Home » 2020 (Page 6)
Looking at the LA river
now, smelling it
more than I can see it.
There’s a pigeon
down there, drinking
down there, bathing itself
in whiskey and piss—
probably blood even.
Who knows really?
It could be the purest water
in the world, but I guess
only a choice few
will get the opportunity.
While the rest of us
get coffee, Dasani
and whatever else
man feeds the birds.
Your aura
warms my spirit
barefoot in awe
I wonder
whatever tomorrow
brings, today
my love is endless,
as warm
as the white light
which paints
my shadow
onward—
Hayati
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.
Words Of An Average White Male 