This morning I am open
watching a flower bloom,
to all that now surrounds me
as nature is my womb,
born into the sunlight
I’ve one more string to tune,
as all that now surrounds me
my song sung unto you.
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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.
Words Of An Average White Male 