Artistic illusions

Make my bed

Spread the sheets

They are white

They are clean

There’s a nestle of bird

Who sing softly and sweet

There are bills

To be paid

Overdrafts

To be made

But I’m conscious today

Knowing that rot can wait

I have given enough love, I’ve wrestled with the thought

Spared quarters like rain to a cynical saint

I’ve got no time to spare

All this death in the air

Has me feeling quite good, transcendentally great

Forgive me but truth is

Artistic illusions

I’ve no cross to bear climbing trees and it’s clear

That I

start to see past

The sun and moon

The sky opens up

There’s nothing left to do

This closure’s my mantra to you.

Wash my face

Clean my teeth

Knock on wood

Once a week

There’s a pub inn Philly

Where I dug my own grave

Comb the depths

Of your hair

Try and act

Like you care

I’ve been watching your play

Mixing tonic with pain

You have given enough love, so much work to be done

Put your suitcases down, for a while and remain

Like a park bench in autumn

Or leaves that have fallen

I’ve got proof there’s a cure, you just gotta find yours

Forgive me but truth is

Artistic illusions

It’s a tale to be told, when you’re young and your bold

And now I’ve

Got to go back

To the way I was before

And now you’ve

Got to go back

To the way you were before

This closure’s my mantra to you.

all prose burn in heaven

I get the soul’s impression

that all prose burn in heaven.

Each homeward bound confession

chased tales back and forth.

Bipolar dreams depression

that yearn for common ground,

a fingers length extension

too tame to make a sound.

If all dogs go to heaven

who’s there left to be found?

A mother’s womb that’s kickin

an unborn Ezra Pound.

It’s with this last expression

your love comes to me now.

Released to death’s progression

a compass pointing north.

that old dog bark

A sweet chorus of birds

lingers in the air, as

the morning wains on

expectantly

that old dog bark

rings heavy on my mind.

Pulling the covers overhead, thinking

the day can—and most certainly will—wait for me today.

My feet are sore

and my heart is silent.

I’ll stand when I’m ready, till then

I’ll snore along till noon.

It’s all understandable. (for every no one who ever was)

To be honest

and be open

put yourself in

her hands like you’re a toy.

There’s a reason

for each season

pollen eaten

her wind cradles a boy.

They know nothing of us,

and we

know nothing of them.

We all

just sort of pretend.

We’re bitter still.

In the air there’s a bitter chill.

Like a car crash

I tell you that

it’s not too bad

we both just try not to stare.

In the glove box

there’s a snuff box

full of coupons

I keep in case that you cared.

The leaves on the ground,

remind me

how powerless that I am.

It’s natural to fall down,

we all

just sort of try to fit in.

Leave me alone, no don’t

leave me alone.

Memories fill my head

like waves

crashing down on the shore.

Just as soon as they hit

cast away

back to the ocean once more.

To be bitter

or be broken

understand that

this is for no one who ever was.

that lone bird this morning

My friend is back

that lone bird

this morning

he’s brought a friend

and wouldn’t you know

here I am

barely awake

and jealous of him

though not to spoil their party

I ear my headphones

stretch and bend

It’s got to be 60 degrees

and while I run

I think of them

happy among the trees.

a lone bird

There’s a lone bird

chirping somewhere unseen

and a cold gentle wind

scratching at my knee,

it’s the crack of dawn

sunrise

another day I’ll see,

and though my throat hurts

my ankle weak

I too sing a little tune

with that lone bird

just to let him know

I hear him.

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.

This guy at the bar ain’t half bad!

This guy at the bar the other night

tells me my poetry aren’t poems

but rather songs

as he takes my phone

and begins singing them to himself.

These are great man, he says

really good stuff here,

as he sings, flipping back his hair.

And I don’t stop him, because why

would I stop someone

who’s turned my pain into pleasure

when I’ve tried so hard to do just that.

Hell! This guy’s voice ain’t half bad!

Where the actual music begins.

Living life

like a Bright Eyes song

will only get you so far.

At some point

it’s time

to turn the music off.

That’s where

the actual music begins –

that’s when you sing, your song.

E major

works for me,

what works for you is not my business.

 

That Kurt Cobain.

He had his finger on the pulse of a generation.

And another on the trigger of a shotgun.

Depending on who you believe,

a conspiracy theory won’t bring back the dead.

A corpse doesn’t lie, it sings.

It sings all the beautiful things it couldn’t see alive.

Through sentiment.

Remembrance.

And praise.

Shedding it’s form.

It becomes an idol.

He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.

If he hadn’t wanted fame, Aberdeen would have gladly laid his grave.

And if not for boredom, then how could one know joy?

He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.

A sly dog, indeed.