Her love
was his compass,
her blessing
his disguise,
in the pale blue light
of moon and
mother night,
her arms, his refuge
from the stormy sky
she spoke to him
like stars,
light years from afar
she held him
as the cosmos
were destined to align
Yes, I knew better
with every fiber of my being
I just couldn’t stop the show
even if I’d wanted to
The dancers danced regardless
while the showmen sang,
underpaid and underdressed
If nothing, I knew better
than to give them validation
or the contents of my soul.
The things I can not change
remind me why I’m here.
They are but the souls
reminder—to stay the course.
If you’re not sure
then pause, wait
and listen to the sounds
of conscious—nothing—ness.
Listening in
on a socially
distant therapy
circle, I hear strange
certainty fading
with each spilled sip
of coffee, squandered
on psychosocial thoughts
in alignment with
the universe
always.
Halogen yellow bursts
of light, turn signals
burn bright, through
white lines of Topanga
Morning sunrise, her and I
up all night, we rise
like silhouetted tree
under the belly of LA sky,
gaze upon a sea of fog
clouds, shower faint
hallucinations of
spontaneous future
Travel
What is poetry, but
a language of the dead.
It’s an informal dance,
a shared cigarette.
Poetry is
but a one night stand.
It’s a wine ring left,
sheets, stained
between strangers.
The only road block
between yourself
and happiness,
is you.
Santa Monica
city street bum
sits, full lotus
thoughts rampant
running through
his charcoal beard
wild, I witness his
ecstasy in bloom.
I see my reflection
through the tangles
from the window
of her eye, suppose
she’s figured out the angles
I’ve been playing,
oh but she’s the kind of femme fatale
worth saving, because lately
there’s a wall built higher than my own good
for, protection
oh but how it all comes crumbling down
the instant, she walks in
where dying in her arms I’m happy
Words Of An Average White Male 