Archive for the ‘The Blues (Part I-III)’ Category

Blues are the crush you can’t have.

The orange without juice,

Summer without sun.

The Blues close your eyes,

And tunnel down your throat to the bottom of your tub,

It scrapes the edges clean, until you moan and ache. ache



Blues paint Picasso’s beauty,

Sing Ray Charles’ melodies,

Makes a grown man cry.

The Blues are the most human thing about us.


The bird whose lost its baby to a bully of a wind,

Could never chirp the blues,

No fly squished on the window,

Hooked fish,

No blood cell.


I walk into a speakeasy,

When the times are tough.

I let the bartender serve me a stiff drink,

And after awhile, I let him pull an overcoat over my back.

Because the Blues are caring,

The blues know sadness,

Better than an astronomer sees the stars.


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The Blues


College was fun,

Dropping out over was even more.

Freeing oneself from routine felt the greatest,

And then the idea lost its allure and turned into

The Blues.


Looking around and seeing no one was the hint.

Looking up and seeing friends

Flying away to the clouds, the realizing slap,

Submersed in the daily work week hardened reality,

Time always tired and routine fed the embers of

The Blues.


Growing older, the bones cracked and popped,

Teeth dropped out, cheeks aged to knotty wood,

The child inside died

A leather man of cancerous things,

And then you could blame it on

The Blues.


You did not understand that person,

Until that day that defines us,

When sadness, distance, and grievance,

Taught you how to play

The Blues.

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Mourning Blues

Dip my Nikes in a city, 

Where they click to beats under flickering street lamps.

I’m pointing at windows with pretty every-things

But what makes it perfect is-

I’m in the city with you.

I’m growing up and getting ready.

Adventure here I am- but I don’t know much from there.

I bore from dried days, mourning blues, lost working until I bear wrinkles,

While slipping concentration of what to be and where.

I want to remember each melody like a hit single.

Blue skies, brown eyes, not sure why,

The path seems appropriate with you.

I’m bursting wings from my fingers,

And I want to fly my writing on thru,

To gently make you feel special,

So our struggle isn’t so long.

I’m not fortunate to be an angel but,

We’ll get somewhere someday,

Creating a saccharine halo around our heads .

Life is about the strangest surprises.

Where, you think you know one thing,

And that one thing is more than just one thing,

It is a lot of things,

Then it is a book’s length and you haven’t a clue where to begin.

But the answer is at the end.

And I know you hate page skipping,

So read on. I think we’re getting to the good part.

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The average writer envisions his life,

By now, would simply be,

Some sort of sweet, honey- like paradise,

Dripping of nothing but the very-sticky-best.


The average writer lies flat-chested

Atop a frozen, silver pond,

Encapsulated by snowcapped, skyscraping evergreen,

Waiting to be embraced in the woolen hands

From someone who understands.


A year’s grace of life,

Perhaps, reveals a shortcut to a dream

That most live out their time,

And never achieve.



At a coffee shop, traditionally

Drinking another cup o’ joe

With under the couch change,

The average writer thinks his writing

Would have, should have-

By now unfolded itself unto the public,

Like the newspapers that stained readers’ fingertips.


The average writer’s needs,
Word Trains from formed ideas,

Enough inky coal to leap off

Tracks of pages,

To chug up curious sleeves,

Of the average writer

Into their tunneling eyes,

To drop off a bomb of completion.


Oxen-like vigor and pristine diplomacy

Wilted as a dying orchid.


And all of this happens

When you get what you paid for;

Only, the average writer, like most of poor potential,

Could not afford any better than a cup o’ joe.

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