Wednesday, February 06, 2019

MOMMY.

MOMMY

This is the woman
that gave birth to me
who fed me a bottle at
one years old

trying hard not to jump
off the bridge
every time I cried
every time I wanted something

"More!" I said. "More!"
The child is endangered,
the child got a scrape and bruise,
she was going to get abducted,
she wanted to have a princess party.

Then the lady/woman doctor tells me the
baby is going to have a big head,
that she needs a special kind of
baby medicine,
that she will not talk or sing.

"No!" I says, and then I proceed
to jump off a cliff
just so my baby can live,
and have a great life,
and be the next president or king
of the world.

Friday, December 28, 2018

A BLACK MAN.

A black man used a phone in the lobby

the police were called
and the room became cold
a daffodil grew in the vase
the night stared blankly
at me
the curtains were drawn
an old man moaned
he was sickly

nothing moved
except the wind
that cried at the window

the black man cried
he was brought a block of
cheese
and a box of rum
he sat there chewing and chewing
his mouth full of grease

the night wore on
night became still like death.

Wednesday, December 26, 2018

Snow Egret.


SNOW EGRET

The snow egret looks out over the water.
The snow egret falls.
The tide shifts.
It is the light.
It is the darkness inside us.

Some people are being ignored right now.
Thrown out with the waves on the shore.
The stones move, and are broken.
Shells are broken like a cross.
Anger makes the ocean move.

The snow egret is one of the last, sadly.
No one lives here.
It is the end of time.
Hope is in the darkness,
of sad things lost.
Some children are lost.
They will never be found.

I found something once.
It did nothing for me.
I tried to change my mood about
finding things.
But nothing could be changed.

I wander down into the snowy water.
It is cold.
We are here.

Tuesday, December 25, 2018

BROKEN.

BROKEN

The broken clown
sifts like moving water
the glass house

is a dream
a metaphor
of something long past.

The darkness is like stone.
Everything is hollow inside,
a hollow shell.
No one wanders here,
lost like a lone mile,

everything is prude.
Stones are broken.
Like sad things moving.
Shadows move and bend with time.
I am darkness.
I am the wind that moves.

I am the grass.
I am the lone echo crying in the night.
The lone winter moor.
Shadows fade.
Time bends.

Sunday, December 09, 2018

THE PROJECTS.

THE PROJECTS

In the projects I am wakened by
the sound of gunshots
down the street
the bitter wind is blowing
and I cannot see the back of my hand
in the deep night.
Shadows jump all around me
and the cold winter is upon us
just like shaped things that move like
time.
Thoughts are willed, stilled.
I am holding onto a breathless moment
that is caught in a spiderweb of dew,
like the forgotten shadows of March
I commit myself to the act of sorrow,
the broken bones of night.
I cannot hear myself breathe.
They are listening, like moving things,
and sometimes you can hear them-
skulking about in the stillness,
a man moving in his slumber.
I found myself on borrowed time.
Like a web of dreams that lie
awake at night and cause me to
scream in desperation,
shadows marching upon the stone.

Tuesday, November 06, 2018

THE TRAIN AT THE END OF THE WORLD.


THE TRAIN AT THE END OF THE WORLD.

The train goes to the end of time.
It sits there and it waits.
I find myself standing on the end of oblivion,
the time it takes for control to manifest.
I am self-absorbed in the realm of darkness.
Time forces us to a standstill.
The broken clock marches forward,
and gleams of promise; hope fades
to fear.
Light is like a folding flower,
it goes around and around.
The wheels of the train are spinning.
I am a colored wheel. I light my own way
in the dark.
The train goes through thick, gooey mud.
I am concerned with what will happen
the next day; the next and the next until
time breaks down and rots away.
The river is wide. The train breaks down
in the water. Rust rots away. I am broken,
like a clock, that falls in the water
and time does not end.


Thursday, October 18, 2018

THE WIND IN THE OLD HOUSE.


The wind shudders and sighs
throughout the old, barren house.
Its rusty walls are grim.
I found the darkness
reverberates throughout the walls,
the anger is mass, like the sea.
The loneliness fills the a void
in my mind.
I am gone, and I am here.
I am no one and everyone.
I am a lone shoe on the stair
that is old and wanting wear.
I do not try to be like anyone else.
I do not try to be a second guest
in someone else's home.
I move around without a sound.
But the old man I love is a grouch,
he tried to bite and scratch and crawl
his way out of bed,
blankets clawing at his old hands.
He thought of death and I was still.