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Is that a quote or a poem,
a rhyme or a love note?
Half of the time
I don’t really know.
The other half
I really don’t care.
It’s like when you know it
you know it, and when
you don’t, you
show it, in hope
that someone
just
might
be standing too,
back against the wall
just as tired as you
but able to explain
from another point of view.
sleeping in
the afternoon
dreamless
I wake
nursing a wound
which as, I
breathe
it breathes too
a porous
little mouth
reminding
me, to rise
against
the death
of sleep,
do all
I can
to speak —
and dream —
and try
once more
to heal.
if it’s all
sex, love
and war
then where we stand
is better, for
what it’s worth
the things we carry
lies, lore
even drugs, barely
rock and roll
our sundry hearts
whose spirits lurk
dear Joan of Arc,
if it’s all
been heaven sent
then hear me now
as I repent,
tied together
at the stake
a Sid and Nancy
sealed fate,
but dare I ask
what you desire
if and when
they light my fire,
come on, come on
make it quick
like silver I’ve
two dimes that’s it,
nothing more
and nothing less
dear lizard king
feel this
music sung
inside my heart
sailing on
a Noah’s Ark,
and in a cage
twisted, tangled
two minds race
they jingle jangle,
pulling teeth
and gumming glass
spitting blood
and skipping mass
for if it’s all
sex, love
and war
then know the reasons
worth fighting for
There’s a war in my heart
a war in my head
at night as I sleep
at war
in the bed
I’ve made
like the maid
towel swan, chocolates
convincing myself
that this war, it could end
if I only fought, as hard as my bite
perhaps than I could
sleep through the night
with or without, this war in my head
there is war in my heart
that will burn till I’m dead.
I
know
they’re right.
I
just
can’t stop.
Not
here,
not now.
make up your mind, or don’t
either way, someone out there
is making up theirs, so
best of luck
as my head grows tired
wicked thoughts persist
my handkerchief’s been stolen
by Oliver Twist, such grueling times
though we both know,
more gruel for the youngster
the farther he’ll go,
and what petty crimes
the slip of the tongue
but why dear boy, do you continue to run?
I’ve asked you first, now answer
me? It’s for my health, and body you see,
nobody likes a little cunt
nobody cares for the likes of us
so hand it over, my handkerchief? No
my boy, you’re not a thief,
I knew that then, like I know now
your common and good
as good allows,
what I request, you cannot see
it grows within both you and me
those wicked thoughts, hand them over
my head’s now clear, fine and sober
and promise this, all right you first?
no this is not me at my worst,
so why don’t I? well why don’t you?
it’s yours to keep, yes that will do,
you’re right, perhaps I couldn’t see
the horror that in my defeat
is pure of heart, is yours is mine
both petty thieves in our own time
I see what I see
like the number 13
for reasons
known only to me —
got yours?
most things I imagine, ultimately get dismissed
by someone very familiar to me,
yet stranger than any fiction I’ve ever written
it’s not the socialites with expensive cars
that I envy, it’s the people who butter my toast
and their diligent nature, that like fall trees,
I can’t help but look at in awe
Words Of An Average White Male 