being peace

not many here
as the bus arrives
and he watches
the clock as minutes pass and thoughts
of water and wine
transformation into blood
such a scary thought
still tastes like wine and looks
like bread
two ones stand side by side
and my eyes are getting worse
as the day wears on and pollen falls like
snow on a sunny day
sneezing and thinking of god
much to think on
when I mention it
it isn’t so clear cut
and dry mouth
on a cross dying
for standing up and
being peace
was he who they claim him to be
was he as fallible
dying just like so many
before and after
and how do you take he is risen
enlightened martyr
take not blind faith and run
take what is believed and think on it
for a while or maybe forever
and we will be back someday
with more knowledge
and insight
being peace…

half here

427/1998

half cloud half sun
and a half twisted mind
a full cup of coffee
to go with the half of the bagel I have not
finished
half awake and still sleeping half
of the time
and half of me wants to leave
half the tree is bare
half the story is told
truth embellished some
but half those hearing listen to the sounds
that form words
before my half shut eyes closed
and open the window to no one knows where
half of the time
making a half-ass attempt at understanding
what is seen through half of a smoke filled room
half filled with kids
loud and unruly
with half a smile
and facing the second half of the day
half here and
half somewhere else…

thought down

seems like I can’t go

anywhere and become a stranger again

do I really mind so much

strawberry jam my mind

full of coffee and thought once

would be enough, but

wrong was the turn

for the worse and sometimes

you never know and then you will

and time for some change

who do they think

they know me

I blend once blue sneakers removed

foot exposed to the world

the corn grows in rows

even when it snows in April

drifting to an escape

from a prison planet

of which you know nothing

and that matters none at all

if that is enough

then stop reading here

if you can cope with the rope

swing 67 thing keep on

because tomorrow is not a promise

an assumption

don’t know that I know

who really cares that much

anyhow way back to the first spot

in the grass where so many

lie overturned under still and blankets

won’t cover feet put on one shoe

and hop back to the point

lost it again

don’t try to understand

still get the chills

when napoleon’s great grand

daughter smiles down on me

brings my crazy neck quite a feeling

and don’t ask and don’t expect too much

too little is always creeping up on me

usually thought down

to another day…

man in the corner

do you think you know him well

enough stone him where he stands

falls never lands

fell for you

what are you waiting for

wish I knew for him

they would rather laugh and point

they don’t know him either

don’t want to or they would

who am I to care or offer commentary

see him often, but our eyes seldom meet

most often I look away

do not want him to feel uncomfortable

tomorrow’s another day

after today

is gone and he’ll probably replay it

one million time in his mind

to find where he went wrong

can’t un-break what’s broken

tries to fix

one fix is never enough…

an apology

to those I hurt

however hurt does come

have no right

and an apology

does no  good without

a follow up action

and how I do want to be different

can’t, stuck being me

as much as I can’t stand it at times

sorry and I know it’s just the word

to describe how I feel

looking down the barrel

swinging from the oak

could serve only one purpose

too selfish and sure I could rationalize

can’t waste that much time

got a great model to follow

don’t know how sometimes

when the problems poke their ugly face

in my direction

hard to change a twenty-three year old habit

not proud and won’t get loud

prefer the silence of the room

then the noise starts to pound my mind

a dog I cannot control

and this here apology is in vain

if I cannot act upon it

haven’t cried in such a long time…

not long enough

424/1998

excuse me please

to be of some help

me climb to the top

of where I was once

thought much

mattered and nothing does

anything count

on this test

statement of sorts

out what has confused a mind

set to spin endlessly

turning into and out of sadness

so close to despair

reaching falling

thinking not long enough. . .

nothing concluded 96

usually self-inflicted

the solitude

submerged completely

at times

scarce room to breathe

who am I to believe

I can be invisible

if I want

to imagine that possibility

just might come

back to join this spot

and what is it called

when the mind won’t stop it’s

circles around each bend

or break the self so dizzy…

start with you

422/1998

when my eyes close and the water stops running

anticipation starts never let down

but hopes not always as high as the room

where he lies waiting for a floating angel

to sit on the edge of the bed

want nothing more than to paint a picture

where she sits done dressing for the day

time now for the opposite

seen the chill as she entered the room he feels it too

don’t mind his tears they are the good kind

how did she even know

back to his bearded face touching silk

the silver is tarnished and faded away

the snow has melted and he is what is left

right before eyes he breaks down

and she slept through it all

he wanted to wake you

something wouldn’t let him

disturb the peace

only then he realized that

it was his too

she brought him there…

sent into yesterday

began as a dream
came crashing into the side
of a mountain made me laugh
to myself and the others
do not know where he might be
nowhere and somewhere someone
is crying
night pushed too fast
into day
light will come up on the horizon
too far away for me to truly see
it clearly it becoming the only wish
knowing a little more about somewhere
someone is laughing
and no matter what
emotion is being used
as a cushion the fall
we all take our time
to get there is a place
and time for it all
the birds singing
in the rain and the wind
blows the message
sent into yesterday. . .

morning death

401/1998


the clocks hands
are nothing like his are old
and in the way
back to day one
no prize for trying
it doesn’t count
backwards spin
the wheel turned now
facing the east
wind blowing
out the match made here
what he has to say
gets lost or something
and they leave him alone
he must somehow payback
to one day he heard the song
sing these words
could really only dream
to be what he really wants
he hasn’t found the map
and as for the treasure
remains buried deep as the sky
is wide eyed in the morning
the death of yesterday. . .