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It was a morning like other mornings
where if I had a garden, I’d tend to it—
each flower, delicate as the next
sleeping in a nursery.
Watering each bulb, silent
as a field mouse, I’d bow my head
in knowing—
It was a morning like other mornings.
And I was the sun.
As daylight wanes, and night begins
there’s rapture in the air.
With static thought, and moonlit eyes
I see it all too clear.
What’s written in the stars, is written in the sand.
What’s written on the heart, is written now by hand.
My love for you is twilight.
My love for you is snow.
My love for you is many things, my love for you is old.
I’ve kept it in the shadows, of poetry and light.
I’ve kept it in the darkness, to brighten up my night.
Just know my heart is dancing, like fire unto stone.
Just know my heart is breaking, each night I am alone.
As daylight comes, I feel you near—
the darkness goes away.
The perks of you are endless still, your love’s a weathervane.
It’s hard
To see
Out this pit
Of despair
When you’re down
On your knees
In the cold
Summer air
And it’s hard
To conceive
Memories
When you care
Looking for
What you lost
In a house
Built of mirrors
And it’s hard
When you know
All of this
Is a joke
Convinced
Or exposed
Either way
There’s a host
To obey
Or believe
In what you
See in me
That’s alright
It’s ok
Sip your honey
and tea
I just thought
You should know
I don’t know—
Yeah I know
Sometimes there’s
a drop of hope
in the morning light,
before the sun turns over
and the evening grows dark
where the uncouth gather
and the emptiness starts,
leaving me dormant
waiting for the morning light.
There’s grass and flowers blooming
in Magnolia park
And this absent minded feeling
while the sky grows dark
Lily pads and grapefruit
growing in the yard
Fences form a fortress
full of dull remorse—
You left me standing idle
like a broke down car
Listening to Layla
watching shooting stars
Visions of Johanna
all just fell apart
Romanticized by healing
and those tarot cards—
Now I’m drinking nightly
at an empty bar
They gentrified the valley
and closed the bodega
I still see you smiling
from the bedroom floor
Hailing that taxi
with a broken arm—
A tincture of illusion
pressed beneath the tongue
Awakens the compulsion
to hold a smoking gun
There’s two sides to the story
I’ve got another one
The party’s in the distance
Teen’s wet dream in the sun
I don’t mean to sound defeated
It just always hurt to try
Knowing there’s no meaning
In waiting out the night,
So I take my lashes willing
Under this starry sky
Knowing there’s no reason
Or pain to justify
Remember— oh brothers and sisters
that we are the philosophers of our time.
Us haggard poets of principle and measure,
no matter the plight must rise.
Through tears of understanding
with honest eyes do I
accept thy pleasure’s burden—
to see within our time.
It’s much easier to lie
in the afternoon light,
steady’s the humming
bird that takes flight.
Oh whispering wind
forgive me tonight,
how flirting with death
has been a delight.
Two squirrel play
a fun little game of cat and mouse.
Both scurrying up the tree,
diving face first from branch to branch.
Like little cannons they shoot
back and forth between tree limbs.
One wagging it’s tail, the other
feigning ignorance, like two lovers
they quarrel, never knowing really
who’s cat, and who’s mouse.
Or what started all this in the first place.
Jack searched the neighborhood as if he’d lost something.
Looking up and down the street, crossing sidewalks, he meandered auspiciously as if he’d forgotten where he was going.
Jack found himself in a state of neither here nor there.
The chill of February hung round his shoulders like a thin shawl.
It was his morning walk but to what ends—to what means?
Tires squealed in the distance.
Birds began their daily routine.
Automatic lights turned themselves off.
And what emerged from the tree line? Sure enough, as it had so many times before, the sun.
Jack knew that it would be long before the sun warmed his chapped fingers but at least it shed some light on his path.
Nothing was right or wrong, indeed, it was too early for such nonsense.
But still Jack did all he could to remember what he was looking for and why he’d been so eager to rise this morning before his alarm clock could shout obscenities to his ear.
It was the reflection of the sun off an old car window which caused him to touch his brow, where when removed, his hand revealed a thin layer of blood.
He couldn’t remember how or when he’d received such a gash, which the window now showed, laughingly.
Realizing where he was, he’d found what he’d been looking for, though it was as fragmented, cracked, and littered as the sidewalk that led him home.
Before entering the thought of knocking crossed his mind, but why? He lived here. This was his home.
The house was silent except for Jack.
He laid in bed as if it were the evening and since he wasn’t a praying man, he sang softly to himself.
It was more or less what praying had done for any other man before him, and would do for anyone else who’d find him thereafter.
It was then he turned off his alarm clock and shut his eyes.
THE END.
Words Of An Average White Male 