So now all we get is tomorrow.
While yesterday’s dreams unravel.
Ticking like a clock are we
ever able to grasp the moment?
Present in ourselves,
though hardly in another.
Tomorrow’s but a shadow
hurrying to catch up.
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A Thought Upon Waking
To live in someone else’s shadow
can be quite the burden,
but to live in your own, well
that my friend’s a tragedy.
A Song Once Sung To An Infant Under The Gun.
Today the time ran out
just as it had begun—
Hot water fills the tub
you swore you’d never become—
It’s warm and shallow now
cut servings for only one—
The echo down the hall, well
that’s just yesterdays love—
Now it’s all become a song once sung
to an infant under the gun.
Today the moon refused
to trade place with the sun—
Sidewalks full of people
but still you know only one—
It’s an impossible force
that drags you from yourself—
Now it’s all become a song once sung
to an infant under the gun.
I try, you know I do, to balance
fault lines and faith, the surgeons
steel blade, it draws a bridge between both—
It’s a symphony of simple things
that will seem eclipsed by the sun—
Cause it’s all become a song once sung
to an infant under the gun.
Hayati
Your aura
warms my spirit
barefoot in awe
I wonder
whatever tomorrow
brings, today
my love is endless,
as warm
as the white light
which paints
my shadow
onward—
Hayati
Where the shadow once lay
I wonder, thought the boy
where the shadow once lay
If I were a scholar
what more could I say
Where angels now rise
the devil’s at play
Curious, thought the boy
where the shadow once lay
walking the corner of my eye
If that’s not you
walking the corner of my eye
then who? I wonder,
who’s shadow unwinds?
Overhead like a compass,
creation of time. Time
and again, like time were a crime.
Wasted. Lost. Forgotten. Blind.
Memories fade, they never die.
So if that flutter of feather is you,
alright that’s fine. It’s much ado.
So when they ask you calmly why
won’t you share yourself with I?
I have and will, see I am I
unanswered we are now defined.
your ghost I implore.
I don’t want any trouble
still you give me double
alone in this bubble
which I can’t ignore.
The trail is subtle
some bread crumbs and rubble
your sinister cuddle
remembering more.
Traumatically speaking
I guess that we’re even
transfixed in this feeling
of which I abhor.
But I found this Agate
it’s my force of habit
to deal all this crap with
your ghost I implore.
Relieve me this burden
there I’ll know for certain
whose shadow is flirting
from under the door.
For years I’ve been knocking
from inside this coffin
perhaps I’ll find out when
I dwell nevermore.
Though we both know
we’re bound evermore.
I’ll make it perhaps
The light in here is bad
The shadows hang their heads
I’m tired of this playlist
I’m tired of this bed
In sheets that are not mine
Busted strings don’t pass the time
The shadows hang their heads
In light of what they find
Am I really headed backwards?
Static fills my head
Am I really headed back there
Like I’m the walking dead
So I light the wick
And turn the page
Familiar is this pain
The light in here is fine
The shadows are just that
Perhaps I’m feeling better
Perhaps I’m coming back
Always and forever
Never fine
But
I’ll make it perhaps
alone and warm and aware
The sun is warm on my face
grey shadow upon wood grain
stuck somewhere between
sympathy and harmony
with the universe
and where a headache should be
there is none
and where a heart should be
there is stone
and where I should be
there is shadow
alone and warm and aware
cast too across wood grain with
the closing doors of another work shift.
heroine and Burroughs
Watch your soul.
I’d say tongue but I don’t harbor
the arrogance I once spewed.
Give me a break, like I dealt it
in cards, knowing you’d take the Ace.
I am only human, I have no other excuse.
I was scared of losing, most of all I was terrified that I could choose.
Does it feel good to see through me
like spotted glass, knowing your
windows are clean?
And why do I bother to even ask? It’s not you who hold the answer, I can see, it’s I who has stood
idle, waiting to turn the key.
So if you’re looking through the peephole, please don’t make a sound.
I can see your shadow quiver, mine quivers there too.
But I can’t turn that key with a lock full of gum.
Another way out then, ah, hum — there’s a pauper selling candy, eating pizza on 68th next to Sole — so I’m pretty sure we’ll meet again, like heroine and Burroughs.
Words Of An Average White Male 