its the summer time

and I am still wasting away

the sound of the cicadas

deafen into a death drone

its incredible how sleep

becomes your enemy

when nightmares

haunt your existence

and it isn’t all bad

eventually you do wake up

into the mourning

out of sobriety

into the front lines

its fight or flight

and the darkest night

it’s only a few more

rotations

I laugh to myself

in the same way

as when I fly by airplane

right after take off

and just before landing

when we all flash images

of one mortal firework

Sinatra sings “Thats life”

and I snap

whats left of my fingers

on the tarmac

my mouth tumbles

by a runway light

and its still laughing

thinking of all the other

passengers praying

what a waste we are

even you reading this

you could do something better

why aren’t you

maybe your as bored as me

and there was nothing left on TV

I’m still laughing at you

life’s a joke

and we are the punchline

I should have posed for more pictures

forgetting a lot of the road

behind me

memories flash at random

triggered by smells and sights

its like diving headfirst

into a library of auto biographies

all about this life

i suffer through the paper cuts

before final impact

and its a soft bed of poppies

and I am Dorothy arriving in oz

at odds with the world around me

in jeans instead of a skirt

looking for brains, bravery and bravado

while searching for a way home

I woke up from hurricanes

feeling the pain

strain the structure

till it buckles

and it is forced to rebuild

we are living monuments

and relics

chipping away at our epitaphs

that turn to be a few short lines

in the local gazette, times , daily or weekly

but only once

deserving of only a blurb

and a picture

I wish I posed for more photographs

so they would know

who I am

or was

sometimes the smell is so bad

it turns your stomach

and leaves you with the unpleasantness

that burns

and the fire department comes

and its not for you

but the cat in the tree is very thankful

I am alright with that

daydreaming of that buddhist

lighting the match

igniting himself

the music is a deaf songbird

protest songs are unwritten

on guitars getting dusty

who has the energy

everyone lives in roomy coffins

with distractions

thinking we are individuals

while we are divided

and conquered

it business casual

as unusual as ever

trying to enjoy the ride

down the drain

i work my way

through the labyrinth of pipes

while so many of us

are stuck in the septic tanks

waiting to be sucked out

and transported

to refinery’s

it amazes me

how the blind see

in their own way

perceiving our realities

mimicking mimes

till the comedy

becomes unfunny

words are a wasted art

trying to break

threw the bond

of the blind eye

and ignorance

dreamers never had it so rough

they are broken and poor

claiming there minds are missing

bent on futile missions

suicide is a wasted effort

they line the coffins

with all that was written

and I am the grave digger

I am lost in cemeteries

with a lantern

with nothing but time

and the taste of my own tears

the midnight oil burns out

and suddenly

I am much older than I remember

spending days in the daze

of lost twilight

and with you here

we are now

and thats all I wanted

lost souls entwined

and all things being equal

we couldn’t be more opposite

your reading a fossil

and I am gone

another ghost

in the machine

my heartbeat

is slower

as we breath

shallow breaths

and abandon all we have left

there is nothing to save

we slave

for infernal earnings

and the burning question remains

who are we

if we are not all the same

plane pale shades of gray

Your forgettable face

is smudged between blush

and rouge

the painted portrait

of a frail hooker

her beauty is bought

and sold

on the cold cobble stones

of the black market

the street lights

wash her face

and for a minute

she almost looks innocent

the halogen glow makes

her halo float

three stories up

and only inches from her window

where she stares into it

as she wonders what death is like

and she earns another dollar

as a soul regresses into an animal

it was Kenmore Square

when my parents were poor

and I was just a baby

a cold night, while i was warm

A poet saw her , under the street light

the rain going in slow motion

he asked her if she would like

to get warm

and he was too lethargic

to be threatening

she sat on the edge of the bed

while he sat in a chair

at a desk

covered with poems and stories

that she could never read

She told him the she had to pee

and he told her how the wash room

was in repair

so he handed her a mason jar

and told her she could go behind

the dresser

she started to cry

as she took the mason jar from his hands

behind the dresser

she squatted with her panties around her knees

pleased, because no had ever been so nice to her

in her short life

I find myself searching

for acceptance

inclusion

some truth to the illusion

that we are all one

lately this man

has become an island

with an out stretched hand

watching the boats float by

I indulge in poverty

always being rich with words

and poor with payed for distractions

sing me a sad song

about political pop stars

serial sadist

who invade our privacy

with private policy

where the protector

is the enemy

we light cigarettes

from the ashes of American flags

where we recycle

all paper money

and require

everyone to write their great story

I am an island

with delusions of grandeur

starving and hallucinating

at least Christmas will never come

hope is a stomach ache

formed from a jaded heart

the revolution will only be

a day dream

and this island

needs to dream

to join the rat race

while living the myth

of Sisyphus

I have to apologize first

for the lack of communication

but how can we really stay in touch

I have been dusting cob webs

cleaning skeletons out of closets

putting them in the sink

and turning on the faucet

down the labyrinth of pipes

I follow them with my mind

to find myself lost in the darkness

the youth is wasted on the young

and we are wasted youth

old men born from boys

clinging to vices

as our ships start to sink

in a sea of shit

its hard not to drown

blessed be the damned

in all our immaculate sinning

what have i done

says the guilty man

with bloody hands

he finds a canvas

and finger paints

the most beautiful painting

never seen

its classified as evidence

but everyone

at the arraignment

experienced art first hand

every time they sip red wine

the vinegar mixes with the metals

as the red wraps the taste buds

the alcohol suffocates

and seduces

before it sets free the fire

of our emotional attachments

we are all artist

waiting for our mediums

We the poor

are roads

to pave over

stairs to climb on

the pure hearts

and zealots

we shall overcome

after this commercial break

fists of iron turn glass

clobbering glass jaws

and we both are destroyed

in our struggle

to suffer

to suffer is to live

to live is to die

so pursue the apple pie

American dream

and have heaven for desert

or be a deserter

we are all destitute

so save yourself instead

we all want to be heroes

but lack the je ne sais quoi

so we drown in addictions

hobbies and habits

we forget about the tortes

in the race with the rabbit

the artist is always forgotten

but the images remain the same

with new names

and in vain we strive

for individual originality

Who said we could all be space captains
and president
resident heroes with long epitaphs
gypsies princess melt in the rain
we fade to a dull mute
there are no plans for escape
we are bound to the ground we walk
eternally in debt
we sew our spirit back in the soil
to give back all that we where given
I have been sitting here
renouncing the lives of the living
staying inside away from the sinning
I hear the sun is shining
I never check for myself
ignore the world and it will go away
there is a sad song
keeping cocktails and the broken hearted company
i am boundless steps beyond that
a trigger happy head case
winning a losers race
maybe one day I will be where
I belong
but for now i am a transient
transparent part of the scenery
how do I rise above
when I always fall deeper below
sometimes I see the mirror
beyond reflections
till I don’t know the man standing,
staring at me
I scream and it’s not my voice
wondering what happened
to the little boy
I grew from
small, blond hair, blue eye’s
to large , dark hair, green eye’s
I have spent this whole morning wondering why
to which I will never receive a reply

They call me chimney

it’s on account I’m always smoking

they ask me

don’t you worry about cancer

It’s not the cancer I worry about

but the lighting bolts and car crashes

grabbing me between

the apocalypse

rolling me into rapture

I find it stunningly brilliant

like the opposite of virgin snow

just another fatalistic head case

wallowing in the woods

of fictional nightmares

following the last twinkle of daylight

and hunkering under the moon

that we all sit under

I lost the last eight months

trying to rope it down

so I could ask it a few questions

I mostly would like to know

if it gets lonely

but I don’t imagine it does

having to share its misery

with so many mortals

so many messes to straighten out

The moon and eye have had many manage eh twa’s

with whiskey

capping our evening with the stamping of cigarettes

we are all franticly lost

in the fractal chaos

with no direction home

so you try and find some sense

bounce one off the other

but all your constantly left with

is now

this moment

that last in the present

and then it’s pretense

and we are past tense

I wish there was more