Your pop off stars on the ceiling

are hardly a heaven

the prison of your capture

was as easy to break

as cemetery gates

I am lilacs

and song birds

a drunken poet

atop a grave

of another daydreamer

staring up

ignoring the ocean

in the sea of a blue sky

finding a cloud

to make a mathematic match

before it all tumbles down

I get phone calls

about burning relics

and photo’s gone

and history’s erased

but our journals are

saved

we go on to talk about

protest singers

who you play

for dying veterans

far away from Vietnam

and I think about life

and how its constantly going

my smiles morphs to orchards

Its no longer a graveyard

its a foreign planet

and I am an alien

with wide eyes

exploring the surface

for intelligent signs of life

I would settle for some

comedy

but the human drama

plays on tragically

more dead than yesterday

on a planet

that is a constant cycle

of destruction

and creation

dancing on fine lines

of luck

hope and perseverance

the magic that makes

flowers grow

and the energy

behind lighting

makes for lovely May’s

sangria swells my stomach

with stale cigarette smoke

another crooked day

listing to Lou Reed

and Patti Smith

as it delays digitally

Lyrics to songs are sweet

like soil to plant our feet

but nothing is so loud

as the sound

of thunder