It happened one night
then again,
and another.
It spread like a plague,
unbiased wildfire.
It couldn’t be contained
or shocked from the brain
It came scarlet red, burnt bright
in a pyre, it’s beauty, arcane
giving hope to the choir.
Monthly Archives: April 2019
when Whitman sings
I often hide the cover of the book
I’m reading,
commuting on the subway
or relaxing over coffee,
like anyone would care
either way, because yeah!
What if they did? They don’t.
But what if? And how does one explain
his book of choice, when more than not
the books I read give me no choice! Aha!
They’d label me pretentious, surely they should
but what if they didn’t?
Would I really have time for a friend,
when Whitman sings and celebrates self
Oh! You better believe I butt in.
Writing.
Most of the time, it’s like
banging your head against a brick wall,
trying to knock some nugget of sense loose,
but other times it’s easier
like morphine, numb to the world — regardless —
while telling it exactly how you feel.
Winter’s bosom.
The water is clear
aqua blue, it’s teal
and inviting, so I swim
as I should, then sizzle
like bacon grease
spread fat on a lounger.
Summer, to me
has always been more deadly
than the frost, and chill
of Winter’s bosom.
Shh…
knowledge
can be the most powerful form
of despair
Shh…
(said the ventriloquist)
dummies don’t make a sound
a drop of rain
The steps you take are big
where mine are small,
the steps I take are soft
while yours make imprints.
For now it seems that I am lazy
as you wipe sweat off your brow,
try to understand my empathy
for oak trees rooted to the ground,
and take heed in the soil, though I may
not make a sound, a drop of rain
breathing life, the only way I know how.
his coat, blue velvet
There is a blue jay
on a branch, in the sun
through blinds I peer,
whether he sees me
or not, I look back to the screen
then back again, he’s gone
his coat, blue velvet
my memory, strong
though perched somewhere else
I whistle his song.
circus-pocus
Not one trouper builds a circus alone.
(I could go into detail about the intricacies
of setting up and breaking down a circus
but now is not the time or place for that.)
When a clown throws a pie
he doesn’t expect the trapeze artist to clean it up,
but she helps out anyway, knowing
that he believed in her, marveled at each step
while she danced on air, inhaling her courage from below.
lucky 13
lucky 13
31 but I see
the perfect representation
of what it means to free
that little boy caged
like a curse
relieved
in the back of a hearse
lucky 13, reversed
over time, it’s easy to see
at 31 years old
that boy was me
5:51
the clock and sun
read 5:51
like an infant I stare
where breathing is none
combing my beard
for wisdom or some
alternate side
of 5:51, where now
it’s 5:52
Words Of An Average White Male 