The allure of hanging
Like an old-timey suit
Is just that.
Poetry for the waste-bin,
Ready for the Goodwill.
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The Other Type Of Feeling
You know that feeling?
The excitement you get when you see someone
And that someone’s a stranger
A stranger creeping up on the ground itself
Cautious and casual as not to disturb the air
And they think they’re not being watched
Yet secretly hoping that they are, because
What they’re creeping towards, they believe
Is gold, mercury, or an ancient artifact
An artifact no one but them has discovered
Or ever will—first—in their own time,
And in that moment you get excited too
Except you get excited for a different reason
And when their discovery turns to a shameful frown of defeat
Your lips turn upward towards the sky
Chuckling to yourself, kind of happy, kind of sad
Yet you understand enough to feel commradery
Wishing that stranger was your friend
Just so you could kick em in the pants
Temporary Fate
I accept this temporary fate
In faith with the sun
In faith with the moon
In faith with the stars
Sinking through the ether
To rise like Roman candles
In the gasp of morrows yonder wake
Cat and Mouse
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.
Bliss
Don’t know how long I’ll be back,
but I am now. It’s like
waking in a movie theatre
while the credits roll and suddenly
everything and nothing’s changed.
You don’t know what everyone else saw
but you’ll take their word for it.
And with arms akimbo they just watch
you pocket your hands and head home.
So if I don’t see you today, then tomorrow
perhaps we’ll go swimming? And maybe
for just a while we can pretend
that I never left us in the first place,
and that this was all a dream, and that
starting over didn’t have to mean the end.
the bliss of ego-manic thought
There’s something happening when
There’s nothing left to lose—
The apple of the eye
Is begging for the truth—
I admit, it’s possible but
The language that we use—
To disengage, it’s all the same
Our fears of being used.
There’s something distinct in the
Absence of yourself—
Like when you manifest
Your love in someone else—
He’ll seem incapable but
The patterns that you choose—
To disengage, it’s all the same
Our fears of being used.
Now there’s a sinner and saint on the corner of the block
One’s got a rifle in hand believing that he’s God
They’re both wrapped warm in the bliss of ego-manic thought
To disengage, it’s all the same
Believing that it’s not.
Nirvana
It’s been a lonely walk home
Each step a calamity
Towards Nirvana
The kind of nice I am.
Some days I make it a point
to be noticed by the guy in the muscle car.
I reach my arm out the window
with my camera in hand and snap a picture.
I do this to make him feel good.
I don’t very much care for muscle cars though.
That’s the kind of nice I am.
No Reason For Theatrics
A
play
doesn’t
work
without
the
audience.
Your Biggest Fan
I’ve got the words
Just not the plot
The characters though
I’ve never forgot
Tied like a thread
Sincerely knot,
Your Biggest Fan—
To have and have not.
Words Of An Average White Male 