Posts Tagged ‘writer’

Quiet down now, beautiful little bygones.

Your melancholy harmony was you greatest allure.

When I walk away like a cowboy into the sunset, you’ll miss

The point, and that’s something I’ll have to live with.


I’ll throw around words of distaste like boulders,

Looking for the golden ruling, but I’ll never be able to speak my heart.

Down by the water hole, I have reflected more than a man does in a lifetime,

And I’ve found just as much, because there is only one answer, every time.


The past is Four Roses on the rocks, And after a few,

I’m drunk in memories. Though it’s easiest to forget.

Strangers will gather and help me sing this song,

That digs me deeper, closer to my grave.


The Aces of life I laid on the table doubled its value,

But the dealer knew better and rigged the river,

And all that time wishing for the jackpot,

Left me with nothing but kindly banter from the others being played.


Yes, the fear of untimely change can make a man’s paunch ache,

Biting fingernails and sleepless nights, snappy judgment, blind eyes,

Rest assured, everything will be alright.

But first things first, get through the night alive.


Today I’ll ponder mortality; tomorrow I’ll fight it.

And that’s the answer, every time.

Today I’ll drink and toast. Tomorrow I’ll find a new town,

And call it my own, until it’s time for my sunset again


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Their ways of understanding fill the steel basin,

As they want, not a drop more or less.

Let the stillness reflect their feelings,

Cool as floor tile, sharp as business kills.


Everyone heard about those stock market uncertainties.

The king hangs off the rung above,

Tersely slips a heating plate underneath,

Set to boil. Bubble over, let the liquid

Take its place, rain running fire starter.


Disguised in crystal clear, the liquid’s granulated sugar water,

Fore the king charms the bees, ants, and all naive.

The bishop passes down his orders, sacrifices his pawns,

And is wooed he will not be next.

Somebody please, bring a towel, this has gotten to be quite a mess.


When a pawn warns their bishop,

He can only watch the signal flare with unmoving eyes.

Cold and silent, their ways of understanding fill the basin,

But there’s not enough for anyone else, but the king and the game.



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Mother(The Time I Got Between)Earth

It has been so long, here,

Six feet underground,

But no, I am not at peace.

I would choose to stay

Where you put me,

But never,

Will you come back to place me elsewhere.

During these times,

The Sun and Moon were a fucking aggravation,

I laid when reluctantly admitting to Sleep’s nag,

Prayed, because sometimes, that is what you just do.

I was afraid,

When you, The Tangerine, rotted off

My Tree of Life, so suddenly.

Desperately, I needed to learn how to depend on myself.

Eventually, I did.

Throughout the process, though,

I encountered in battle,

Once again, The Struggle Within.

To where I self- tested and experimented with

Orgasmic pinnacles to pressurize every tender & callous feeling.

Dawn after dawn,

I bashed together loose clay

Collected from great depths in ponds of my thought,

Trying to sculpt something useful.

Shaded pencil marks of me will never return,

I color with crayons now,

I burn the wax to paper,

Convincing myself to remain

A Blue-Blooded, bold Jasper,

Wishing for rounded edges like new millennium cars.

Now, I am an adventure-

Merrily digging upwards through the dirt with bare, bloody fingers-

Amending my friendship with Sun, Moon, and Sleep-

Budding flowers on tips of branches, anticipating fruit sweeter than a Tangerines-

Preemptively bombarding The Struggle Within so it lacks will to flare-

Firing the kiln in anticipation to glaze my utilitarian ceramic-

Admiring every color just the same from red to indigo.

I am an 88’ Pontiac Safari and content with my jagged resemblance to a wooden box.

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A Long, Long Time Ago


Beyond the outskirts of a dripping acid reality,

The ghastly remains of a recorded memory.

Play on, it cannot stop,

For raison d’être, even I do not know.


Sometimes our days would converge like a car entering a tunnel,

And every time I drove, I’d crash halfway thru, daydreaming…


A silent movie, but the reel pitters like rain,

Soaks the grass on the silver screen,

And, somehow, we’re in it,


Blasting rainbows of sparkled stars

Into the belly of the dark and pouring sky.

They shoot up and drag their tails along the blackboards of night,

Eventually swallowed by chalky, brooding clouds.

You couldn’t cut and paste smiles like these.


The reel plays matinées at least once a week,

Even though our days don’t meet anymore.

The reality is

The seats are always empty.

The memory plays on.

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