I like to sit, in long
Wakes of silence
And write cowboy songs
For drunks and dreamers
Who know better
And are better—
Who are better off alone.
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Tag Archives: silence
Rudimentary Silence
Only in the slightest
Contradictions find us
Taking a piss in the back of a waiting
Rudimentary silence
Little acts of violence
Testing the waters like leaving the bathtub
Full of standing water
Babies left to wander
Dipping our beaks in a pool not so shallow
Now—
Actions without reason
God I’ve got this feeling
Down like the old folks whose tennis balls are wearing out
Obligations find us
Contradictions bind us
Tight like a truckers hitch secured to nothin but
Ourselves if we’re willing
To hold someone who’s willing
To kick the creator for all the stupid shit we’ve been through
Now—
Everybody wants their own way
Standing on clouds there’s no reason to shout out loud
When everybody gets their own way
I can guarantee somebody won’t be pleased (laugh out loud)
This old house
There was new life once
In this old house
Which echos lonely footsteps
—silence rants and raves—
Trudging towards Nirvana
My studio by the sea
The incense
Cigarette smoke
The neighbors next door racket
The dirt, the grime
Reminds me of Grove Street
And Mac, sleeping
Angelic snores from a lofted bed
Where I sat, idle in the morning
Last nights memory a circus
Holding my piss, hungry
Waiting for Forest to finish his shower
So as I could relieve myself
And head back to Long Island
Where I’d dream of dying
In my studio by the sea
The Raven
The Raven waits
My answer’s no
Then leaves me with
His knowledge
Silence.
There’s an answer in
Silence.
It may be hard to swallow
but it’s the only truth there is—
beside all that other of course.
The boy who cried gently to the wolf.
You can sense it you know,
yourself shutting down—again
with the change of scenery, again
with the change of heart.
It’s like trying to stop a freight train
running yourself empty, till
all there is is but to explode.
It’s a very empty place to be living.
It’s a very empty place to be born.
It’s a beautiful fall day, though, isn’t it?
Isn’t it beautiful, this
in depth exhibition of yourself—
without the guts, with all the answers
and nothing all that good say.
The slammed door and the silence
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.
Her morning meditation
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
With all stones cast
With all stones cast
There’s a pot still boiling
And a kettle left black
There’s a house still standing
With thinly cracked glass
There’s a kink in the line
With a reel still intact
There’s a spell in the ether
Waiting to be cast
With all stones thrown
There’s a hole full of flesh
There’s a crack in the arrow
There’s an angry protest
Each body a story, color, and time
Each arrow head sharpened, pristine, and divine
Each voice becomes voiceless, estranged, and unkind
With all stones turned
There lies not a soul
The truth is but squalor
Results are annulled
In a garden of daisies
Rest youthful and old
A graveyard of rubble
for silver and gold?
Words Of An Average White Male 