Nobody seems to notice the homeless
Except the little girl
Piggy backing her fathers shoulder
Slouching, down Hollywood Boulevard
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French New Wave Lifestyles
She seemed relatable
like a French new wave film—
Her hair was tangled by
the absence of the thrill—
My mind fell blind in the dark
each movement felt removed
In black and white it all looks like
some senseless noir doom.
Descending ladders with a
backwards forward view—
Replaced reminders taken
for some other you—
She stepped calm in the light
another foreign move
In black and white it all seems like
you just might make it through.
Now there’s a towel on the floor
white as a dove
Transcending shadows as if
orders from above
The clock just turns and spins
a spiral of what’s lost
In black and white it all feels like
we’re dying to be caught.
In black and white it all looks like
there’s nothing to turn off.
a single string of hope
Every single line, you know
Is a single string of hope
Tied tightly like a bow
Let go like a balloon
For every single addict—to see
From his lonely corner sidewalk
To the comfort of her goose down
From the Tetons to the sea
Where Praying Mantis Lay
There’s something bout the Summer
that makes this all ok, yet something
bout the Winter that
would have me feeling grey—
Like the cement of a tombstone
or the flowers of decay
In Springtime there’s a forward march
No Fall back plan could save—
Perhaps it’s in the heatwave
that makes this all ok, or perhaps
it’s the chemistry
where praying mantis lay
A Delicate Cage
What I release to the night
Let’s me wake in the morning
Where I’m light as a feather
And stiff as a board
Oblivious to the slow dying
That I keep in a delicate cage
With just enough space
And water
And love—to survive
Acting like you don’t know is an art in itself
It’s hard
To see
Out this pit
Of despair
When you’re down
On your knees
In the cold
Summer air
And it’s hard
To conceive
Memories
When you care
Looking for
What you lost
In a house
Built of mirrors
And it’s hard
When you know
All of this
Is a joke
Convinced
Or exposed
Either way
There’s a host
To obey
Or believe
In what you
See in me
That’s alright
It’s ok
Sip your honey
and tea
I just thought
You should know
I don’t know—
Yeah I know
Tongues
Myself or you
Who to believe?
Our tongues
Entwined
With poetry
The trail’s bare
Just fallen leaves
Our bread it’s stale
And crumbling
Proper Horrorshow
Perhaps our first impression
is ultimately the last extension
of our false self—
primped and proper horrorshow—
doing any and everything
to impress upon the willing,
whether or not we recognize that self
is null and void of consequence
having fooled them all except
Ourselves.
Morning Light
Sometimes there’s
a drop of hope
in the morning light,
before the sun turns over
and the evening grows dark
where the uncouth gather
and the emptiness starts,
leaving me dormant
waiting for the morning light.
A Vicious Cycle
I keep trying to focus
on the good things, except
it’s all the little bad things
that keep reminding me
of all the good things
I should be focused on.
Words Of An Average White Male 