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.