Like an old man on the bus with his flowers
past the darkness yet still 
the things we do 
not
more than you
hoarding our ordinariness
until we are comatose

It wasn't time to die 
and so we lived
a shared epiphany 
taking in
through these small eyes

Othertimes we wake
ground to the dusty dirt like scarified seed
waiting

watching ripples the water 
smooth flat

A late summation 
for only half the people 
as if
they are facts.

yet again
waking another
book of words 
like
hope defected

you come
riding through
and there
is the other
solitary friend
soldiering on with 
letters to write

once written
not much was left
to roll on but
always
the birds fly on

we are all
weirdly armed
this night

not done

Loosely run goats the wild yet there are no words to rhyme
to complement or roll into a taco.
One plate a a time we break our plans
free of those silver-clad bohemians.
Here the clouds circle but

We are the vortex.

It was only law that made the lawless and it was
very nice but then it was the other looking in.
Some felt we lacked the wow of
more extreme ways to hunger.
And so we quit them all.

No, we are not done.

Turn on the light on all the things we made.
All the things we made are broken.   
The indecipherable language of crowds below us
floating, staring a hole
in the sky. 

It's not the loudest thing in my head
your voice it's
the drowning. 

The psychic vampires with their straws

 The candy striped bendy ones
Swirled in the pastels of Easter

 in my brain
Sucking us dry

 My friend the psychologist
Is that a disparity not seen before?

Mostly these are the endings

 Trends that are driven
as if
One drive-by could solve all of this

As though
 One view was big enough for all
 Them and you
Too

 Or
 The statement I dreamt yesterday 
When I wasn't making it up. 

Why is it
 Or do you really have to consider 
Being too carefully these days?  

Chances are good over the last three years like eggs 
Resting in the grainy sands
Of a summertime in the old desert.

It doesn't matter that
Your right

Easter the stain twisted above
Fingers drumming at a time
only one
Singly
glass crusted
With yesterdays tears
Til tomorrow another.
We had fun not
Tonight
Then what'd you have to do
But then
We didn't have to
only to cry

the fallen angel satan
there we are
what separates us
is ...

on recklessness

Reading of recklessness, the idea that nothing bad will happen if we all, every one of us, were to write a poem. Right now. But if every one writes and no one reads then the point is? Poem making as another empty gesture we all can share in as equals. Like pornography. Yet there are always some more equal than others, and they are those who write of recklessness and tell that we all, every one of us, can up and write a poem without consequence. Or none of the bad ones. If we all, every one of us, were honest right now with who ever might be with us would there be no consequence? If a tree falls in the forest and all that. Crap. There is no sound that is not heard and no poem that is not read. If we write to amuse ourself then perhaps it is not so. But a poem is meant to be read. It is an honesty from places other than. A poem is two ways or it is not. We get little from writing but that it connects, communicates, goes beyond. Perhaps nothing bad happens if we all now, every one of us, writes a poem but then what is the point? Recklessness, yes, without regard but it is more on the others part, not ours