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

Chipping wood

like chipping clay

Three hundred &

sixty-five days

It’s a short time

for a long time

Until time’s a mere

castaway

lost but never forgot

What is life?

It’s about makin do

Says this guy

On a bike

With a beard

And a heart of gold

I know it’s not the way

still it’s one way to go

I’ve tried so many times

if only you could know

I hint at what’s been missing

But I’m no Ethan Frome

Perhaps a sleigh ride maybe

Then angel in the snow

Like Goldfish

in a bowl

My love

never notices

the Elephant in the room.

His trunk dips down

drinking

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:

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

speak.

What a fine bit of trouble

we find ourselves in.

Always, and

forever in the thick of it.

Watching smoke clear

and like Phoenix consider—

somewhere there’s

a clock still ticking—

taunting towards tomorrow

wish ashes at our wingspan.

writing…writing…writing

through the pain, until

the pain feels like pleasure

and the words spill like wine—

writing…writing…writing

just for pleasure, until

the meaning’s lost for good

and the taste’s just stale bread—

writing…writing…writing

like a ghost, until

your thought just disappears

and crumbs scatter the floor—

writing…writing…writing

now for what?

When pleasure causes pain,

it pains me now to see

last years apparition in the waste bin.