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Chipping away at minutes and momentsHoping to make a something happenSpanging for a different resultSomething newI guessIt’s oddFinding outThat all you can really doIs spend your time wisely and prayPray that all your effort will be worth it
Crouched on the floor, repottingRemixing the soil with new tasteYour hands dirty the tape leavingcracks, hissing, & pops a plentyThe planter filled with new kindsOf flowers, succulents, and herbsA chance to record a bit of whoWe were when the track droppedThe cassette sits fading in the sunGrowing on me each time we playIt wasn’t what…
I want to see the stars againUs laid out in a Forest foreverQuiet in a way most city folkscan’t even imagine – only thesound of bugs, birds, & waterTo know peace with my handin yours. It takes seconds tofeel the weight of society slipaway. Watching the Sky, shine.A smile on my face, a shootingStarI wish…
The finding of snailson a walkwaycrushed & chewedSpat out flatReminds me ofThe East Bay SunShining downloveless & brightI poke funAt lesser GothsWho gave upSooner than IWould they wereA different breedsteadier in heatThen probably theywould join in tandem
“She’s a bitch”Says my future wifeto the speaker“Chirst” She blurtsover a knotted necklaceshe can’t fixI know these moments seem so smallBut I am gracious to have them all–The squeak of the floorboardsThe chips in the paint, orhow the burners are too hotWe talk of painting the wallsHanging up shelves and plantsThe idea of years passing…
A tide in Black, someone’s OdysseySharpened sunlight warming my tightsWhat better way to spend Mother’s DayThan somewhere in the thin place
What is a painter without their muse?It’s an amusing question to ask.Can we take seriously what is madewithout the use of nouns?People, places, things.All these to be avoided.When your musingsAre found at the bottomsOf pill bottles and the endsOf spliffs – I know so fewWho are quick to smoke meUpstanding citizens they are.I find the…
Salinger used to jokeThat I was IlliterateI’d go to scratch Quinnie’s itchAnd say I’d rather hear her voiceThan decipher the sapphic looksShe hid in hymnsI thought to text a postcardFrom El DoradoTell tales of the Garter Snake in SaltLakeTalk of the Angel out of gasA hundred miles outside ofThe City of SinThere were seconds in…
Despite distracted tendencies to the latterI find myself in ill natured reciprocity withA faithful familial fondness for inequityAnd the desperado I feed tidbits and scraps toUnderneath a table — Linen lined -Not like dollies or lace,But simple and flatA sheer sort of canvas for the mistreatmentOf fallen foodsFoul finds its way into the stomachs that…
I rose from the dead on a quiet Wednesday morning to enjoy the sunrise.I sat stealing in the blueWanting not for a moment longer than the last flickers of the lightning bugs.The music play on through the background, championing a somber mood.I let a smile fade from my mind and on to my face.A peek…
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