your conscience

I was this

I was that

I was—rat-a-tat-tat—

Who’s there?

Who’s knocking, oh

Welcome back Jack!

You are here

Door’s open

Let’s have a chit-chat

I am great

I am grand

I am—rat-a-tat-tat—

A friend?

Who’s there?

Who’s knocking at my nerves?

It’s me, your conscience

I am here to serve

You not what you have been

Or whatever you were

I am here as your guide

I am honest

I am pure

Heaven here on earth.

How curious it is that I

no longer beg or question why

but rather like the naked eye

accepts the sky is blue—

with honesty and strength that I’ve

been granted through these tales of time

woven as one as you are I

accepts the ancient truth,

for like the moon and sun decide

to shed or shield eternal light

with arms spread thin wide opened eye

keep mine closed now to see,

what beauty lies beyond the pine

is neither up to you nor I

it’s always been like time gone by

regardless of the proof—

in truth it’s curious that I

could feel so pure estranged from life

whose meadow in the golden light

is heaven here on earth.

the slow melancholia of twilight

We can no longer create each other

in the likeness of ourselves. But

we still can love who we’ve dreamed

warm under covers,

in the slow melancholia of twilight.

Though separate, still a part

painting one another’s shadow —

an impression all our own.

Memories

I keep coming across memories

in the background of my mind.

They say to live within the present

or else life’s a waste of time.

But presently these memories

have left me color blind.

And I can’t quite find my way out

of this never ending rhyme.

I keep coming across memories

like bicycles speeding by.

Their features blur together

with wind burnt summer skies.

How presently these memories

present themselves as I,

remember each one vividly

to whom each one I’ve lied.

How precious are these memories

kept sound within the dark.

Each one with their own melody

from which I’d never part.

Though presently these memories

which bear my open heart,

may one day get the best of me

for now are works of art.

Like puppetry two marionette

I took her to this art event

She took me to her motel bed

Like puppetry two marionette

We tangled up our strings

Her eyes were wide like Eleanor

Rigby she was fiction for

The life I’d led a year before

I hadn’t slept a wink

It’s comical how looks predict

The ludicrous and obvious

By circumstance we came to this

Offering by the sea

Her hair jet black like ravens beak

The padding of her size 6 feet

Lenore her name I said quite meek

This time then nevermore

It’s lyrical how time can tell

Who’s heaven sent and living hell

An angel with a broken bell

Knows liberation’s free

Sometimes I think coincidence

Common sense and saying yes

Are infinite never in jest

Like cherry blossoms we

Sell ourselves a dollar short

Make amends and then spring forth

Pink petals fall on the seashore

There’s no telling what could be

An accident a sign from God

A work of faith handshake or nod

They’re simply an illusion on

The pleasure box we see

The message spoke ten times before

By Poe and his dear loved Lenore

Like love’s the end all message for

Both poetry and speech

So I took her to the airline that

Disagreed with both our backs

I mean this with no disrespect

It’s how some people meet

We never spoke another word

Jumped back into the universe

I came to grips was late for work

And landed on my feet

The game is rigged the money’s spent

If I stay in bed too long

dreaming of the times gone by

There must be something wrong

like not knowing what is right

If I get up and get gone

still daydreaming in the morning light

There must be something wrong

because all I see is black and white

Out there on the road

passing frowns can’t weigh me down

Like songs from days of old

freewheeling there’s no time to tell

She’s been reaching for the sun

did all I could to take her there

Must be doing something wrong

like two children we’re still unprepared

To walk

on our own

As state signs blur

on the road

Yet all this time

we have grown

There’s still this

phantom partner feeling

though we’re on our own.

When you go there’s still coming back

don’t be extreme like who needs that?

There must be something wrong

for me to feel like this and that

She was going either way

it didn’t matter if I saved the day

There must be something wrong

for me to think or feel this pain

Standing in the setting sun

which blinds me now casts shadows on

Reflections on the windowpane

my doppelgänger’s staring back at me

If looks could kill I’d live

my malice spite all gibberish

God knows if I could commit

I’d probably muck it up like a little kid

Whose ball

hits the rim

It bounces far

time and again

The game is rigged

the money’s spent

Yet there’s this

faint glimmer of hope

like there’s a chance to win.

As Mona Lisa smiles at her Rembrandt

She’s Mona Lisa

looking across the lobby

With her eyes

transfixed on his cold dead body

While the kids line up

single filed and obviously

Unaware that there’s any problem

It’s a warm fall day

colored leaves spin around

And there’s this tired old man

selling shaved ice proudly

Nice to meet you sir

can I help you out

As Mona Lisa

smiles at her Rembrandt now

He was an eye sore for her eyes

it hurt so much still she had to look twice.

And there was something in her smile

lips spread thin like she was in denial.

I didn’t mean to

bother you it’s a habit

I just noticed you

looking lost or sad

With this expression

drawn like a bloody bath

Please now excuse me

I’ve gotta be getting back

Hey wait a minute

won’t you just take a second

To admit that something

is wrong in your head

And if you’d like to

call me sometime and

Chat when you’re feeling

better I’d quite like that

She wrote her name down on his ticket

her area code and seven lovely digits.

Then he wrote in the palm of her hand

a little note that read I think I’d understand.

So Mona Lisa

held her hands calm and steady

Framed herself back

against the wall already

She now felt out of place

like in a fictional setting

While some students

drew her in lines quite badly

What’s the point of hanging around

when rarely any good comes to you in this town.

Thats when she placed her name tag on the floor

and made out for Leonardo exiting the door.

a caged artist

I never met an artist I didn’t like

I just tasted their breathe

from an arms length away

and

when they told me drunkenly

to go to hell

at least I knew they meant it

so while she tore off her clothes

like a caged animal

in the center of a Williamsburg high-rise

a slave to her own bizarre fashion

I could see it there, her passion

exhibited like a gallery of fine art

and her hair

painted in oils hyper-realistic

she would drive herself wild

though couldn’t quite blend her canvas

into the madness she became

hysterical so

closing the cage I left

knowing

there wasn’t more I could do

than allow her the respect and dignity

to clean up her own mess.

poetry is spam

A large portion of

poetry is spam.

But I don’t eat that stuff,

at least not until I get to see Hawaii

then who knows?

I hear, fried with an egg, it’s good.

When in Rome, you know;

when in Rome.