Rain Shower Souls

What happened to that rain shower soul?

The sun’s still shining but where did it go?

And all those sidewalk chalk talking dreams

came loose like a button torn at the seams.

What happened to that day dream tune?

The song’s still playing but how bout you?

And all those streetlight coffee shop blues

aligned like the sun eclipsed by the moon.

Did it help to regret all that came too soon?

Like skipped rocks reflect rippled waters in June?

Cause that honey was sweet so I tasted it all

aware that no one dear could break this fall.

Did it help to indulge in the depths of the Eve?

If Adam were blind don’t you think he’d still see?

Cause more often than not two stars in the sky

do cross one another in the blink of an eye.

What a trip to be youthful, dramatic and bold

To walk just a block with those rain shower souls

But age without reason can make you quite old

I’ve stitched my last button, when you’re ready I’ll go.

die a King in your fantasy.

I don’t want to be a burden

I just wanna sit here and read.

So if that’s ok

then the band can play

I’ll look up a couple times to see.

Everyone who’s silently cursing

checking out the latest feed.

There’s someone I knew

from another life

I look away so they don’t notice me.

It’s a living, a hard living

the barista says while pouring cream

a couple swirls and a twist

now there’s a swan swimming in my drink.

Guess I never really felt like drowning

I just swam in this misery.

I guess I can’t complain

I made my bed

skipped my prayers

now I’m counting sheep.

Guess I never really felt like dying

just romanticized how life could be

it’s like a game of chess

you protect the Queen

and die a King in your fantasy.

Cause it’s a living, a hard living

it could be worse is a common phrase

a couple riffs then applause

now the band packs their noise and leaves.

If I have to take a vow of silence

plead the fifth in double time.

With all due respect

I think I must confess

I cracked up like a nursery rhyme.

Still I can’t sing that song without crying

so whatever shall be shall be.

I guess the world’s the same

rinse repeat complain

the punch line never hit with me.

So if you’re living, a hard living

here’s raising this glass to you

and if you’re worried, don’t worry

there’s bound to be an answer soon.

Cause baby I don’t wanna be a burden

I just want to write my poetry.

Because I’m not a rock

or an island but

ain’t that the only way to be free.

moving West

I flipped myself

like a coin

then flipped again

just to see

if heads or tails

would land twice

like a pollinating

honey bee

I figured if I had a

50/50 chance

I might as well

take a look see

and feel what lie on the

other side of dying

rather than spend another

long day trying

to convince myself

I’d be better off another house wife

crying

into coffee

or screaming into laundry

relying on the offerings

of innocent smiles

casting unintentional

shadows on my coffin

of denial

marred by my own

self loathing

which like a

preacher’s devotion

I took such pride

in approaching

solitude

like a potion

endlessly encroaching

on my own

well being

I admit I was broken

so I flipped that coin

heads

then I flipped myself

tails

and discovered

this notion

that

heads or tails I was going

Going

Gone

with the wind

not a rolling stone

or a tumbleweed

not a nickel or dime

not a honey bee

no I was a wreck

cast far out to sea

but that’s just the thing

it took all that to see

moving West wouldn’t be

all that easy for me

no nothing is lucky

nothing is free

except the glow of bonfire

in the dead of tree

where dancing shadows

take form and

I’m just

understandably me — hell

it’s already 1:03

and I’m hungry

but

I’ve got no food to eat —

so call it in the air

no

on second thought

I’ll just let this one be.

coffee

When Hemingway writes

coffee

but doesn’t really

write about coffee

I crave it

Taste it

I smell it’s sorrow

And pour a cup

As the morning becomes I

And I the morning’s passing

another night

At the end of the day

I am nothing but

sweat and fat

and bad breath

and poems

strewn out among sage

and corkscrew, lighter, and coffee mug

wine and love for it all

all the things that I have carried

and still carry till this day

another night

another light

twinkling in the Friday night hysteria

of weekend fun

unseen.

peace.

All is quiet yet again

and I know what I must do

as if tasting coffee

for the first time

8:52

I drink slowly, carefully

cautiously

while sunlight enters the room

and from my window I can see

I am nothing

I am nothing more than

what I choose to be

and what I’ve chosen

this morning

is peace.

this old coffee shop

It’s all the same, all of it

except it’s all very different

from what I remember

it’s more or less weathered

the wall’s still orange

the bricks are still painted red

the music’s never stopped

it’s still sympathetic

in this old coffee shop

where I once roamed

head over heels

with everyone, though

I know it’s hard to believe

Rosie’s staring back at me

judging as if to say,

welcome back old friend —

now get the hell out of dodge!

when Whitman sings

I often hide the cover of the book

I’m reading,

commuting on the subway

or relaxing over coffee,

like anyone would care

either way, because yeah!

What if they did? They don’t.

But what if? And how does one explain

his book of choice, when more than not

the books I read give me no choice! Aha!

They’d label me pretentious, surely they should

but what if they didn’t?

Would I really have time for a friend,

when Whitman sings and celebrates self

Oh! You better believe I butt in.

A Common Conundrum

There
is a
brief
window
as a kid
where
they
don’t know
about

overtime
morning commute
time and a half
cut hours

nor should they,

because
they’re kids,
kids who need to let the adults speak
you tell them all the time

so
when
the kid’s
all grown up
and wants nothing to do with you
don’t forget
all
those
times
the kid
just wanted to play.

I’m still dealing with your ghost.

Please stop reading if you’ve heard this before.

It’s been 15 years since.

And I’m still holding onto a ghost.

15 god damn years.

And I’m still crying in a coffee shop.

I wasn’t even 15.

And you sure as hell weren’t a Boy Scout,

so who tied the noose?

I want to know what type of knot you used.

It’s been 15 years.

And I want answers.

Answers that I’ll never receive.

I want an apology.

You son-of-a-bitch.

How embarrassed you must have been.

I wasn’t even 15.

And they don’t even know the half of it.

And here I am again.

Wasting my energy on this endless sadness.

Because you couldn’t hack it.

Towards the end they say you were over medicated.

Well it’s been 15 years.

And it’s probably the reason I don’t even like to take aspirin.

It’s just that over 15 years it’s been hard to explain.

Like when you come right out and say it.

He.  Committed.  Suicide.

Kids used to awkwardly laugh at first and then realize I wasn’t lying.

And suddenly everyone’s sorry.

Suddenly I have to act sad.

Or act like it’s fine.

Nobody wants to see you break down in front of them.

Nobody wants to know your whole life story.

15 god damn years and I’m blubbering like a baby.

Screaming at the top of my lungs – drunk.

So if you’ve heard this before please stop reading.

Because I’m sure I’ve said it.

I’m as sure as I was 15 years ago.

Lost.

Because you don’t get custody after biting someone on the face.

And I don’t get answers.

I don’t get an apology.

Even after 15 years.

I’m still dealing with your ghost.