If you’re not sure
then pause, wait
and listen to the sounds
of conscious—nothing—ness.

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If you’re not sure
then pause, wait
and listen to the sounds
of conscious—nothing—ness.

Halogen yellow bursts
of light, turn signals
burn bright, through
white lines of Topanga
Morning sunrise, her and I
up all night, we rise
like silhouetted tree
under the belly of LA sky,
gaze upon a sea of fog
clouds, shower faint
hallucinations of
spontaneous future
Travel

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.

The only road block
between yourself
and happiness,
is you.

Santa Monica
city street bum
sits, full lotus
thoughts rampant
running through
his charcoal beard
wild, I witness his
ecstasy in bloom.

He fell hopeful as the rain
in the bosom of her love,
while she gazed at the clouds
which seemed to shiver.

What looked like yesterday
out a kitchen window I saw
tomorrow and everyday
moving forward
as carefree as
a walk in the park.

The slammed door said I’m hurting.
The silence said I’m scared.
The walls between us listened
when no one seemed to care.
The portraits on the wall,
oh how they seemed stare,
where deep within night
the stars poured ever clear.
The door knob turned eventually
as silence did it’s head,
the sea between us parted and
the portraits went to bed.
While all the world was sleeping
with all their monsters fed,
the boy and girl slept soundly
no sooner had they met.

I’m never sure how my days will end
but I know how they all begin:
Dear friend,
If your eyes have opened
and smog fills your lungs
may your morning awaken
with nothing but
Love.
Her silence is an offering
The morning sun’s a gift
Her morning meditation
I watch as my mind drifts
Our backyard is a symphony
The melody and pitch
Free from all temptation
Her presence does enrich
