Pause

Re-control presumes collectivity has dated before
But past suns don't dwell in pockets and VCRS
No story tells anything new again nor could it so
Chronos gather more eyes than a woman's breast
Though no one is quite sure of which direction to run
Imagine a blur, mixed with voices, sounds, and light
Playing backwards like some carnival ride on tape
Morning coffee tastes like lunch and then evening calls
Phones ding with greetings from faces never seen
While fires are blown off next year's birthday cake
The mounting collections of dresser top trophies grow
Mostly gum wrappers, receipts, little bits of fuzz
Insignificance rewarded on the grounds of ownership
More needless shapes to show that life has come together
Except the people watching seldom care for such
Next the bus man is taking up all tickets down the aisle
The air is stale and the light is dusky, flies all around
Same tired expressions dance across each blank face
Once people knew where it was they might be going
However, now it is much too late that one should ask
Doors are shut, the air is cold, and death is never late

Sunset in the Afternoon

The richest man is the poorest soul I have ever met
I met him not so long before dusk on the wet road
He shook my hands though they were his that shook
The cold clamp of death did  meet him all too well

We sat for a spell that day underneath a dying sun
The last he'd seen sober no one could any longer tell
His drinks were tall and yet somehow perpetually empty
I asked him frankly how he won his seven mile stare

He laughed a mouth full of teeth discolored like the land
Though the sweet sound of humor did not meet his throat
His voice only now a whisper as he largely told his tale
It partook at the beginning of things long before lies and love

No one could see him in the earliest of his counted years
He walked through tests and time without incurring a sound
No shoe would fit his foot to make him quite an unlikely match
Yet certainly youth did afford upon him some type of shape

He grew older still and so his chin became coarse
Intentions that left his tongue were much like spittle
All of the many things he would do oh to be quite sure
Still caught in the ways of youth the boy lied to be seen

Fortune met his door as well did his beating chest thump
Though virgins make poor guests in the homes of men
He then walked quite blindly into some whore's trap
And there hetraded eternity for some musty midnight oil

That he said was the first time his drink changed color
The first sad tune his violin would play at the opera
Curious I asked what he quite meant by his song
He said its best to be bashful when asking upon the King

Determined he was to dilute his past with much fortune
The man set about to change the world without a plan
What next ensued some would call a chaotic mess
But the man before me said that all life is a quest

Days become shorter and one thinks they find a cure
Rather than looking forward they find a rear view mirror
Riches gain them much misery and less time to breathe
Instead of counting blessings they count disappearing green

These things and more this man told me from his stool
He spoke that losing everything had given him the world
That only experiences of great loss could produce a vine
And finding himself in the midst of broken places too

Having less he said than ever filled his pockets stitched
Granted him more than ever his dreamer's eye did see
And each hill and valley renewed his sense of time
The secret he offered but in a sullen daz-ed whisper

Seldom be sure about anything so to question life much
Don't waste your minutes thinking about what you don't have
Though neurosis will often cut you upon your path some
Fill a journal with anecdotes and riddles or pieces of string

There will come a time when all your rodeos find one fence
And thats okay because your shoes will long be worn
Time will have passed and eventuality will have risen to meet
But love is a funny thing that will kill you or make you whole

The sun did set as the man idled on the bar stool before me
Half of what he said later I would remember then as I do now
Bent paths crossed our direction to that tiny place in time
A crossroads where two half paths may meet a whole

And I could have swore that his eyes were greener than I
Though they drooped a little much that I could be so sure
I tried to catch his name before he stumbled off the stool
Though his old boots met the highway and he was gone

What Spins the Earth

Let all men come unharmed
Than to see your vile face
Each deserves your hope
Not your bitter, seething rage
For the world is cruel, yes
And tomorrow colder still
Wear a championed smile
Even if acting is not your game

Children see each face and learn
From the lines inside each grin
And all their fairy tales will fade
Sooner or later at summer's end
So don't disturb the chance, see
They may have at kindness' door
For tomorrow, they shoulder ills
Left behind, gift wrapped for free

When soldiers they come to pass
Enough pain and tears they find
And political games they join
Will show them the meaning of lies
Rest assured each face does rust
In the watering of the tired well
Each heart will surely burst
At the ending of another age

When old men become ancient
Their frowns are customary
Worn hard by their life and labor
Or mayhap they were left ungiven
The joy of another friendly face
The burst of laughter, peace and hope
Something ought started at chapter one
A smile on the face of another soul

A Subtle Foe

A clutching, thumping madness; Cornered Bliss
A jumping, sliding bleakness; Mirrored Jest
To catch a stride, To win in spite of this
To play a tune, To sing a song less messed

Of hope to find the midst perhaps, not burst
Of thought to end the game forgot, not played

My selfish heart does tend to act its worst

My impish thoughts do need to be displayed

My circling brain does lose on autumn night
My open book lies flat against the wall

Of mirrors, Darkest corners find such light

Of puzzles, Pieces scatter, break, and fall

To translate mouths, do pour some salt in girth
To combat lies, have ears that never miss
A subtle, waking verse; A journal birth
A passing, jumbled phrase; An open kiss

Corrugated

Beside my thoughts,
A WARNING LABEL POSTED
Inside my head,
A MAZE OF UNINTERRUPTED THOUGHT
Under my bed,
PAST SCRAPS OF LESSER WHENS
Beneath my words,
ASTERISKS EXPLAINING  A CHILD
Through my dreams,
ALL WORLDS OF ENDLESS AMAZE
On the outside,
RIDDLES OF SELF DOUBT
Moving past,
QUICKLY AND UNNOTICED
Traveling to,
ANOTHER UNSEEN PATH
Carrying with,
MY BAG OF THINGS, OF COURSE
Writing within,
THE LINES OF ANOTHER SONG
Hiding quotes between,
THE LETTERS SO SOMEONE FINDS THEM
Understanding next to,
NOTHING THAT I HAVE SAID
Wondering above,
INTO A SUN THAT'S BLINDING ME
Running behind
THE BLASTED CLOCK OF TIME

Legacy

Wee child, For you is much untempered soil
Untouched by any hand, Mayhap unearthed
Your mask, Or have ye not remembered it
The great protector, Lies are our facade
‘Twas taken long ago, Do tell us now
Yes, Surely something quite another grand
A Savior do ye say, Of Him do tell

The minutes passed, All while we waited long
What seemed a child, For now he stood a man
He spoke of crosses did he now, We stirred
Emotion drove his words, as daggers home
Our hearts, immersed in flame, What light he shewn
Of which was never seen before, ‘Twas now
And men were fluted, culled from pasts, Be sure

What race doth children follow, Paths unstirred
A man becomes the sums of parts, ‘Tis true
But folds, Their ebb and flow do change like tides
And famous, Such peculiar dressing robes
That men of faith, They ought not wear at all
Their homes yes, Should their children know them well
Before a man, however, Silence reign

A work of hands be hard, And worthy gain

Be wary though, Of lies--green stares of men

Take solace, Shed all doubt, and laugh, Yes long

For days become much shorter, Sunrise wanes

And roses wither, Winter steals their vine

But you, What written songs behind your drum

Or will you leave a record--tale of Kings

Scribbling at the Proverbial Bus Station

And he said he didn't want to go downtown
For there was no one that would call his name
And he likes paintings, books, and mostly art
You could perhaps say he's romantic, yes
Though, what do such things even mean today
And who would even know art under tears
However, he yet peers at shooting stars
On cloudless nights, And he reads storybooks too
To stay awake at night when dreaming hurts
And many other things just pass him by
How much does waiting cost, How does one pay
A door is stood before him, Rusted vigil
Or waiting quiet, Some days are like that
While others are a deeper shade of blue
And while he ponders, He writes all the same

Last Song of the Day

The perfect premise to another end
The road, it flattens, Oh what hope it brings
No plain white noise, guitars invoke a sword

But bend your ear, But bend the sound my friend
To crank away the day, the pedal drowns
And vocals digest bad assumptions now

Yes, carry thoughts along the highway now
A few or twenty letter boxes left
The boxes make for music to drift home

Half Gasp

And then you realize at thirty
That you may have already so
Breathed out half of every breath
You would be given in this transient life

Choosing to run will speed the flow
Yet standing in place won't pause time
You have this plan, this pace, this rhythym
For not growing older, We would hear it now

The passing exhalations of morning coffee
While you were trying to remember your task
Shoes tied and out into the spinning madness again
Already a quarter of today's breaths gone like the wind

By the Road

So shines the light on yonder bench
Where no one has sat yet this night
Running by, I count at its textures
Boy do I wonder its many depths
How many came to sit and ponder
Those who may have sat down to cry
The many lovers perhaps inscribed in its oak
In the past dusk night of near December
I muse longer on the bench than I should
The man who built it, I reckon is passed on
Though his life's work is left here marking time
If ever someone should tire on the path
That they may stop to consider a course
My own bones perhaps could sit a spell
But running seems mildly less complex
The cool air is amass with unspoken secrets
Though perhaps the bench would hear them
Keep them well sure, like many others before

Beanies and Fall Leaves

Coffees Stir, Colors Fade

Or become more brilliant

Jackets slough, Fires warm

Or fade into dying dusks

Pies roast, Apples bake

Or fall forgotten to the ground

Jerseys stain, Bleachers roar

Or go empty and frigid

Trees trim, Stockings stuff

Or stay packed in little boxes

Years fade, Tomorrows bloom

Or stay stagnantly the same

Beanies warm, Leaves fall

Or none of this is happening

The Hour, It Ticks

Sliding out from under your covers
Slipping your cold, anxious feet the floor
Dreams of your  yesteryear wane and subside
Something felt, long forgotten before
And then you know; the hour, It ticks


It runs faster now than back then
Painfully you are aware of a new race
Mixed with old emotions are new fears
What if, Why now, and How do you get there
No matter these answers; the hour, It ticks


All day spent in the whims of another fancy
Wondering if you've gone mad, just yet
Mutuality is hard to discern across a globe
Surely not here, In this place of so recent warmth
But the clock reminds you; the hour, It ticks

What chess piece saunters the new square
Removing its opponents by mere girth
Air trapped in lungs, like six years or more
Release is a word with which you can't relate
Waiting is no luxury you have; The hour, It ticks

Fallen sand castles are seldom restored
But you're reminded of an easterly wind
Blowing the sand all about your tired feet
And underneath the buff, stands victory
But the glass empties fast; For the hour, It ticks

Diary of Running in Place

We pretend to run real fast,
Though we toil away in circles
And the bad men do catch us,
No matter the cash inside our buckles

Certain things, you cannot buy,
Some tales are better left unwritten
The harder you grind away,
Does not mean that you're winning

Lifetimes go by, in blinks of pupils,
Old skin fades fast in setting suns
Tell me again how you won the world,
When really you just found some crumbs

The art of running in place is ancient,
Yet, new inventors always grab the wheel
They believe that they are God or Picasso,
Instead they just had too much espresso

Letter to Editors

Color becomes such gray hues
And Men become machines
Which too will one day fail
As is the course of things

No one stops to speak now
Caught up in a rampant race
To collect their little green tickets
The value of which is long forgotten

Clocks which were once friends
Look back ever so hesitantly
As if waiting on some saving face
Before marching forward into discord

The eternal cogs become ground
And metal falls unceremoniously
With no one to hear its sounds
Silence on a dirty, littered street

Where once the music was heard
There is instead shreiking and tears
The old hardware store closes its doors
Making way for automated monopolies

From a place where coffee dripped
Stands a man selling mechanized gadgets
Bargains for souls, he sells them by the dozen
No one questions his ethics, nor his grin

Not so long ago, before the world changed
Popcorn, Sodas and movies were still sought
And people still laughed their many laughs
Political strife was not always mixed with greed

Instead, now, Forests are for the wolves
No more trees are left for simply being seen
Cutthroats and con artists hauled away the green
Deadwoods left to rot, Their sap smeared in time

Help is a new four letter word
Which no longer exists on tongues
No one is coming to rescue or aid
Without the reward of a many dimes

Laugh, if you will, say it is not true
When Uncle Sam arrives in style 
He will surely take all that belongs to you
For pockets just as endless as his smile

Dystopia makes liars out of honest men
Breeds harlots out of Christian skin
All matters will belong among beasts one day
Before the ending of all things that were knew

Pocket watches which often told time
Now spell death and destinies of fate
Those without a dime, have no time
Their worth is subjugated and they are framed

Gray, Broken cites rise from the ashes of older towns
Their aim to reach the sky grew larger over years 
 No one told them that their zealousness cost lives
Not that men with bulging pockets have such fears

Yes, envision a place where air is harder to breathe
If air is what can be called of ever noxious gas
Shirts are worn for days without much washing
What water left for drinking makes the masses sick

The brink of existence rests in few hands
Their decisions make discord of the future
And the ones who could of stopped them
Were much too busy holding out their hands

Someone Take Away the Fat Kid's Microphone

Go into the icebox
Look for a thing to eat
Find nothing there
The shelves inside,
The are all so bare
Slam the door
Be stale with rage
Your anger hastens,
Blinds and you fall
The floor is cold
But not familiarly so
Your mind hurts
Make it quiet now
Found you cannot
Count ceiling tiles
Find out they are odd
Just like your circus
Get up off the floor
No one has come,
Rescuers are not about
You look silly there
Besides looking lame,
You have much to do
No one will do it for you
Hurry before the ink dries
Your little pen wanes
And your backpack,
It withers quickly away
Do all the many things,
That you once set to do
Especially the important stuff
Like what you dreamed,
Way back in the second grade
Don't feel sorry for time
It's gone and not coming back
But you, You are still here
So pack a bag or two
Get on a moving train
Let it take you there,
To where you were going
Before you fell down again

The Return

Your absence is felt in the sting of summer
Where no breeze blows among us men
The water is much too hot to drink down
And the Sun does remind us, its omnipotence
The ocean water and sand irritates our skin
Beaches are much better viewed from balconies
In the presence of an ever dear missing friend
Where clothes are worn loose and layered
And fires rage upon the ground at first dusk
Reminded of your presence this morning
When the long days of summer simply wane
Intoxicating is the aroma of your cool breeze
For which there is no such comparable touch
Laughter feels our guts, Rejuvenation follows
This old beanie loses dust as trees go barren
An enigma is made of an annual procession
Yet many will have made it into the clearing
Before the next time you knock on our door

A Bend in the Road

Where are you going young man
Old man, I wish I knew
Why do you walk so hard
Of my fate, You would too

Life is not always a riddle son
Elder, you know not my story
But I have the time to hear it
Oh, what brings you to worry

Men half your age look better
Than the miles across your back
Your shoes worn thin from running
And your stuff, It falls out your sack

I'll not dare to be as gray as you
You, with the golden cane of age
The miles of been kind to you I see
And here you pretend to be a sage

Enough with your scoffing boy
When little you really know
Your wars fought, I fought them too
Back when your seed did not grow

Then Tell me Grandpa, Tell me now
Answer me the questions and fruits
What have you to gain me this night
Where hang your ancient boots

Instead of talking, the old man just stares
Mist fills his eyes, His body aches with pain
The memories of his past flood out from him
They dance like gypsies on his addled brain

The young lad just watches, intent and slow
He now breathes in the aging man's trails
His own struggles seem less infinite tonight
A saga of agony once hidden behind veils

Late that night, the elder man does sleep
He dreams of the past, Of how to go back
Ten thousand summer nights tossed away
More illusions than answers hidden in his sack

And under another roof, the child sleeps too
He was shown the end of his own reckless heart
What may become of him if nothing did change
Instead of a sordid past, He dreams of a new start

Clichés and Keyholes

Writing from obscure
Windows makes not
A poet, Child
Nor does flailing
Without any rehearse
Give angst to
word, Yet seeing
clearly I yell
down an empty
Hallway, Or is
Anyone listening really
To epic literature
Lessons, Jumbled up
With musings from
A past life
One that tried
To Kill its
Author, But heroes
Only fade in
Movies, Or something
We humor ourselves
But laughing comes
Later, When dying
is less immediate
And Autumn fades
Pertaining to discourse,
No rhythm fits
Verse, No line
Saves the plot
A ten gallon
Hat weighs no
Less, Even if
A hatter dares
To have tea
With a Doormouse
Hold on see
There is revelance
After all critics,
Just when books
Closed, doubters realized
That Alice was
Alive and well
In Wonderland no
Less, And poet
He relates verse
To the whirlwind
Of life seen
Through a keyhole
Inside a little
Door, created by
Another tortured soul
Just as beautiful
As old wine
Many escape labels
Of insanity perhaps
Though every person
Looks,  Not all
Of them see 

Paper Airplanes

There's this girl who flew some airplanes
Made of paper, in her sleep
Directing their every whim with her fingertip
Some flew too loudly now
Woke her from her softly stated slumber
Crashing jets on runways
And runaway dreams, they save lives,
Correcting certain neurosis
Of battles lost and others won on lucid fronts
The walls come down some
Where everyone can see her flying machines,
And I laugh at her wildly
As if I knew what that untraveled road really meant
But there is a plan to her
Her planes represent all the places she still must go,
And I sit drinking coffee
Wondering if there is room in those plans for me,
Sure she said to me
All I am asking for, Is your ticket to eternity
We both laugh at this
As if it really means something, But we know it surely does
And we walk off the silent stage
She knows I'll tell everyone about her many plans
About flying planes from here
With a long haired dreamer with no razor, yet a pen in his hand
Some laugh, but for that I have no care

Boxes on a Hill

The little people of all the colors come about
They come about on many crooked streets,
Out from their little boxes to the waiting world
Down many stairs as they rush away to eventuality
The passing cable cars carry them to destinations
Up and down, Up and around, all over town
And when they get to their temporary boxes
They will sip upon javas, eat many pastries
Some will even pretend that they must work
Few will give their parking meter nickels away
Those who do, give bread to sidewalk musicians
But mostly they just work, and stare out windows
Until they can return to their waiting, windy world
They oft blow their horns when they ride home
Blaring inconsiderate noises from their little painted boxes
Giants will fill a coliseum down by the bay around dusk
Those who have left from work will want to watch
Those who cannot watch, They pull out music boxes
At night, they wrap up against the biting of the wind
Walking and whistling themselves back to their little boxes
And all of this happens over and over, down by the bay