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.
Poetry
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yourself and happiness
The only road block
between yourself
and happiness,
is you.
Ecstasy in bloom.
Santa Monica
city street bum
sits, full lotus
thoughts rampant
running through
his charcoal beard
wild, I witness his
ecstasy in bloom.
Dying in her arms I’m happy
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
The volume of the moon
I was never ready
but always willing,
unable to refuse
the volume of the moon.
Life’s worthwhile
Every single day
She reminds me
Life’s worthwhile
The other side
All that I want now
is to see what’s just beyond
the other side
of that golden mountain range,
because I’m done with alleyways
and there’s nothing left behind.
Bosom of her love
He fell hopeful as the rain
in the bosom of her love,
while she gazed at the clouds
which seemed to shiver.
Her calm was his desire
Her calm
was his desire,
because he knew
any resistance
would surely mean
death.
A walk in the park
What looked like yesterday
out a kitchen window I saw
tomorrow and everyday
moving forward
as carefree as
a walk in the park.
Words Of An Average White Male 