These walls around me are so tall

but my nightmares persist;

an uneasy existence with myself remains

always.

The streets in my head

all wander about;

knotting together

in the wrong end of town-

but my feet stay firmly,

horribly,

helplessly

in the right.

These days of endless summer,

these days of passing worry

are enough to keep my stomach

seeped in it's own blood;

it seems to clearly know,

what I've only been able to guess at.

Each moment falls away

and the rainfall gauge creeps along;

filling, and climbing towards

nothing new,

nothing more,

nothing gained and

nothing spent.

I remember the idea of the road

the wind

the sun

the scrapes and bruises

forgetting to brush your teeth in dirty motels and

opening your eyes under the waves of a brand new coast.

Heaven exists in closed eyes

and bloody knees.

It seems my scars are fading

exactly when I want them to be raw-

pinned on medallions

of mistakes proudly made

moving towards

something,

anything.

Untitled

2012-01-11T13:19:00.000-08:00

I cannot stand the sight of their deaths.

Nights, interrupted with sweat and a chest of pain,
a towel down to soak it all up; then
sleeping again, but not on yellow-ringed sheets but unaware,
on bathroom tile and a time-flattened rug-
each morning realizing a phantom bender,
devoid of a single drink from the night before.

They are all older in the great scheme but younger in my mind;
they are forefathers, mothers, and siblings.

I hope to lose all of my warmth before then
for my veins could not stand the chill
my mind not take the jolt
and my head would lose the world in a dizzying instant.

Their deaths are ahead of me, always,
my life is looming over them and
I curse each time, at the youth wasted on self;
the same self so occupied with the right words
and the selfish pursuit of grey temples.

They will always be in heroic scale from
where I choose to stand,

and

as I stare upward and watch them flourish-
their lives rich, and their hard work realized-
I conceptualize my own mortality
and am unwillingly reminded of theirs.

Then, all at once, I jerk awake once more-
the rug impressed on my cheek,
and the lines of tile, marked red on my side.

I remain still, and listen
as a clear pool of shame
drips,
escaping my coward's brow.

Walking in the Wind

2011-11-14T11:59:00.001-08:00

We carry our homes in our hearts,
no matter the pain.

True,
we may
wander to find greater inspiration
in the wide open-
far from
familiar corners
and childhood windows,
but the grit beneath our nails will never lie,
for native soil lies deeper.

And while it may be undesired,
never spoken of again-
and hidden away to spare the judgement
of
city boy
or country bumpkin,

Home will always remain steadfast.

It is a secret,
unavoidable,
truth.

It Comes From The Air

2011-09-29T23:47:00.000-07:00

Lines on a page,
blue and red,
create a sensation-
a light touch,
a hand on my forearm;
scratching,
scraping,
pulling and
willing me on.

Fingers at the top of my spine;
eyes seeing through my own-
as a camera
through a blinking television.

"Perhaps this has happened before."
words hanging in the air for a moment...

the TV goes blank

the fingers recoil into black

and I'm truly alone-

staring at familiar lines on a page as they slowly fill
with words that are somehow
my
own.

Bourbon Sweat

2011-07-25T10:50:00.000-07:00

Choices,
mistakes.

Words
written out on a beach
on a sunny day
in the back of your mind-
words that
never quite washed away
when the weather
turned cold.

You will never stop hearing the echo,
you will never stop feeling that certain pain,
you will never stop reaching for another,
then another,
and another.

You will never stop shivering when a cigarette is
snubbed out
beneath a tall
black
heel.

You will always think of those glasses-
that musty car
and the smear of make-up.

You were the one that made them cry,
but you never remember it that way.

They left you,
they abandoned you like some spoiled thing
like some festering boil
like some unwanted child.

They called you 'too much work'
and somehow
you were indifferent.

We are often defined by such stupid things
moments of insanity,
moments that were once so clear-
so cut and dry.
Now they seem like
any
other
outcome
would have been better.

So many nights of staring into mirrors and
splashing cold water onto warm, red faces
over and over,
and over.

This is where you should be
here and now,
and we know it,
but that will never assuage that certain pain
and the thought of how much time has passed will never
muffle the echo.

You will always reach out for another
and no matter now strong the tide,
that message way,
way back,
in the sands of your mind
will never wash away.

It all sounds so depressing
so dire,
so in need of a stiff drink;
but it amounts to little more than
one
more
night
splashing cold water
onto a hot,
red,
face.

Bluegrass

2011-07-12T19:33:00.001-07:00

The clouds are faster here
or perhaps the earth is moving
that much slower or
steadier than in the metropolises I've known.

Nature declares herself unabashedly, not through
cracks in the concrete
but in in the marbled atmosphere swirling
with the changing seasons and in
the emerald colored life, further spread
than the industry of man.

There is a different beauty found in the
tremble of thunder out here.
The unobstructed sound of unearthly light
tearing it's way from the heavens to the soil.
I can only wonder if rainstorms on the great central plains
are this stunning.

This land is so different from
my own. I feel ashamed to think that I knew better,
that I wasn't going to find a new world
but there is magic here in the fireflies and the
burning piles of leaves.

I have known the sound of cicadas to be synonymous with the heat
of summer, their song so prominent in films of the humid south; but now-
now that I hear their call and feel the muggy air I can't help but think myself deep
in a foreign land.

This place is older,
the trees all have deeper scars that have
healed over long ago-
their branches darker,
more knarled
just as the knotted, callused hands of the
people; seventh generation workers with
the minerals of the earth in their veins.

I am breathing better now.

Breaking Point

2011-07-10T21:13:00.000-07:00

Old Matchbooks
worn and empty.
Thick green glass ashtrays,
spotless
and smelling of bleach.

The man I once knew is
hiding from me
pacing in the back of my mind.

I find myself trying to reason
with hallucination
debating with a sickness.

There is no secret pack,
there are no more cigarettes dancing
in the bottom of some deep desk drawer.

There is no flask in a hollowed dictionary
there are no answers in bottles.

There is only some bizarre faith
in the next
word.

Highway

2011-05-26T18:33:00.000-07:00

You were warm once
back when I was.

Now you are a sheet of lace
floating on an incandescent ray and
a pair of crimson lips
on a lifeless face
staring back at me through
a golden polaroid.

I feel you in the damp concrete during
a summer storm;
I hear you in the cadence of a sweet hymn,
in the caress of a country bow and
in the crackle of decades-worn vinyl.

And now I press on,
and now I press on.

I have to press on.

Weight

2011-04-04T00:03:00.000-07:00

I have spent thus far
staring out of frosted sills
watching empty streets
in the dead of night
waiting for car crashes
muggings
prostitution
or the off-handed,
in car,
tryst.

I have sat in still rooms
dissecting florid wallpapers and
picked at crumbling walls.
I've imagined myself asleep-
sweating into corduroy couch cushions,
waiting for the sun to rise
and then hating it's arrival.

I have watched the play of sex.
I have watched her lipstick fade as it all progressed,
I have watched her come and
I have seen her walk away;
frame by frame.

I've been sick
hugging stained porcelain
and thinking of when my throat didn't burn.
I've sobbed from that tile floor
eyes blurring at the halo of an incandescent god
and begged it for forgiveness.

I've stared into the crevasse of
a darkened bathroom mirror
and imagined that I was different
or just not there.

I've watched her from afar
I've fumbled over coffee
wondering how to look into her eyes
choking on words that were never so thick
and I will always remember
the picture of her with him.

I will keep watching
I will keep sobbing
and perhaps,

just perhaps;

I'll smile
at all of my
good
fortune.

Smoking is Sexy

2011-03-04T00:19:00.000-08:00

Lucky Strike promises.

Eternal health.

Masculine appeal.

Cowboys.

Motorcycles
and detectives in black and white.

Blues bars- formerly
choking with atmosphere.
Cigarettes stuck in the strings of
Gibson
Gretch and
Fender.

Embers glowing in
Dylan's shades

Then there was disease-
black lungs in elementary school jars and
holes in the throats of
ancient puffers speaking with
robotic tongues.

Denial
Repression
what should be believed
what is inside them?
what is inside of us?
we know
we don't care
we should.

Bogart and Bacall
sharp eyes through hazy air

HS Thompson, pulling through a filter.

Dean eternal,
McQueen eternal-

cool.

Where is masculinity?
What is it?
Where has it gone?

Where is my pipe?
my violin?
my revolver?
or my faithful horse?

Gone they say;
consumed in
a grey cloud of cancer.

Bitter betterment
at the hands of
lollypops
toothpicks
medicated patches
and electronic
handheld
flavored
fog machines.

Habits die hard
cultures die hard

Nothing for coffee but pastry
nothing for behind the wheel but the radio
nothing to make the throat singe after sex
nothing to complete the image.

ghost limbs
reaching out of celluloid
reaching out of every smoking area
reaching out of the back of your mind

ghost limbs of
identity

I Never Wanted You Dead

2011-03-02T04:55:00.000-08:00

Looking to inspiration
and seeing only a match struck
in a dark bathroom mirror.

Huge eyes were cast upon you
and the world swallowed your soul
now you are a sticker,
a scratched vinyl,
an echoing voice
calling forward-
from when you mattered.

Tears won't do a damn thing;
choruses of
Bravo!
Encore!
Encore!
no more
we don't call anymore
and you can't answer.

Questioning beliefs
lead to new questions,
new realizations.
You were never God,
you were never a god-
you were a conduit for grace
talent and
majesty.

As your flesh decays
and your eyes gloss over with grey

I'll stand here
inheriting the spirit
hoping that younger generations
don't move as fast.

Claws

2011-02-04T05:44:00.000-08:00

Skin folds neatly-
well defined creases,
pre-existing
signs.

The brow draws lines
sweat beads
and the lizard aches.

I forget where the light was
but I remember every curve

highlights-
soft
and sharply defined-
places I've only seen in magazines
or perhaps
in the back of my mind.

Singed flesh
at the back of the neck
a dream
a thought
a desire
passing by in the night

its breath

gone with the sun.

16 Watt

2011-01-29T04:36:00.000-08:00

Calluses.

Fleshy shields
born from repetition,
born from overuse.

Lips never callus
and a heart,
while it may grow harder,
is always a sponge
sopping pain and
beating stories of
regret.
The realizations of the past
are recounted with each
thump, and
every pump is a step closer
to scarlet tears.

A slow burn.

The pain of living.

Signs of Misuse

2011-01-19T20:19:00.000-08:00

The cigarettes of my youth
are floating in the puddles of Los Angeles

They have long since been drained and yellowed.

Acid still creeps
and sleep never comes- no matter the pill.
It all builds against,
mocking the adult version of
a once 'old-soul'
now just a commonplace fellow
brushing shoulders with
a world that is moving
entirely too fast.

An old clock radio clicks on,
the morning news plays
and dust dances in the first rays of the morning sun.

Books all feel old now

their pages are deteriorating
dog ears drooping ever further.

I remember when I hadn't muddied the waters
I remember tree houses floating above Siverlake
I remember,
I remember.

Orange trees crept in through security bars, glare through dirty windows
and bitter coffee; never a clean cup.

I miss the filth and unease,
I miss the daring of it all.

I miss my legs.

Bittersweet Resignation.

2010-12-31T18:09:00.000-08:00

Sadness;
missing the things
that never were,
missing the things that
could have been, the things that
should have been.

Faded photos of you
your light, floral dress clinging to the
small of your clammy back;
photos of the old car-
looking out through the frosted
windows, out onto the cloudy bay of a northern coast;
super 8 films of children that were never conceived
children that never called out your name
endlessly bounding in silent pantomimes of unfamiliar
joy.

I miss all of this,
all that I have yet to know.

You don't remember me
we have never met
but I love you.

I love your red eyes glimmering through cigarette smoke,
I love the worn, scuffed white heels you wear with everything;
I miss the way you pick at your chipped fingernails
and the look of your dog as I walked in your back door.
I miss the Polaroids on the fridge- the
golden pictures of shared drugs and
empty cans of mexican beer
cluttered amongst the splayed out books and
precarious piles of balancing vinyl records.
I will never again hear the thump of an albums end
while you slowly undress
I remember you there, dancing in the flickering light of
fading, burnt filament

but I will never remember your name

all this was lost to me

all this was taken from me

when I chose to step back.

All I have now is the sadness,
the shudder of memory
and the sweaty panic, when woken from a dream
of your embrace-
of your voice.

I don't know you and I will never
know you;

but perhaps I am better for it.

A Letter to a friend.

2010-12-19T01:03:00.000-08:00

Beggar Beggar;

learned beggar

caught in the same traps.

You've fallen a long way

if you look back

(hindsight vision was always your strong suit)

Words will always abuse you

words will always tease you from the

inside and out.

You are a slave to this-

and you seem to enjoy it.

But,

hear this Beggar:

you are part of a world

remember this and never let the traps

take more than your

masochistic self

captive.

Then,

by all means,

enjoy the fall.

Don't Think About Going Far... Just Go.

2010-12-11T16:30:00.000-08:00

There is no time to be wasted

waiting for the end of things.

The process

was only discussed for a moment

never thought out

it was the end that was desired

as it always is-

intention to shine

without polish.

but

when the time is taken

and the seat is well worn

the intent is often the clouded thing

and the sound of a warm mind coupled

with the feeling of great industry

is all that is desired

love is overrated

when there are great things to be done.

There will never be awe

inspired by the person.

Only the scarred flesh

and the winding of words;

the story of the struggle

and the triumph;

never the idea

the thought-

the intent

but the miles between the first step

and the grave

Indeed,

worn, brown leather soles

are the building blocks

of immense libraries

they are the inspiration

of fire side chills

and single tears

beside death beds;

so it should be,

and so it is,

life well lived with

pockets full of memories.

Traveler

2010-11-27T01:19:00.000-08:00

Thumping dots

thumping and

thumping until a jerk

and a waiver

Blurry stars flashing across

wet windows-

endless black

endless yellow

endless red

Static and

strained ears

straining eyes

lids closing

aching

tearing

no sleep

no rest

no energy

searching for something with

white knuckles

a single foot cramp

and a loose metallic sound

from somewhere behind- getting

louder with every jolt from

every tar-filled crack

the heat lulls

the cold doesn't wake
the wipers are a dangling pocket watch

and there are

too many miles to count.

Oakley Hall

2010-11-22T04:35:00.001-08:00

A beauty once felt and

shared

began to storm and

its eyes shut

to all but the

mirror mirror

in the bottom of

one and one-half ounces of

distilled,

smoked oak with

an amber haze.

Once genius-

falling fast

falling faster

questioning resolve,

questioning relevance,

questioning mortality.

Splitting, then

split.

Unseen were the villains-

once at the dark corners of

creativity;

haunting in every blink,

waiting behind bloody eyelids -

now they dance in the dripping rays

of over-saturated days.

Death of a force

unlike nature.

A waste.

The tempest worsens and

the eye eclipses the tornado;

the calm

traps-

ensnaring

the wind

the rain

and the lightening within

a grey prison.

By and by,

the world grows tired and

deaf to the false promise

of windfall,

then

by ordinary means

by no great struggle other than

the simple will to live-

to find relevance once more,

the mirror broke

and the beauty now rages stronger,

breeding hope.

It will outlast-

It will endure.

It will share itself with the world

again.

Running from Ghosts

2010-10-25T02:32:00.001-07:00

Stereotypes and

clichés.

We embody them,

we defeat them,

but then of course-

we create them

I am just like that.

I was just like that.

I am nothing like that.

and then of couse,

I want to be like that.

and

I will be like that.

There is no escape

but then again

there's nothing

to run from.

Bare Feet on Cold Tile

2010-10-03T01:32:00.000-07:00

There are no compassionate breezes

that pass through the

inside of a warm room

in the midst of

a sleepless

night.

Only feelings of ache
howl through hollow spaces

as I stare back at tossed

sheets

highlighted by a single, yellow light

stumbling through

from the bathroom door.

Cracked porcelain tiles are

vibrating in my eyes

and I can't help but stare blankly at the

stale water sitting in the bottom of

the bathtub-

leaving a little

stain

as it dries.

The figure

leaning on the edge of the bathroom counter,

looking back through a cloud of water-spots

can't be me;

a phantom of insomnia-

a trick.

Imagery fit for a mindful doctor

float around the blurry thing-

allusions to events from the past week:

laughing children,
toys in a rain gutter,
a dead dog,
the seam of a women's torn stocking and
a pile of loose, blank paper
sitting on a desk by an open window-
fluttering in the wind.

failures

and fantasies

in a dark,
warm,
room.

Sore Eyes, Shut.

2010-09-10T06:54:00.000-07:00

We are nothing, in the end,

but echos in a room greater than we

had once thought

a room filled, by large, with

the murmurings of doubt-

but what wonderful sounds we can leave!

shouts of ecstasy reverberating like

the fluttering of a bird's wings,

startled and hurdling itself

into the sky

or the sound of our own inner peace;

a sound like deafening stillness broken

by a single drop falling

from the moist ceiling of a limestone

cathedral into

an immense

underground

pool.

We spend lifetimes sending out cries of pain,

sobbing to higher beings,

screaming at inanimate objects,

or staring

silent

through dry, red eyes at

the blur of humanity

silence is not true peace

but neither is the outcome

of bloody lungs,

snapped vocal cords

and voices lost.

If we can be anything than let us be

a whisper of encouragement

respect

and love

echoing forever

and ever

in the wind.

Venus de Milo

2010-08-22T23:26:00.000-07:00

I'm never going to be in the band

I don't like wearing plaid

and I don't smoke anymore-

but you can stand there in the corner

blowing smoke rings

and listen to my guitar

making little rings in beer glasses

all over the porch of

this cabin surrounded

by trees.

I'm no Dylan

but at least I'm not Dylan

I've always been here

trying off and on to get your attention

then looking away the

moment

you turn your head.

You're the one for me

I think

the one that I admire

the one that I can see myself

without

like that statue

missing it's arms.

I'd climb a mountain for you

and not tell you about it;

but leave a little note at

the top under

a rock

telling you

about the climb.

I will always be here

I think

sitting in the corner,

looking away

when you turn,

making little rings

in your drink-

not totally

unlike

Dylan.

Untitled

2010-08-22T01:16:00.000-07:00

A light went out tonight

high above a street corner at

the intersection of two roads

you've never heard of.

You didn't notice it flicker like

a winded candle

then fade;

but the city was a bit darker

just the same.

In that same moment

a flashlight

turned on underneath

a fort of pillows and sheets

and Neverland was found again.

You didn't notice the light

trickling underneath

the bedroom door

but the world was a bit brighter

just the same.

Moist

2010-07-23T17:15:00.000-07:00

Searching for an ever-changing lust

in a sickly,

humid

darkness.

Hope is left on the brighter side of the door

and the desire

for meaning beyond

was abandoned long ago;

you're looking for a glimmer of heavenly breath;

for a cool breeze on the back of a sweaty spine,

for salvation-

in a den of dripping honey, but

there is no choice now

there is no trickling light to follow to the surface

and no greater meaning will be revealed

only regret,

disappointment,

and detachment

don't think of the glimmer that might be

don't think of gentile wind

and smiles over checkered picnic cloth

take both feet off the floor

crawl deep into the moldy, musty sheets

and let the devils dripping tongue

lap you into the maw.

To You.

2010-06-22T05:49:00.000-07:00

I want to talk to you

I want to see you smile,

grimace

or cry;

but as it is

I'll never truly know

that you'll hear what I'm saying.

I'll never be able to see your face

sitting at this breakfast table

and there's not much chance

that our eyes will meet

through the dancing haze

of a bonfire.

I'll reach out

a little voice in the dark

a match thrown into the night sky

hoping to light the candle resting

in your cupped hands;

just enough light for you to take another step

just enough for you to take another breath

just enough.

My soul will forever be yours

and though my words may yellow on the page

and the epitaph above my grave

will succumb to the wind and rain,

I'll be as a light snowfall

clinging to your lashes

and you'll hear me as the fluttering pages

of an old book left open in a warm breeze.

I'll never feel your heartbeat

or see any joy in your smile

and you'll never watch my chest

rise and fall as I sleep

or see my eyes flutter open

when the morning trickles

through lace curtains

and warms my face-

but my hand will always be in yours

and my words will swirl through your mind;

each chord singing out

comforting as best they can

caressing as sweetly

and lighting another step-

always one more.

You Think You Saw But Did Not See

2010-05-17T21:49:00.000-07:00

A small boy and a smaller dog

sitting on a curb, in the late afternoon.

A Rockwell painting; alive.

An image to conjure thoughts of our glorious age-

stirring pride

and warming hearts.

But the dog is tired and thin

and the boy's smudged face echos the pups hunger.

I suppose they're waiting for a parent

or a sibling who's running late,

but more likely

he and the dog will sit,

their shadows will draw longer

and the sun will fade to orange, then pink.

Walk-In

2010-05-06T03:29:00.000-07:00

Some things don't stay in your closet-

hitching rides on old baseball caps

and long, moth eaten winter coats.

Those bones were thought to have turned to dust

long ago

swept away by broom or

that they had floated away,

through old walls, down dark stairways

and into a fiery furnace

deep

below.

In truth, many do;

disappearing into the sea of time,

taken away grain by grain

with each mornings tide

however,

most remains,

the ones most foul and

most telling-

the ones shoved furthest away:

creep about in the shadows

waiting silently

and steadily;

breathlessly

and hungrily,

watching-

So when you sit at the head of the family table

you won't wonder why everyone is staring;

you'll feel the skeleton fingers running though your hair-

for no closet is deep enough.

Advice For Writing

2010-04-23T05:12:00.000-07:00

Avant Guard words

known or unknown-

the artistic twist;

that slight of hand

that transforms plain to lucrative

the standout from the chaff.

I suppose you don't actively do it

stumbling upon it-

a cinderella story;

working tirelessly

honing and perfecting

then you go around a curve

and the road is different.

What was once boring

is suddenly radical

and the playing field

is falling at your feet, all at once

bowing to your tongue.

There is nothing more to do

than to drive through thunderstorms-

listening to the wiper blades,

narrowing your eyes,

tightening your grip

and waiting for the road to disappear.

ee

2010-04-17T13:05:00.001-07:00

There are no footprints here,

and I confess:

I do not know the way-

but the way knows me.

I'll walk a little while,

before butterflies wander

into my chest-

then I'll walk a little more.

There is no path you see.

For the seeker of new worlds

there are only magical strings

and a heart to follow their gentle tug.

Grotesqueish

2010-04-17T10:09:00.000-07:00

Mortality as an art form-

exploring the art of death

as a memento moray

and as a curiosity.

Thoughts of jumping,

cutting,

swallowing

and letting light into one's own mind.

Bashing in the cats scull,

shooting a squirrel off of a fence or

flying through the guardrail

tires still spinning in the still air.

The dead are a touchy lot

their remnants always causing intrigue

but the living always take the blame for bad taste

Considering the beauty of the rosy still waters

surrounding Marat in his tub,

or the pickled shark of Mr. Hirst.

Morbid curiosity.

An artists folly.

A Simple Portrait

2010-04-16T01:50:00.000-07:00

Cinnamon.

Dark chocolate.

The smell of rosemary in butter and lemon juice.

Steinbeck,

Hornby,

Gaiman,

Austen,

Thompson and

Kerouac.

Rainy days;

muggy nights.

Black and White Photos;

packages in the mail;

hand written letters.

High heels and lace;

Johnny Walker whiskey;

cash to burn.

Blue eyes.

Wavy Hair.

Warm Smiles.

The smell of a Hotel.

Being barefoot on carpet.

Boots on the Beach.

Love in my heart.

Tears on my cheeks.

Tired hands.

Dylan,

Cooke,

Johnson,

Baez and

Seeger.

St. Vincent Millay and

Collins.

Sanding wood;

brushing away sawdust with an old brush.

Smelling the nape of her neck;

the feeling before you've kissed for the first time.

Hands gliding like kites out of car windows

Hearts on Sleeves;

Squinted eyes to the sun.

A Forehead Pressed Against the Window

2010-03-13T02:05:00.000-08:00

Content in always questioning

naive to some;

intelligent,

balanced to others.

Following a trail to enlightenment-

wandering off of the worn path;

searching for fancy-

a glint in an abandoned garden

a glimmer in a river's sandy bed.

Perspectives never intertwine

in the ways you expect-

never in the ways you want.

Desiring others not to ask too much of;

wanting the freedom to make mistakes

craving tears to come when you're all alone

heavy emotion only mattering to yourself.

Why is it that you can't sit

silently staring off by a glass pond

careful not to disturb its flesh with heavy breath

without others questioning motive?

They want chaos-

desiring turmoil for peace of mind

there is no sensation

there is no intrigue

there is only what your mind desires

Desiring silence,

stepping into the glass pond

sending out silent,

momentary ripples of presence

then floating in small,

slow circles.

There are heavy currents below

let them take you where they may

I will glide by with you

our eyes might meet

but we will not speak.

5:30 AM

2010-02-27T05:30:00.000-08:00

The rain seems like a visitor more than a storm-

not a mindless mass of clouds

or simply witless weather

but the Sea itself, tired of it's lowly position.

So here it is-

banging on the door,

tapping on the window,

looking for a couch.

Papa

2010-02-27T04:49:00.000-08:00

A little grimace

then a larger one.

Hard hands doing soft work

No punch clock,

no production line,

not the same kind of pain.

Love spreading frail roots

in the midst of a cratered countryside

the soil, like mist;

floating in front of the midday sun

and men, sweaty and tired,

fall to the ground unaware of the beauty-

save one.

A large groan,

a tug from a cold glass

and a clearing of the throat.

So much gore-

zeal for country followed by swift sentences-

an eye for an eye and all that;

but there was something beneath it all,

something overlooked,

sitting in the muddy trench

covered with the same dirt, sweat

and blood.

They were all moving forward

but there he was, unsure of his path-

his eyes open.

He sees the chaos,

the inches gained

and the flesh piling up on butcher's bill;

but through the fog

there is a figure-

his reason, duty be damned;

there was his peace.

The hard hands pause

knuckles crack, and wild eyes

stare out the window.

They see the sun,

they see the sky and clouds;

and when the weathered hands begin again

recounting the sunset with simple words on toothy paper

they write with love;

and we feel it.

Demain Matin

2010-02-18T02:47:00.000-08:00

Treasures are nothing in the dark-

they are lumps of coal,

ridges on a distant mountain range;

they are shadows enveloped in the night.

Treasures locked in a glass case-

porcelain dolls never again to be held warmly by small hands,

teacups never again to adorn white lace tables;

they have lost their meaning

no longer coveted for purpose-

only finding small warmth in a cold,

passing gaze.

The treasures of dreams filed away-

thoughts of books set on distant shores;

sketches of paintings depicting truest love-

never to be penned,

never to adorn canvas.

Homes are turning into museums

graveyards for passing fancy-

what could have been

and what will never be.

You treasure the plaque on the wall

the china in its case

and the manuscript in the drawer

placed there years ago,

then you stare proudly while you yourself

gather dust.

The Danse Macabre

2010-02-16T02:29:00.000-08:00

Pulling hair

knees together, shivering
under a worn, victorian desk.

His progress,
his life in words, written with ink and blood-
fluttering about the room, parchment choking the air
like so much confetti.
Thousands of pages, millions of thoughts
skimming through the dark room
glimmering in the light of the fireplace.

It's all decoration for the Danse Macabre.

So easy it was, to be inspired by
demons and death, waiting in the night
and now they are here;

slithering and gliding,

called in from the cold reaches of elsewhere
dancing in great circles-

a grand ballroom full of shadows
and stolen words.

They will dance about him now;
close by,
for the rest of his days.

He no longer shudders-
but smiles a great, terrifying smile-

he leaps to his feet,

flames and shadows dance in his eyes.

the dance would be had,

then-

more parchment soaked

with ink

and death.

inspired by Neil Gaiman and his own 'recollection' of the 'danse'.

The Northern Bay

2010-02-13T02:40:00.000-08:00

Sitting in an old, wooden chair

on a single, musty pillow

trying to make something

meaningful.

Rain in the distance

threatening nothing but to clean the dust

from all about this house;

the garden is dry.

Noticing smudges-

old fingerprints on the inside of

worn reading glasses;

rubbing temples,

standing to crack vertebrae.

This place is often too loud

conversation, music;

laughter from across the road.

Tonight there is only the light rain

beginning to fall.

Candles are burning into the night

beside a rusted typewriter-

I am long since gone,

asleep in my bed.

Bravery and Sweet Cowardice

2010-02-06T05:07:00.000-08:00

There is a chill-

a window, cracked to the storm;

water falling, slanted with the rain

the world beneath a gentle waterfall.

Thunderclaps in the distance.

For a moment there is only the sound-

water and its fate;

then a wimper-

somewhere within the house

down the stairs

and in the warm, dank, darkness

the little voice cries softly.

Thunder shakes the house, closer now.

The gentle waterfall begins to intensify

ripping the paint from walls and loosening shingles-

Flowers are drowning in their beds.

A great light surrounds

white and pure, only a moment-

but the sensation lasts and lasts.

In the light, the tear-stained face-

found,

no longer sad

acknowledged then held close.

The last thunder crackles

no tears.

Warm arms, and steady eyes

staring off into the storm.

The window is wide open now-

the chill is welcome.

Words tattooed on a speechless heart

declaring that one day

this being will speak without fear

again.

Every night, the same blue twilight

trying to find bearings

by moonlit highlight and starry outline

learning how to discern shadows

from the silhouettes, reality

from false hope

Hour by hour hoping for relaxation;

an empty mind

and an unclenched soul-

only sweat and clammy skin haunts

as the light of what is tomorrow

comes too soon,

burning yesterdays eyes.

Sitting in soiled sheets,

feeling sickness take grip.

Moments of inspiration-

flicking the nightstand light on,

hope manifests itself in the way of

barely discernible scribbling in worn,

coffee-stained journal pages;

the lamp flicks off again but there it is-

the dawn, full and immovable

what hope is there for the speechless heart

when every night, creativity is dashed on

dawn's shimmering shore?

Curtains are drawn and the being shuffles

about the dimly lit apartment

once craving the daylight to observe the world anew,

now hiding within cool walls scratched by the fingernails

of a 'common' consciousness,

fighting for normalcy-

singularity

then murdered by sweet eccentricity.

Pale and broken,

it waits beneath the bed,

amongst the mildew of forgotten laundry,

waiting for the night

and another try.

Words will come.

Lemonade

2010-01-31T23:36:00.000-08:00

Sensuality and sinister foreboding-

sensations, almost audible

through bone and blood.

Cracking and creaking,

each rib snapping into a new position

protecting and steadily compressing

that which lays inside.

Amidst all the real and imagined horror

the beating thing and it's metaphorical spot

in your mind

hurt more than bone splintering

and flesh peeling-

they call it the blues

they call it loss

they call it heartbreak.

No riff from scarred hands

can wipe away the cold sweat

that washes over in the middle

of a hot, summers night.

Sitting in a dirty, humid kitchen

knuckles white, gripping a cool glass

of foggy lemonade

swallowing greedily ice an all

deep into your soul

but only citrus steam forms

on the back of your eyeballs.

It's not for you to cure

or fight off-

close your eyes

let the deathly hands of grief

drag you into the wave

out with the tide

That same beating thing

protected by shattered bone

and raw flesh

will bring you back to dry land-

eventually.

Sustain

2010-01-28T16:14:00.000-08:00

Protest songs, ill-defined

implying cadences uttered by the swaying and swelling

of angry crowds shouted till cords are raw,

screaming a desire for

sudden change

at all costs.

Guitars were picked and harmonica blown

to massage messages into the minds

of those that turned a deaf ear

when the issues were forced.

Banjoes and tambourines,

mandolins and steel guitars,

silenced by a black listing

when lyrics delved too deeply-

Un-American to question another man's

misguided crusade;

Un-American

to admit defeat.

Three voices of change

cast away into a void of thick air

pure, country music, questioned

for being against the murder of innocent

and the recall of loved ones-

Un-American

to come home.

A single tear brought on by an echoing chord

a flash of resent from a nerve strummed

and the hardest men given away

as their feet began to tap

A suggestion is put forward

a nudge in the right direction, to

please look up, into the burning sky

at the hard rain looming

Truths only noticed by the ones looking;

wars that cannot be won,

marches that need to be ended.

We will bring them home,

we will further question our readiness to fight

another mans war.

We will stand with eyes closed,

listening in the pouring rain,

for answers-

blowing in the wind.

Good Morning

2010-01-26T06:16:00.000-08:00

Sharing a bed-

kids have it right;

we mucked it up.

Friendship and support,

linen forts and secret missions.

Nothing felt better than laughing,

sometimes crying;

camped out in a circle of three,

hoarding cards and ice cream.

Walks of shame were never there in the morning;

only the slip-sliding of socked feet

racing to the kitchen-

mom was making waffles.

Feelings wouldn't change when the sun came

even if you woke someone up

with a pillow to the kisser.

We adults have it wrong-

the companionship is gone;

replaced with pomp and circumstance,

lust and primeval passion.

There's no room for the dog

and the morning coffee outweighs a morning kiss.

How does it all get better?

How do we reclaim the days of innocence?

You don't, you make due-

so skip the coffee;

go for the kiss

and make waffles.

The Failure of Senses

2010-01-12T06:06:00.000-08:00

The latch is broken, the window is never clear

but I can see beyond the hazy glass.

I see what it is and what it could be;

what I used to think I needed.

There is a figure there, near the glass

its breath rising and falling on the pane.

I want to write messages of love and joy,

hearts and initials in the condensation;

but the figure moves off again.

I place my hand against the cool surface

my forehead resting beside it.

My eyes are sore, tired of straining to see past the fog;

then,

for a moment,

I feel the warmth of another hand

and I look up to see the figure

reaching out, its hand pressed against the outline of mine.

So near.

I think there is a heart warming that hand

and a consciousness placing it there

but something in me is still wary;

could this thing

be the work of a candle's flickering light?

casting shadows?

forming false hopes?

Eastern Shore

2010-01-04T22:44:00.000-08:00

Hands slipping from cotton and leather

sliding along old knotted wood

creaking in the breeze.

The ocean stands in the distance

grey, impending, but oddly silent;

its violent waves falling on deaf shores.

The seabirds are little more than kites, hanging there above;

even their fluttering feathers and open beaks

lack their usual light hearted revelry.

This happy place is now more like a fortress, perched on the edge of the world

and I am small, standing at its gates

the cold air stinging my narrowed eyes,

and the water beginning to lap at my feet.

An Old Key Turning in a Wooden Door.

2010-01-04T00:41:00.000-08:00

Strange happiness-

content with the absence of sadness,

the obliteration of memories' touch;

why?

The celebration of a vacant spot within-

a newly hollowed space,

not-so-ready to be filled.

They say you look better,

gaining back color, tone.

Your eyes are brightening-

this is a good thing;

why?

Moving mentalities

shifting cargo to and from different trains of thought

gaining steam towards an abstract destination;

the strange happiness,

now based

on blind faith.

This is all foolish,

but most things are.

why?

The horizon will make it's way to your feet,

your color will settle over time

and your mentality

will hop

its last freight.

Life moves with no help.

The Wind in Her Hair and Something That Has Nothing to do with Cooking

2009-12-26T05:12:00.000-08:00

Her lipstick is gone

dotted on coffee cups and napkins

her mascara, eyeliner and shadow

worn in the wind, washed away.

Her skin stands bare

stripped from it, all the things that,

she would believe, would make her more beautiful;

only nature defines her now,

highlighting her cheeks with the rosiness only a cold wind can purvey

her eyes sprinkled with light freckles

and her brow kissed by the gentle sun

what remains now is a countenance

that would make my heart beat for the first time

again

she is living,

organic,

love.

Dreaming of a meal,

wrapped in paper and string

waiting for the love and flame

that would come, once a familiar hand

pulls the door open and the light comes on.

Soon sweet smells of onion and olive oil,

butter and lemon dance together, dotting the air

just above the pan.

Diced this and that now enters,

bounding from the board to the steaming range

color and texture form

cream swirls and swoons

making potatoes soft and smooth;

rosemary and basil dot the milky white.

The dream progresses and the sounds of

clanking pans, and thumping, chopping, knives increase;

the hands are becoming frantic, frustrated

and the ingredients keep multiplying

it seems that too much has entered the pan

the potatoes boil over

and the steam becomes thick, black, smoke.

The sauce is breaking.

Swift footsteps approach from behind

and second set of hands dash from spoon to panhandle,

knife to ladle and the flames calm,

the potatoes reduce their froth

and the sauce renders

unscathed

The second pair of hands now come near,

covering the first, interlocking and stroking gently;

like the flames, the panic dies down

and the light turns off.

The dream ends, eyes flutter open

and the two pairs of hands lay between them

still interlocked.

Rain, Desire, Adventure, and Love

2009-12-15T18:59:00.000-08:00

1.
Rain has fallen silently in the night.
it has come and gone, whisked
from my windowpane,
by a swift wind
and now some distant desert country is
suddenly moist and cool.

I am unaware of this
save a small feeling of content
in the back of my head,
the remnants of rainfall on my path
and the prevailing wind.

But the rain is due for another show
and along this trail the wind changes once more
darkening the skies
like cocoa powder dropped into
the pearlescence of milk.

The air is dancing about me-
harsh bits of pebble
skittering along a red rock road
and the distant barking of an unsheltered
dog scratching at a back door.

Storms breed unease in many
but this day, this moment, I'm smiling
for the cool moisture drawn from
the swaying trees is licking at my face
and the warmth of drink still remains
tucked inside of my coat.

2.
A cigarette glows
and the Countess reclines further
into the
soft
red
leather.

She is staring through you
her gaze is blazing with
greater fire than the smoking thing
in her lips
and you feel the heat slowly moving
from your head to toe.

On cue, a silver tray floats in
and the smell of single malt libation
wafts from a set of crystal,
clinking slightly as it's set
halfway
across
the room.

Your eyes never break gaze
as you stroll towards your life preserver
hoping that with the slug
you'll manage to remain afloat
in her stormy eyes.

After you've downed the third
you make your way to the arm of her chair
pulling out your own brand and
as you set it in your lips
a lighter snaps on just below
her face is
glowing,
staring.

Pausing to see her face
in the lighters flickering light
you are made aware of every hair
on the back of your neck
man overboard.

3.
He sits in a rich velvet chair
surrounded by the blue haze of pipe smoke
and the walls lined with books, are barely visible.

The gentile whir of a phonograph in the corer
announces it's journey to the next song and
as the silence breaks,
filled with the gentile scraping of strings,
he settles into the next, worn, page.

Despite his plush perch of velvet
and the delicacy of the music
his eyes are wide with horror;
sweat dots his brow, and his fingertips
are white grasping the binding.

The smoke, books and chair
are nothing to him now as he
flashes down the Amazon river
spear and darts blurring by his pith.

The natives are restless.

4.
Hundreds gather
swaying to the swing of a big band
high heels dart by, spats embrace shined shoes and
legs rush in and out of a great club.
Conversation is growing thicker than the london fog
just outside.

The brass section is waving,
great golden instruments glinting
in the light of a stunning crystal chandelier
casting it's rainbow of color across the hall;
the smell of champagne
hangs in the air.

In the middle of the floor
a single white dinner coat and
a captivating, red gown float in small circles
drawing the eyes of the high society crowd
their slander slows
and only the gasping of lonely hearts is heard.

They two are separate, unaware of the room
dancing on a private plane;
her face is still,
her gaze is fixed
and her smile is all the music he needs.
The light dims and a soft spotlight is upon them;
casting a moon-like glow,
highlighting their love.

The band has fallen silent,
no notes could compliment
and any great solo would be lost
for only deaf ears remain.

The couple dips and trots,
spins and tightly embraces
and, when the music in their hearts comes to an end
they each bow
and walk off
hand in hand.

Another Drop of Red into the Sand

2009-11-27T03:01:00.000-08:00

1.
This marble face
is cracking
too strong not to feel

hundreds take pictures
posing with the figure
deep in thought;
hanging off it's limbs
unaware of the
squirming
just below the surface

So long, it has been
since warm steel
worked on soft stone;
love impressed
into the wild,
veined rock

It now sits
it's stoic visage
staring off beyond
all that we can know
feeling the warmth of the sun
and the cool wind
slowly grinding it
back to nature.

2.
Worn and out of tune
the mandolin strums
from an equally weary stool
such a distant feeling
hearing the music of a faraway country
conjuring thoughts of dark cafes
and cobbled paths by a Mediterranean sea

lights dance in the water and in my mind
bouncing baubles, hanging like
tea lamps from rocking trees
a light wind blows through my thoughts
and brings my mind back
to what my eyes have been resting upon

a simple man, playing a song;
all the while, the light clinking of cups
coming to rest on saucers
smooths the ears passage
between music.

3.
Hardened flesh
grinding into wound steel
and bronze;
blood finds its way out
marking the passage of indiscernible
fingers on six vibrating strings

tears flow from self-inflicted wounds
chords of melancholy memory
wrapping about a body;
a warm blanket of
a cold past

one hand grows numb;
the other, it's fingertips
beginning to ache
growth by the death
of tissue

a person sits in the center of a room
making ripples in the air
and feeling them as they reflect back
bouncing off of keepsakes
and bare walls

hands rest on smooth, cool wood
and the vibration dissipates into
the dark corners of the room;
the tears dry into salt
and the instrument is placed back in it's case.

Growth by the death of tissue.

4.
Tonguing dry lips.
The wind is unrelenting
but on the horizon, this desert
becomes grassland.

Always on the horizon.

A thousand pairs of eyes
have seen this view-
Prosper; just beyond.

No spyglass can bring it to you
only blood and tears.

outstretched arms;
accepting

another defiance
another drop of red into the sand

another step.

Light Rain in the Afternoon

2009-11-20T17:24:00.000-08:00

1.
"Never"
can be a
cruel notion
so too is the idea
of limitation
yet the walls still stand
graffiti ridden reminders
of past opposition
ideas thick and unfeeling
the molasses of bigotry
the once powerful
yet backwards thought
of supreme being
separating the chaff
from all the rest
the sub-human
the emotional wretches
crying for family
crying for god

they could see it then
circling above the mighty peak
still too high to reach
not vultures but soft clouds
sunlight above the darkness
each day climbing higher
each day the mountain growing
the voices of hate fade into the valley below
and the echo of the ones who came before
strengthen unsure legs

the fight is here
and to ignore it is to stop
climb no higher
and begin to
slide
down

it is then
that "never"
is word
of strength

so
to the unsure
it is said-
never again;
nevermore will you allow
the world to move
without your voice

never.

2.
Thunderstorms brewing
over darkened brows
slotted eyes staring
darting pupils
back and forth;
this is a hopeful day
a day of intention
and self-fulfillment
a day of Samuel Clemens
lit by a candle's light
curtains flung open
to gray skies

Today daydreams,
wandering quests
and much chocolate
baked and wafted
into every breath

a day of china teacups
slightly steaming
constantly rubbing lenses;
the sound of a single page
slid along fingers turning onto
the next

This day is not for grieving
or over-introspection
it's not for cleaning
for coveting
or skipping chapters;

it certainly isn't in lieu of
or a chance to hide from;
no excuses were crafted
no promises were ignored

This is
a very
good
day.

Olive Oil and Talking Myself to Bed

2009-11-19T11:44:00.000-08:00

1.
There it is
in the steaming wine sauté
meandering about the room
dancing with herbs
and spices

it's hopping about
in tiny oil splatters
and dripping artfully
onto clean
white
plates

it's in the sound of
carbon steel meeting
moist wood
a knife writing it's name
in each item
a pan sealing
it's locked within
the
moist
warmth

it's in the glistening
salad leaves
red and green;

floating in soups
wound deeply in the
knot of angel pasta
floating up from the
boiling water.

but mostly it's
in the heart and hands
of the chef

a gift of love
for the stomach
and soul.

2.
A strange thing it is
that tears should be warm
a tea brewed within your heart
and poured in celebration
of love and loss;

more like blood
than water.

A beautiful release
a punctual headache
removing glasses
rubbing the bridge of
your nose;
acknowledging
something beyond
that annoying
"upper lip" phrase.

Allowing not the wallow
but the wrapping of a blanket
letting yourself
feel
completely.

3.
Listing little lies
great intention
lacking gusto
Toilets
waste-bins
dishes;
the kitchen floor
never submitting to
hands and knees.

Always such important things
running about in a whirling mind;
plenty of time to do all that
later.

though,
just as company arrives,
a great desire consumes -
a need to do
the laundry.

Stuffed this and that sitting
on porcelain platters
can't distract fully
from the thumping
of the washing machine
and the constant clatter
of scrubbing dishes

the vacuum comes out
met with a dirty look from
the TV viewers
and the mop is shunned;
apparently some people need
the bathroom open
no questions asked

the chores end

there is nothing left
but to sit and talk;
but the world seems too still
and the conversation is
not enough to hold attention

eyes darting about the room
looking for imperfection
distraction
purpose beyond a simple chat.

Hours pass
baseball games
action movies
dirty jokes
listening to one's mind
wandering.

then the company leaves

the room falls silent

and you're left wondering
where did the time go?
You're ready to give in
let go
enjoy

instead
you fall back;
staring at the ceiling
for hours.

4.
Daydreams of conversations
yet to be uttered -
the future.
Yet in the night
dreams of nothing;
a darkness plain and unnatural
stays fixed all about
my eyes

Where are the space journeys
sea voyages
castle walls
and cobbled streets?

The void consumes me
and sleep itself becomes a symbol
a cause
of unrest.

What use is there in dreams
when the greatest adventures
and epic loves
are wrapped in cloth
and paper?

The hero
isn't you
those lovers
don't love you
and you certainly aren't
an angel
floating above the world
written below

Looking for similarities
and meaning in fiction
is a messy business
the covers of a book
will never contain more
than the covers
of your own bed.

So the attempt is made
each night
to drift off with
a new tide

Family Dinner and A Writing Session in the Rain

2009-11-11T07:10:00.000-08:00

A shimmering, capable
blade sits adjacent
to my
plate

In the corner of my eye
a moisture-laden Merlot
sits on an ivory-white
table cloth

a single drop of sweat rolls
down the small of my neck
disturbing the sensitive
hairs

I choose to ignore the salt shaker
sitting on its
side, a
tiny mound of blasphemous
dust beside it

A loud crash causes forks to
silence their massacre
and I stand
slipping away;
attending to the horrific
salvation.

Rain
falling
on a dark-green umbrella
smoke mixing with
steam
from simmering coffee beside
book and pen;
gray skies shine, reflected
against the slick, black
street.
Harsh breaths, taking in
the brisk atmosphere
exhaling warm byproduct
exhaust from the machine
that is
your soul.
Blank, raindrop dotted
pages give way to

thoughts of fireplaces and
Persian slippers full
of the choicest tobacco

notions of hansom cabs
clattering down narrow
cobbled streets

and ruminations of warm, tossed
bedding with
two heartbeats
held close

The pages fill
and the ashtray is
twice replaced
The world falls silent

as the

rain

breaks

and the sound
of a dragging pen is
replaced with a
single set of footsteps
wandering to a cold,
empty
house.

Coffee, Common Ground, and an Observation

2009-11-05T01:55:00.000-08:00

1.
Bob Dylan is giving me a dirty look
something about
me being
a wimp.
I just wanted a cup of joe
a couple of sugars
and a nice walk
but he looks serious
standing next to the counter
a steaming cup of his own
fogging up
from his hand;
I half tip my cap
half run away
into the
bitter
air.
Bukowski narrowly misses me
in a blue Volkswagen
and Chandler lets out a laugh
at my expense
from a shady spot
on the patio.
I shake the coffee that
spilled off of my hand
and keep
walking.
At the light a limo stops
and Nora Charles
pops out of a tinted window
she asks for directions
Nick shakes his head
just inside the car;
he mutters something
about me not knowing
which way
is which
then begins to shake a cocktail
as the window
rolls
back
up
Two men in black
pass me
in front of my apartment
thumbing their way across the nation
on their way
to Mexico
one looks over
flips me the bird,
and winks.

I step through my door
and stop
shake my head
and smile.

2.
Echoes in the dark
wind from an
unseen end
around the bend
safe
ideal
but only black
stretches on
wretches of the lost
groping for hope
you heart in hand
holding tight
hoping for a single,
flickering
bulb
still waiting
still walking

miles drag
fingers along your
spine
around your ankles
about you neck
trek further
passing wreck
after wreck
past lives
past dreams

then the air clears
and the darkness
seems
different
it wraps around you
like a warm bath
a glimmering lake
to swim; dim
at best
the light comes
softly, slowly
your feet didn't
bring it near
but you hear the
beating
grow
for it was
inside
waiting to show
when your
soul and
you mind
find

common
ground.

3.
Piles of books
looks from ghosts
the toast of literature
staring forward
waiting
breathless
for the next
last word
old wood creaks
between volumes
voices muttering
pages shuffling
cloth covers
snapping closed
posed are they
sitting on the
shelves
waiting
breathless
for the next
last word
you
don't
have
it
in
you.

Lofty

2009-11-04T01:57:00.000-08:00

1.
Tea kettle hopping
whistling for a bit of attention.

Here I sit
across the room
rolled sleeves
hunched and furrowed
eyes flashing
a late night jamming of keys
letting the words fall
my mind not in place.

Watching letters I
didn't pick
floating together
becoming a thought
I didn't realize
I was thinking.

Violins in the back of my
mind, thoughts of
earlier in the day
an orchestra.
Now sweet jazz laps
gently into my ears
but my mind
still
isn't
here.

Leaning back, looking
longingly out a foggy window
the world moving lazily
down the puddled street
I need more
I want more
but what it is
eludes me.

Abstract pleasures
floating in a haze
my mind is playing
catch-up
with
my
soul.

I'm not in the mood
for games.

2.
Loosened tie
the top few buttons
undone
like a trumpeter
hat pushed back
a few drops of sweat
find their way down
my neck.

The sun strips the
starch
from my collar
coffee smacks
of unfulfilment
and my nose
declares the air
inhospitable

This chair is giving way.

I need a new scene
a new brewhouse
a new face.

These dice aren't rolling
my way.

The Corner Stool

2009-11-03T03:52:00.000-08:00

1.
Unmistakable;
the business end
of a Lucky Strike
glowing from the back
of a hazy room.

Sitting before a ghost band
a hep beat floats back
entangled in the
musicians smoke

The music pauses
and the grey thickens
thoughts of the outside
the next step
an adult life

A hand shoots upward
and drinks are served
cool, fresh amnesia
ice cubes still clinking

The band resumes
it's set.

2.
Walking inside
the thick air hits you
like a hard kiss
a hiss
of steam
from your ears
bodies jiving
sliding as the cymbal
cries into the crowd
loud are the horns
calling the snare
to bear on your soul
sweat pours
their minds must be
lost
not
yours
cool drink sizzles
mingles with sweat
on your
lips
hips wander near
eyes like ice
twice cooling
your soul.

You emerge
changed.

3.
Walking along to the sound of a clarinet
skipping over the cracks
to the snare
heels, percussion
the wind whipping your coat
dancing in the air
fingers tapping at your sides
mirroring the gentile
flow of piano keys
then the whirlwind fades back
just the clarinet
a dragging match
a sizzle
and footsteps
echo
down
the
street.

Snare and Piano

2009-10-25T05:32:00.000-07:00

1.
Cold Glass
tints of green and
brown
Sleepy eyes staring
at glossy wood.
Put your feet up
on the
rail;
relax.

Looking up,
checking the
mirror
amidst a crowd
you feel
safe.

Spin around
meeting the smiles
of a thousand
unknown
possibilities-
friends;
lovers.

Another round
another laugh
tapping the oak
a coaster
slapped down
cold
sweet
and sour.

2.
Keep fighting
the inkling
to be
a silent
observer.

Make a joke;
smile into the eyes
of a
beautiful
woman
or be a bastard
make an impression
start a fight
or
drown
within
yourself.

Sometimes
you need to be
your own
inspiration.
Make your
own
scene.

3.
Blue light
comes for
me.

The night
abandons.

The sun is
hot
on my trail.

Introspective, shaken.

2009-10-20T06:20:00.000-07:00

The search
for inspiration
at my desk or
in my bed.

Typed
or handwritten.
Spoken or
cursed

Pencils lack the
longevity
Pens constantly
lose traction
over bumpy
roads.

Tomorrow I'll be
carving a tablet
of stone
while hanging
from
the rafters

like a bat.

2.
Holding my tongue
is a three person job;
always knowing the
correct
and proper way
to entertain notions
and diffuse
tension.

But I don't
tolerate
much.

Don't expect me
to be thrilled
at all your
accomplishments.
Don't expect me
to look up
from my clinking
ice cubes
and shake
your hand.

Waves of clear
ice water
dancing against
golden liquor.
Never break the
concentration
of a person
deciphering the mysteries
of their cocktail.

I bite.

3.
Chasing the dream;
wondering when stiff drinks
and toilet paper will be
given out as
rations.
Essentials of the
common
human.

I need bread and
water
I want
coffee from drinking fountains
and scotch
from the government;
economics of an
impoverished soul.

I'm ashamed to want a house
and a partner to hold;
dodging materialism and misogyny
by a hair's breath
wondering if love
really is
demeaning.

All the while
you're
sitting in your
breakfast nook
shoveling organic sugar
into
"free trade"
or
"pure conscience"
coffee.

How's that
working out
for you?

4.
It's been too long
since
the messages taken over
the phone
were more important
than
the doodles in
the margin.
Tiny circles, nonsensical
devices and
lyrics from something
in the back
of my mind
Always outweighing
the dentist's follow-up
or the long past due
phone bill.
Someday
I'll refinance something
Till then
this rocket-ship
needs
a cloudy blue yonder.

5.
A gentile saxophone
plays an outro
in the remaining few
minutes of the four o'clock
hour.
A last dance for a busy night
The raspy speaker
speaks the
slow sensibilities
of the 1930's
"...goodbye and farewell
I shall return to shore soon..."
With that
the golden light fades
a few cracks
a pop
and a thumping loop
as the needle
revisits
the end.

Dreaming of My Shady Rock

2009-10-15T07:15:00.000-07:00

1.
Searching a world
of advice;
throwing my arms up,
begging for clarity.
Guidance comes.
It flows uninterrupted
constantly luring me
in the wrong directions
buying and selling my
emotions on a public
market.
Fighting to put a
dollar sign
on my sanity.
Filth is all the response
that I receive.
But as I wrap my arms about me
and begin to weep;
the air whispers:
You
Will
Remain.

2.
Contemplating
the bones in one's head;
the skull as a whole
just underneath
moist tissue.
Always balancing
a fishbowl of brains
on your spine.
Beer, scotch and
the occasional tequila
sloshing about
the fatty mass.
Young mothers,
disgruntled ex's
and violent, pulsating music
batting it about.
Antiquated theories,
archaic practices,
and egotistical educators
trying to pry in.
You're hoping for the best
when walking down
a simple set of
stairs.

3.
Looking for gray
despising the signs of youth.
We all sit in the a hell
of assumption
uncultured
immature.
I can do nothing
but wait for time
and the wind
to break me down
till I resemble
the voice I emit.
I suppose then I can
find comfort
in being pegged
as
out of touch.

4.
I love the caress of changing shadows
wandering over my body
while this car drives down
a windy road.
Canyon after canyon,
a soft stream flowing beside
the hard black ground
reminding me of old movies.
I want to call this scene a wrap
and lay on the smooth stones
listening to the water
it's lazy trickle
lulling me to rest.
Then off again
out onto the open plains;
always dreaming
of my shady
rock.

5.
I hate hearing
that men
lack the ability to love

She told me that men
think that love is cute
and useless;
that sex is the only gain
we have in mind.
We are desperately clinging
to the playtime
of our youth
keeping
the same
destructive behaviors.
Blowing up
our sisters doll
and wondering why
she's crying.

I cry.
I cry when she's
not there.
I cry when her scent
walks by
years later.
I sob when her skin isn't
against mine;
and I break down
when I'm
assumed to be stone.

I love.
I will love.
I have loved.
I've given my soul
in search of
love.
It was
blown into shards.

and she wondered
why
I was crying.

Commonly Unshaven

2009-10-12T04:53:00.000-07:00

1.
I have this old tube
radio;
it's a record player.
I love it, as dusty as it gets.
It works beautifully;
warming up after a lovely click.
I'm sad though,
when it begins to play
because the sound is that
of today.
All the warmth of the
golden glow
is wasted.
The radio and I
are misplaced
in time.

2.
China clinking;
chipping.
muffled orders passed to
men with sweaty brows
and stained aprons.
Squeaky vinyl,
torn and scuffed;
duct tape patches.
The tables are uneven
wobbling.
Rattling of a fork
fallen, a knife
meeting porcelain.
Praying the man
ducking under
the counter leaf
has washed
his hands.
I hope my coffee
isn't filled
too high.

3.
Ugly.
Despicable.
Reprehensible.
You get the idea,
but it's what I think;
and you're still here.
It was the reading glasses.
You don't know
Johnny Cash.
He was bad
trying to be good.
You thought I was a square
it turns out I have curves
that can make you vomit.

4.
I always giggle at myself
when sitting
in dirty underwear,
fighting a cold.
I can see the postcard
moment;
hair akimbo
unshaven
nose running.
Like that crazed portrait
of Poe;
but half naked.

A Night with the DPS and a friendly dog from hell.

2009-10-06T04:28:00.000-07:00

1.
Where the hell has Ginsberg gone?
These people need a good, hard look at themselves.
Talk of finance seems to permeate the air
and yet the arts were impoverished long ago;
reduced to weekend enthusiasts or the wealthy eccentric.
Where are the coffee houses broadcasting prose;
the parks teeming with free people in revolt.
More nights lost to sleep, coffee turned cold.
Why are the midnight diners lost to sundry drunkards
and the streets vacant save the homeless
and the mindless corporate drone.
It seems the white picket fence has returned
and we are all to be crucified upon it.

2.
We're all doomed to dreaming of soaring through the stars
while naked, sweating through already soiled sheets.
Our contentment is based on our ability to ignore
the influence of the rotten, spoiled world around us.
I'm not one to smile when getting a ticket
for smoking on a sidewalk;
standing amongst the butts and the ash
recounting "Yes sir's" to an officer
with excellent penmanship.
It begins to mist as I saunter home,
becoming a pitter-patter against my coat.
I'm thinking of my putrid bed
and where it's going to take me.

Untitled

2009-10-02T18:02:00.000-07:00

To be bored with the workings of the heart is to be dead
and those who declare themselves unamused
are naive.
Pain and happiness are not so far apart;
emotion not so childish.
A shriveled existence of cowering from your soul
is not an option; my words are powerful
because I am aware of myself.
They will grow because I refuse
to look away.

I Need Some Air

2009-10-02T05:44:00.000-07:00

1.
The first conversation;
thinking of longevity,
feeding off of desire.
We spoke of a passion for words,
the delicate imagery of candles
and a love of generations past.
Each taking turns leaning over the table
lips meeting as a sign of approval.
I miss that version, It was perfect;
in that moment we were destined
it was decided beyond me.
The world around was a blur.
Time has passed, feelings have changed
and the nuances are lost;
but I remember enough,
to weep.

2.
Young love is disgusting,
there is no honor among the the coming of age.
Hands held and cast away, promises whispered
and broken.
Windows fogged, and innocence
abused.
On the rare occasion when seriousness,
true care, and honesty linger;
the world beyond is discovered.
Maturity has not yet been attained
and the lust for deeper meaning outweighs
such saccharine notions.

3.
Regret is honesty.
You could have done better,
you could have changed.
Maybe you would have kept your job,
lost some weight or stayed out of jail.
Maybe she would be here.
It is said that if you do your best
then there is nothing to regret.
I respectfully disagree.
You don't know your limits
so everyday,
you're failing.
Acknowledge that you
are nothing but a speck
and the world
will be wide open
Regret is honesty.

4.
One thought
one slip
and I'm falling
like some alcoholic
touching gin to their lips.
I need pictures, conversation
but it all leads to destruction
sobbing and headache.
Such a calm evening
until I think of her
then my face tightens
and my vision blurs.
This must end;
I'm the only one
still here.

5.
I hate myself for feeling;
loss dominates my body
just below the surface.
I have brave faces and
a desire for quick love;
nothing will quench me.
She's gone off with another
and another and another;
I am buried in the paperwork
of her new dating life,
a cold case, never to be reopened.
I never wanted another.

6.
A vacation in heaven
wandering through the snow
sharing an old high school bed.
Dusty Poe books and class projects,
younger faces framed,
braces and purple hair.
A warm family, scrabble
and the mountains, god the mountains!
We took trips to the local bar
with mounted animals
and a worn dance-floor.
Second and third Christmases
spent in a double wide
and a snow covered chalet.
The family was wonderful
beyond my dreams.
It was heaven
and now the thought of all that
takes me to hell.

I can't stop looking over my shoulder.

2009-09-29T03:09:00.000-07:00

1.
How did I get in this place? All in good fun I suppose.
A night spend drowsily wandering over her body
tasting her soul, and eventually collapsing beside her.
I throw the sheets to the side, stinking of sweat; it's quiet.
Only the sound of an oscillating fan making its rounds,
a chill moves across my face, ruffling my hair.
I hear her shuffling about the bathroom and I sigh.
I remember taking comfort in that sound
the sound of someone else getting ready for work.
I would sit there, a bit foggy waiting for my goodbye kiss
and collapsing back into sheets that still smelled of her.
But this is different and I will get no goodbye,
a nod and wink on the way out
at best.
It's all in good fun.

2.
I remember thinking;
"Hot Chocolate wasn't a good idea."
Bleary eyed I stood there
hot water in one hand, a packet of mint cocoa in the other.
looming over a glass mug, sobbing.
The last time there was powder in this mug
I was in different company.
I can't help it, I can't avoid it.
We picked them out, a sign of prosperity,
choosing things together; making a home.
I should like to think of childhood moments
with grilled cheese in front of the hearth.
I had marshmallows in those days.
Now the little floating clouds remind me
of trips to the store, so she could have them in her mug;
I wanted it to be perfect; I was a fool.
After a bit of blinking through steam,
I finish pouring my cup. Let out a groan and a sigh.
Thoughts that remind us of happy times, should not delay
a good cup of warm cocoa.

3.
The taste of smoke and whiskey lingers in the back of my throat.
A heavy, thankful sigh as I pull into my spot and walk upstairs.
My voice is gone, there's smeared lipstick everywhere;
where do I find the energy to do all this?
I walk into the dim apartment and flick the light on
the bulb flashes briefly and leaves me drenched in darkness.
Blue light from the moon outlines a figure looming;
sleep is staring at me
naked in the corner of the room
I'm oddly aroused

4.
I hope my mind cares for me when I'm not watching.
Shoveling bad memories from huge piles
into the smokestacks of my soul
like the engine-room from a colossal steam ship
making my screws flutter faster through a murky sea.
I want to plow through giant waves of grief
and break any ice that threatens my course.
My confidence is grievously aware of my mortality,
my body has no life raft;
I am my own safety measure.
I'm just getting over my fear of drowning
in the vastness of it all.

5.
I'm supposed to write for the fat lady
but her song is, and should be, the last thing on my mind.
I miss the comforts of the past,
I can't seem to forget all that.
Standing here, out on the blustery corner,
a crossroads where the former meets the latter
I am in the now, the present.
My life is turning onto a new path
and the new beginning should be drawing my eye.
Yet here I stand, motionless,
squinting down my former course,
what would have been.
All I knew is still on that street, moving ahead.
I'm looking for more sadness I suppose,
thanking the stars, I have poor eyesight.
I wrap my coat about me and make the turn,
constantly looking over my shoulder.
I will never learn.

Basics.

2009-09-28T01:55:00.000-07:00

1.
Living your life to the fullest
will suck any thick skin off of your bones
but there is no life in avoiding broken glass.
Walk down the center of the road
skip, following the dashed line.
Hear the horns of the contented masses
cursing your radical behavior as they sit
fat and complacent;
safe in their cars.

2
A craft spent writing your heart on a wall
will leave you with no mystery
people will know who you are and what you are.
The greater damage though, is to lie
inflicting fiction upon someone;
telling them that you are a shining soul,
good at heart and smart as a whip.
I'm not that good,
I never was and I'm content with that.
I will never be what they want me to be,
I will be a window, a lens with no correction.
A man who writes to empty his heart of grief.

3
A whimsical umbrella saunters down the street
making a funny little void in the rain;
a heavy stream runs from a jagged tear.
Perfectly good I suppose; blocking the majority,
but a sad sight none-the-less.
Like a beaten old soul, still just getting by
it's held proudly; a possession of worth and use
but when the tear runs wider and the pride is lost
its usefulness will come to an end;
one day.

4.
Maturity never comes in handy.
always coming entirely too late
always showing up
after the fact.
We're always unprepared.
Constantly thinking of the past;
what could have been done.
Then you begin to realize
that not knowing,
is where you want to be.
living from moment to moment
floating through the haze
making the best of what you have.
It's been said I think,
You need to be lost
before you find yourself.

Not yet through the woods, let alone over the mountain.

2009-09-20T04:18:00.000-07:00

1.
Cold porcelain stained and solitary.
For the last hour it has been constantly raided;
it's contents carefully removed then refilled.
I worship at its lip, and give thanks.
For without its offering of warm liquid,
I would never last through the night.

2.
Memories still punish my soul.
The same thoughts that breed anger and resent
are the best bits of my history.
I am better for recounting them
and yet my mind lashes me;
leaving deep wounds on my back.
Do I enjoy the punishment? the Suffering?
Repeating the reel of yesterday,
a worn home movie of a violent past.
It hardens my resolve, mistakes not to be repeated;
each time the movie plays I see more hope,
flashes between the frames.

3.
Anti-coagulant shoved into an already hemorrhaging heart
breeds more than heartburn and ulcers.
Blindsided by a warm past waiting for closure,
not a snake but a subconscious looming in the tall-grass.
I'm out of tears, for once they do not come so easily
there is more pain from the lack of emotion.
The water that was once under the bridge
is drowning me.

4.
We need to be knocked about,
we need to break and bleed.
There is no lesson in idling.
There are no calluses from daydreams,
only well-honed regret and atrophy.
There is temptation in avoiding the world;
escaping the stress and strain.
With smooth, soft hands comes naivete.

5.
To heal is to welcome the salty tide;
memories washing over open sores.
In and out, euphoria and burning agony
tears accompanying all sensations.
The sores become scars and pock marks;
the sea hardens your flesh.
With time the scars fade from your eyes
but they always remain on your soul.

Spreading Ribs

2009-09-19T18:23:00.000-07:00

1.
Cutting off a dead limb
saves the body.
Cutting out a dead heart
doesn't save the soul.
To live a life without a heart
is condemnation.
I have lived thorough love
and hidden my scars
but I cannot be afraid
of more spilled blood.

2.
Happiness is not unreachable,
love is not so high on its pillar;
but the ladder I carry is too short.
My life must be donated to that cause
I must grow, stretch and reach.
I must attain sanity,
or content in disillusionment.

3.
I was told that a writer needs moors
a place to go for inspiration
someplace with history, perhaps death.
That same person provided the inspiration
and the death of bits of my soul.
She is my moor, she is my cold wind
as romantic as she is desolate.
I don't need fog, I have her scorn.

4.
I want to fall in love
I want to look away from experience;
reminders of hate and anger.
It wont end in tears and headache.
I won’t have to slowly walk my things out of ‘our’ apartment
and I won’t leave my favorite chair behind.
Perhaps this time it will work
and we will share our hearts
coveting nothing but our time.

5.
I will remain open,
letting the daggers in.
I will not flinch when they come.
I will stand allowing the world
to wash over me.
If my eyes are closed nothing is gained,
I will hope for love;
I will accept pain.

A Night Spent Waiting.

2009-09-09T06:25:00.000-07:00

1.
Alarm clocks shouldn't be trusted
once wound, programmed or called
they should be prompt
punctual,
and should never fail.
I will never trust them,
and have spent many nights awake
waiting for the day to begin;
content that I would not miss the sun,
at least not because of that...thing.
Is my mistrust misplaced?
Is it really me?
A heavy hand, or perhaps
a stubborn unconscious
not wanting to turn over the keys
just yet.
Why don't more of them
come with a taser attachment
or a bucket of water
on a string.
But then, I suppose,
we would be terrified
awake, with bloodshot eyes
watching the alarm clock
about to pounce.

2.
Stopped at a light,
wondering why.
There are no other cars,
there are no people;
its 3 o'clock in the a.m.
and ghosts are impeding me.
Where is modern technology?
and why the hell is my car
still on the ground?
I should be floating about
in a DeLorean type-job
streaking through the sky,
among the other spirits;
the ones not holding up traffic.

3.
Sitting, reading;
I need to piss.
Across the street
a sprinkler is broken,
a geyser on Scott Road.
This doesn't help.
It's too early for anyone but me
and my bladder
to notice.

4.
I'm thankful
when the past catches up.
When memories become current
and new ones are made.
I'm glad that resolution
can be found in remembrance.
It's not always the case;
and if you err
history will not happen upon you
it will hunt you.
It has found me
and I am hopeful.

5.
Hands waiving,
wildly gesticulating with silence.
What are all these god-damned spots?
I need coffee
coffee.
Panic ensues over sugar
rather, the lack thereof.
Confusion, no focus
lack of lens cleaner.
One cup trembles against my lip,
warmth runs down my throat;
addiction.

Cheeky

2009-09-08T19:43:00.000-07:00

1.
Laying in the grass
staring up at the many constellations
named after glorious tales
goddesses, battles
and Native American rituals;
they are signs of fallen heroes
points of light that carried sailors home
and yet all I do is sit
thinking of the patterns of moles
on past lovers backs;
I feel a rain dance coming on.

2.
Solitude is not solace.
Solitude should be tolerated;
appreciated in small doses
and praised for its restful ways
but never accepted as the norm
never allowed to stay long
for to share one's thoughts is joy
to have them accepted and appreciated is love
and love is solace.

3.
The feeling of approaching sleep is comforting;
the confirmation that I'm still alive
and the realization of the stricken hour.
The air itself seems to become lazy
and despite the shielding of carved glass,
my eyes have been bombarded enough.
It is then, by way of shuffling feet
I find cool tiles, and introduce grinder to beans
and grounds to steaming water;
the smell of stimulant, fills the room.
Wide eyes and racing blood,
more confirmation of my humanity.

4.
A turntable moves my fingers better.
Television steals my gaze,
the radio asks for money
and people need too much attention.
The crackles of a record put me into a trance
sharpening my imagination
tuning out the vacuum.
Flipping the vinyl every few songs
is a necessary break;
a chance to stretch and pour a new cup.
Keeping all of my actions personal and tactile.
So there I sit,
listening,
typing,
turning,
pouring
and repeating.

5.
Poetry is nonsense
it's just a jumble;
some broken sentences
wandering about
a vague, florid mess.
Poetry is literary misdirection;
a word-smith's slight of hand.
Veiling a lack of structure
with pretty words;
there's never a point.
Moreover, you will be poor
and will have no following;
you're images are easily forgotten,
plagiarized in greater works
Write a novel they said,
people get novels.

A Brief Window.

2009-09-04T03:31:00.000-07:00

Introverted thought
breeds hatred of self.
I care outwardly, internally;
and those that resent me
I pretend to disdain.
I will cry for them
and they will forget me.
I am words,
a curious bunch of thought
but as a doctor delivers news of death,
I am unfeeling
yet devastated.
I am conflict,
unresolved.

A Few Nights Distilled

2009-09-03T03:18:00.000-07:00

1.
Smoking areas
are wondrous things;
drink causes clouded thought
but just outside the pub
wafts a mixed air
of smoke and words,
a haven for the cultured.
The thumping noise within
makes for deaf ears
individuality wanes in the dark;
Here you are butted against
a variety of miscreants
the drunks, the smokers
observers of kindred souls.
Wander out into the soft din
step onto the toes of the repulsive
this is my living room
and you will find my lot here
lock eyes,
find the education of countless universities
all the hard knocks that society can muster
drink in the experience
for the barkeep inside
only offers a hazy recollection
this cocktail is one that
offers a hangover that life beyond
will lust after.

2.
People are more interesting
when they're vague
so much to long for.
The mind creating infinite possibilities
filling in the blanks with your own criteria.
Facts enter and judgment occurs,
the fantasies die swiftly.
Mystery is the muse of life
lose it and reality is what remains
reality, is a harsh spouse.

3.
Will he remember me?
stumbling up from across the bar
asking for a cigarette.
He was from "Spain"
a casting director
a space explorer
and a rodeo clown
I bought him a drink.

4.
The late night weirdos,
huddling together under smokey umbrellas
in brick coffee houses,
glaring angrily at the glow from a laptop;
a foreign object and symbol of the outsider.
Thick rimmed glasses judge your book jacket
and a scarf from across the room sneers at your shoes,
this is not a place to lock eyes.

5.
Fidgeting again.
Cool walls hold back ash
the fires are still burning.
My radio plays a soft tune
some 1920's voice.
At this moment
I wish to be there
to open my eyes and see nothing
but a typewriter and an ashtray.
I want to look out the window
and see a sparse Los Angeles
free from traffic
dripping with youth.
I want to bump into three piece suits
private dicks
and women in furs.

6.
I sit at attention;
coffee, chocolate and mind
close at hand.
Like a small boy before thanksgiving dinner
poised for the massacre.
My pen is readied as his fork is raised
and when our customs are done,
his grace and my candy bar,
we will both carve into our task at hand.