When it was ok,
When it was our way,
When it was everything on time,
I had my letters
Upon my tongue
Set to help out
As everything’s alive.
Can you blame me
With such memory,
And now everything’s in disguise.
I am waiting for sunset,
For the sky to enliven
With one last hurrah
In a brilliant exposé
Of memories lingering
Upon baited tongues
As if frozen by a single call,
To gasp, to breathe deep,
To inhale and then
Sing as a dove does in flight
And then whisper
Like ignited fire
Deep within the hearth.
I want to fall into a little break in space
Like angels upon lazy-boys,
Smoking cigarettes with the nuns.
My open mind shifts constantly
Between a bad habit and good morning sun,
Where there’s no better maker,
No fuller shade of gray
To take care; once was into the future.
French rhymes upon my tongue,
Little tea cup stains around my working scribbler,
Two dollars for the road,
And my mind’s not made up yet.
Glaciers awoke my surrender.
I am not a window shopper,
A figureless void of deadly consistence
That scrapes along the expanse
Of doubly criss-crossed salt scapes;
Crawling up the back of my spine,
Lightly dusted with ten days rolling.
This is the heartbeat.
The heartbeat, beating.
Surrender in a tight grip.
Moments before forbidden flavor
Hits the freshness of thy tongue.
Laughter in childern.
Sounds of awoken footsteps,
And I am not crawling.
This sky, and whispers from my tongue
Through fights: torrents and storms.
I wonder what shakes them forth…
So then my whispers should linger
Like my footsteps echo through these halls;
Cobblestone roads and rickety signs,
Darkness offset by lanterns dancing with my mind.
I let it shake and I cannot sigh,
For winter’s warmth stayed awake today
To brandish my armor as I let them fly
Upon winds that returned my whispers.
I’ve marched here across my anchored points
Delivering pain to sinister few.
The tax man has come,
And he’s collected from me.
Now I’m delivering antisocial notes
With expressed tones,
Fingering about my fretting tongue.
Gathering my fees, I’m straddling.
Marching and lifting and leaving.
And condemning, loudly condemning
The unspoken children, gallantly smiling.
So leave me here if you’ve forgotten your manners.
I’m not ancient, I’m not sunken deep.
Present and lofty and collecting a fee,
The tax man has come, and he’s fixin’ for souls.
It’s never the end all
The catch your breath
And look back a second time.
It’s never anarchy,
Two bits vying for love.
It’s a death trap,
And Boris is dead.
We aren’t the restless,
We’re the owners:
Ruthless and cheap.
Talking back and rigging it,
Cheap thrills and lose tongues
And leaving worthless, spent.
Cause I’m not alive
– Horribly penniless –
Missing all the good times.
I walk with arms open
For your outstretched revolution
To move my soul.
To catch me
To look back and
For all my breath, moments
Stretched into life and death.
Love isn’t four letters
Love doesn’t crawl up on hands and knees in chocolate
Love doesn’t smell like roses
Love doesn’t have a long lineup at the checkout
Love isn’t singular
Love isn’t fleeting
Love wakes up every day and sleeps with the moon
Love is expression
Love is happy even when there is no love
Love is a sparkle in the eyes
Love is a name about ones tongue
Love is a feeling