The heat
will make you do
and think, many
sleepy things—
when time slows down
to the dripping of sweat—
oscillating at noon.
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1946——8——2022
In a library, off Verdugo
it’s peaceful, and quiet
besides
the adolescent girls sitting cross-legged
making jokes, and
the occasional waft of homelessness—
clocking in their ten hour shift.
The internet is free, as are the restrooms
so it all makes its own sort of sense.
It’s 2022 and I’m just now reading
letters, from 1946—and on—where the world
described, is that of failed systems
injustice and its people, confused
and troubled and hungry, and mad.
It’s the kind of peace and quiet
that slowly breaks your spirit,
that slowly breaks your heart.
In a library, off Verdugo
is where I understand.
The Primrose Path
We’ve walked before, the primrose path
and what good hath it brought?
It’s crimson skin, and pit of death
the yew forgives us not!
Quite tempting is the flower, bud
who’s poison’s not enough,
it’s beautiful and deadly
how, our lives rely on luck.
See nature isn’t partial,
it doesn’t give a fuck.
We’ve walked before, the primrose path
to learn what can’t be taught.
Nothing Feels Better Than Pain
Haven’t got the chords or melody.
Nothing feels better than pain.
I haven’t got the reasons anymore.
Haven’t got the words to explain—
People living life like it’s a parody.
Everyone to me looks the same.
I haven’t got the reasons anymore.
Nothing feels better than pain—
Prove to me there’s goodness, and I’ll prove you wrong.
Prove to me there’s no pawn in this game.
Talking to you now just feels meaningless.
When Courage gets mistaken for Insane—
I haven’t got the reasons anymore.
Nothing feels better than pain.
Haven’t got the chords or melody.
Haven’t got the words to explain.
It was a morning like other mornings.
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.
The Old Wood Fence
I remember sitting
by the old wood fence
the alley, silent as a whisper—
The birds then sang
like they do now.
And just like a boy
hits puberty, I still don’t know
what’s wrong with me?
I watch the light
claw its way down the alley
and where shadows hide
I look for clues.
In broken bottles.
In rusted metal.
In pavement laced with weeds.
By the old wood fence
with its perfect knots — I scream
to hear my answer.
Spring in Echo Park
The sun which warms your brow
rests sleeping on my shoulder.
Picasso, but better
A child sees
no line between
a canvas
and a cabinet,
before she paints
Picasso,
but better.
Two Worlds Within A World
Your world’s in careful order
while mine’s in disarray,
I’ve tried to read between the lines
but there’s just empty space.
When dumb luck gets regarded
for gentle hands of fate,
I sit for hours wondering
whose world has been misplaced?
This fault line, it grows deeper
the longer that I think,
what good are silver lining’s with
prospects neither believe?
Is what I forge through fiction
just white lies for dispute?
I try to keep my distance
to organize what’s true.
Seems when I find the meaning
these worlds they split apart,
now mine’s in careful order
like yours was from the start.
As for that space between?
There’s no room left for me.
There’s nothing to be found
I’ve lived there long enough.
I’m happier with words that mean
exactly what they mean.
I’m happier to be a part
than live in disarray.
If it’s time that pulls the strings
than it’s I who’d rather be,
two worlds within a world
alone—
three worlds to form a whole.
Answers(but who’s to say)
My heart’s in heavy motion—
like a pendulum I sway,
back and forth, regardless of
the shadows of the day.
Would it hurt you to feel better?
Is it sadness or just sad?
I play this broken record till
it doesn’t sound that bad.
When questions sound like answers
it’s there I feel at home, but
impressions get mistaken for
first readings of a poem.
It’s how I’ve formed the theory
that everyone’s alone,
perhaps then not a pendulum—
I’m an ever sinking stone.
Words Of An Average White Male 