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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

ALONE.

ALONE

I am alone in the dark of the night.

I am alone without a thought or a light.

I am a star; that lives and dies,

I am a baby that sleeps and cries.

All alone, I do not dwell;

my mind is dark; my heart will swell.

I fade just like the night that comes.

In my heart, I beat like drums.

I am alone, just like the night.

In the shadows, there is no light.

I am a harp that bends and bows,

the water-as it shapes and flows.

Now! Now. The bending of the dark,

I fly away, on the wings of a lark.

Holding fast to the ones I love,

who put on the sorrow just like a glove.

Move! Move! We live on seats above.

I glare and stare and sing of doves.

We do not know of time or light,

for, in the darkness, there is the night.

OLD WOMEN WEEP.

Old Women Weep

Far beyond forbearance,

I mimic the wall of incumbrance.

The drones fall on unseen hands.

Days fade like broken stones.

Like statues on the statuette,

I don't see anyone, anything

beginning to tire until the next day at hand.

I fall like lions.

The tired weep like

old women waiting for a bite to eat

on their way to work, women who are too

tired to retire, women who can't think

about anything but their husband,

getting them ready to bed, to work, to eat.

Sometimes their children play. But all day,

they work, having their hands tied in knots,

only to make minimum wage,

to go home and feed their children on bread

and eggs and milk.

But the milk sates the hunger.

It fuels the fire that burns raw inside,

that gets larger as they get older,

larger still as the world with all of its noise.

FRIENDSHIP AT THE CHURCH.

Friendship at the Church

A little church sits on the end

of the road,

face forward towards the rolling hills.

The rolling hills are like green water,

that stop and move against the sun.

Over light, over darkness, the thing

breathes,

and sunshine sparkles like dew.

Some friends go and some friends come;

but in the deepness, the green grass grew.

Like flowers, I pour the darkness from my

hands,

and the old church bell chimes.

I am the nothingness that is in your mind,

I am a weathered vine.

All hope is through.

The church is painted white, like a ghost;

the bell shimmers bright like a silver host.

The anger moves vast like a wave of sea,

in it is you and me.

Follow like sorrow, the night that grew,

in it, hope waves like time anew.

Sometimes, we forget to pretend,

that all things are the same.

And the church still stands at the end

of the old road with the forgotten name.

RUNNING OUT OF GAS.

Running Out of Gas

I am a poor man inside a blank wall.

I don't find anything wrong with the way I am.

I think therefore the light is dim.

I am behind on things. I belong swinging on

chains.

The world is terrible. No one wants to help

anyone anymore, things get worse by the second.

I don't have any second chances.

My money is running out. I'm running out of

time,

and running out of gas,

the clock ticks on the wall.

I have found shelter but it is inadequate.

The day grows long. I find holes in your reasoning,

for reasons unknown.

There is a grass stain on my knees.

I was running through a field of roses.

The roses are defective, but that can be changed.

ICELAND.

ICELAND

Darkness pours in the night.

Shadows spin; daylight beckons.

I glare at the spider on the wall.

It is forever gone.

Tomorrow I will go to the place

beyond the second world,

where love lies in promise;

and all hope shines.

Forever words echo in your heart

like a lily flower,

that bleeds the sins of justice.

The words flow like lions.

I seek myself out of realization,

where destiny lies inside me.

Nothing glares in the hope of

yesterday,

and tomorrows are born of

withered roses.

I take a long nap.

Horses run amuck in the wild,

and dreams are withered

remembrance.

Instead of fate, the city dances.

The moon goes with the tide.

I am not a sorrow of chasing dreams.

Hope is gone again.

Miracle Man.

Miracle Man

I'm trying to find the miracle man

made out of gold.

Who fights for reason beyond reason,

who echoes on the realms of time.

He is a cowboy, he is a murderer.

He doesn't dwell on the heart of things,

he gets to the matter of it all.

He is overwhelmed with his search for

gold.

It has taken over his life.

The life is not mine to give.

It is his own.

Some men are superficial, but not him,

he is fulfilling his dreams.

He will own a ranch in the city,

he will own some horses,

and he will have a beautiful wife

and children.

ALL THESE WOMEN.

I hate all of these women who

think they are God's gift to men,

when they don't even know what it

takes to be human.

Are they a coward? Lying about where

they've been, who they are seeing?

I don't really understand it,

anymore than I can think about it.

Laura, Emily, Mary, they all claim

the men they fell in love with,

are in love with them,

but then they don't give them enough sex,

and they come crawling back to me,

where they wanted to be in the first place.

Everyone is in love with me,

but I am alone.

My heart is on my sleeve, I am begging for

a way out of this hell hole.

I interpret the shadows on blank walls,

I interpret the mass realization that nothing

is as bad as it seems.

My heart is overflowing.

I break open the tide that was once

called my life,

and nothing is sacred as it was before.

I am calm. I am whole. Nothing

can harm me.

Cherry Blossoms In Paris.

Cherry Blossoms In Paris

Bloom about this time of year.

Why are they here?

I can't begin to fathom.

I stroll down a street in Paris,

looking for them,

and looking at the clock on my

watch,

ticking, tocking looking for freedom

from the sin of time.

French businessmen hurry back and

forth, on their way to work,

because it is morning.

I take the double-decker bus all the

way home.

Now it is time for my nap.

PEERS.

PEERS

I blame myself for all

the troubles in the world.

Sometimes I try to talk myself out of it.

But other times I believe it is my

fault,

or the fault of my peers.

My peers alone stand on the edge of oblivion,

looking down at the abyss of themselves,

looking down at the abyss of oneness.

The lake is like a still water,

calm in the morning,

tumulous in its wake.

I breathe in air like a mouth breather,

I can't find the way out of the abyss.

You say the train is coming.

I don't know anything about it.

I look up the info for it online,

but nothing stands out to me,

the ticket has been lost.

I blame myself for the babies being born

blind, deaf, or dumb.

I blame myself for the night,

that is so dark,

I can barely see my hands.

Island House, Moving.

Island House, Moving

I live in Island House.

We move around a lot.

I tried to explain it to my grown up

daughter,

who was so bored, she complained.

I don't know about all the problems

in the world,

but there are many.

I try to write them down in lists,

but the lists keep getting lost.

I don't know why they are lost,

they just are.

Sometimes, my problems arise out of

the concern for the fact that I have

to eat in a couple of hours,

and when the night falls,

I will be alone.

My innermost thoughts and secrets

make me feel the most alone,

and as I dwell alone in the house,

my footsteps across the linoleum,

time transcends,

and the Island House is my own

home,

where I dwell within.

THE GARDEN.

THE GARDEN

I am the garden where all time grows.

I am the river in which the water flows.

Time is broken like a hand,

that is swallowed up by sand.

Change is a promise that removes the heart;

in it, lies break apart.

Whatever moves, the light will wan;

time growls like a train.

What is burdened cannot be made whole,

the veil overcomes us all.

STARS.

STARS

Your eyes shine like midnight stars.

The darkness is a blank wall.

All around me, the shadows mourn;

a lone sea gull's call.

The sun spins with the rain.

I am powerless.

The hearts of man are a withered vine.

Nothing can withstand the pain.

I do not know what you are doing,

or where I am going.

Only that the light shines in outer space,

and all I see is your shining face.

WITHERED FLOWER.

Withered Flower

The light is gone like a withered flower.

Shadows fade and bend like lions.

I am a withered rose on the back of prose,

that does not mourn the darkness.

Take me, and take my baby,

and the light throws me outside of myself,

shadows whisper on the end of all things,

and night is calm again.

The baby cries, and wails, and the wind sings;

the storm is coming, a tornado is coming,

a wail wakes us up in the night.

We are ancient, we are kind, the monsters cannot

sustain us.

Destiny bends. Nothing is forsaken as the lost lamb;

shadows fade and control the light.

All is lost in the world, the rain will fall,

and the beauty dips and swells.

Burdened by proof, I don't know anything;

light will bend and all is lost.

The night withers and I go home.

JUDGE.

JUDGE

Don't judge the person judge

the reason.

Think outside the box.

This box is made of stones.

Everything is tempermental.

I casually throw out my linen paper,

and make a lot of noise.

I am simple with my dreams.

Casually I talk to you, casually I am here.

I dwell on the hope and joy of truth.

Truth is not superficial.

Truth is oval. Truth is large.

Truth is like the begging lamb,

looking for a way to make its dreams.

I hope I can find the reason within myself,

to grasp the reality of this,

and know now, however I become,

I will behave like a bitter storm that waxes

and wanes,

and the moon shines down,

and the light is bitter.

I am the moon.

I am gone.

AFTER ALL OF THIS.

AFTER ALL OF THIS

After all of this, the clouds form and take

shape in the darkening day.

The lobsters play on the beach

walking back and forth up

and down the sand dunes.

The waves pick up, and

bounce on the sharp rocks.

The night is blessed. My love

is bitter and angry that I am

not with him; that he is

far away. The beach house

is around the corner but I am

sitting on my towel,

looking out at the ocean and

watching the tides come in,

watching the ocean.

The wind is an angry monster,

trying to take hold of the ocean

and seize it as if it were in battle,

and I see a ship out on the water,

bouncing on the waves.

Up and down it goes, and no one

knows where it will stop,

and then the wind dies down,

and the ocean is like a mirror now,

calm in its wake.

The Mother.

The woman who was my mother

claimed she never really loved me

and stole my clock one night to

get back at me.

She said it was for reasoning only,

and getting the clock was a way

of showing the passage of time.

Clocks tick for a reason;

and tock for always.

Sometimes we do not know what that

reason is,

or if it is even worth it.

At night, when I am laying in my bed,

I realize I am alone,

like a great auk on the bright blue water,

dipping its neck towards the obsidian

sky,

howling at the blank sun.

She said she cared about me at one point,

and the feeling went away soon after

I was born.

And nothing is more or less a miracle

than something,

and one day moves on to the next.

Some people are always alone,

like great, winged things that take flight

in the sky,

and the darkness is vast and we are vast also.

I feel a cold shadow of dread moving through

me,

and one day fades to the next and I am

by myself again,

and everything is the same as it was before

the light came.

SILENCE.

Silence

What's that noise in my head?
It is the silence.

It reverberates throughout

my brain.

I try to catch hold if it but

it will not stay.

I try to let it go but

it will not fade.

I told my brother and my uncle

that nothing is more satisfying

than change;

and all is not lost with change.

Some people claim that change

cannot be had,

but it is like a wildflower,

growing strong against the wind.

It is like the growth of a backhand,

as strong as the grass.

The sun shines high in the sky,

and the clouds are white and puffy.

The night comes and a calmness

settles over the city.

The silence is prominent.

It is there.

MOTH.

MOTH

The moth is fluttering

in the cold river.

She tries to swim upriver

but she can't quite make it.

All in all, she is a fighter.

All in all, she does not move

into a dark web.

Some things are better left

without words to mourn them;

the bread is better left in the

bread box.

I have found that sandwiches

taste better when they are not

moldy and bitter,

and things go from the inside

to the outside.

In my mind, the river flows

backwards;

just like bloodflow.

The system moves and changes

and bends,

and the water always flows.

THE STORM.

The Storm

The trees emulate

against the storm.

They bend with the wind

and ride with the rain.

The storm is cursed with freedom.

Everything is short of freedom.

Hope is divided by one thing.

That the end is a beginning and

the beginning will end.

The road is blocked with water;

a man is trying to get out of the water,

he swims and swims and does not

stop swimming.

Some things cannot be changed,

like tires or rocket shuttles;

some new beginnings turn to

endings,

and things aren't broken.

The river is not flooded or

destined to be flooded.

The stream is not a stream;

hope is not shattered.

I have not lost my will to survive

the storm,

I have not lost my will to end

the surviving dream.

Take what you will and follow

the stream;

the heartache is not in your hand.

I do not beat a steady thrum.

Shadows flock a will of its own.

TREES.

The trees

stand tall

in the storm that is

mourning

an old tune from

an old accordion.

Nothing comes out of

the darkness by my old

hands,

shaking like a leaf,

as I batten down the hatches

and make sure the

shed is secure.

I walk like a lotus

to the back door

and open the front door

to my house

and go in.

I pause a moment

reveling in the storm

as nature reveals

its innermost fury

shaking

sobbing

trying to catch hold

of its prey.

Its mouth is its only savior.

NATURE STANDS.

Nature Stands

Nature stands on its own

in all of its glory

surrounded by golden rods

and wildflowers dancing.

All these maids turn

fast like missing time,

and puffy clouds are high

in the sky whispering away

at nothing.

In the shadows,

a small light shines,

blinding me,

a coin in the grass.

I pick it up

place it in my pocket

and look around at the

large world

that is full of promise

and there are animals

sitting in their barns

far off in the distance.

I ride my motorcycle

far down the broken road,

thinking about

what I want to have for breakfast.