To Catch The Light

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore

Now no one is the same as before

I’ve tried sometimes, to catch the light

But I don’t really know you anymore

And I don’t really like what I’ve seen

Reality’s distorted in a dream

I’d say goodbye, but that ain’t right

I guess I’ll have to relearn how to be

Normal’s out the question in this town

People lay like garbage on the ground

I start to cry, then stumble by

So drunk I don’t even make a sound

It’s taken me a decade to agree

I write in figure eights this poetry

It helps sometimes, to dim the light

Like reaching towards just one thing to believe

But let us not go gentle to the night

Or hang ourselves like portraits full of spite

Each day’s a chance, life’s a romance

Each time we try like hell to catch the light

Another Life

If this were

Another life

I wouldn’t know

or even care

to tell the difference,

though rest assured

I’d still wonder—

how the body wakes itself up

just before the alarm kills silence, or

how’s the mind can handle

such a cellophane history of pain and violence—

how lucky it would be

to be somebody richer,

whose price I’d have to pay

whose suffering I’d deal

regardless of my efforts

in this one.

Our Herded Hearts

I’d rather cringe

in ecstasy, than

quiver in disgust.

We revel

in redundancy

it’s all we have to trust—

ourselves against the odds

initials on a wall, each letter

carved with dignity—

till dignity is lost.

We’re clueless

with the clues,

useless feeling used.

Each hopeless

a romantic, each helpless

as romance is.

And we can smell our own,

like cattle led to slaughter,

knowing that we’re next.

Our herded hearts must witness

each blow before our last.

Elephants and Goldfish

Like Goldfish

in a bowl

My love

never notices

the Elephant in the room.

His trunk dips down


he’s a lush—

a lush who always listens

and fails to forget—

who reminds me

while I’m flopping

there are much worse things

than death:

Oranges For Sale

There’s always someone—

Oranges For Sale:

three sacks, mustache

and workman’s hands.

Standing by the on-ramp,

squatting by the freeway—

sweating for a sale.

Though I never seem to buy

or anyone else for that matter,

they’re always selling—

a language

we don’t




through the pain, until

the pain feels like pleasure

and the words spill like wine—


just for pleasure, until

the meaning’s lost for good

and the taste’s just stale bread—


like a ghost, until

your thought just disappears

and crumbs scatter the floor—


now for what?

When pleasure causes pain,

it pains me now to see

last years apparition in the waste bin.