cracked shades

through cracked shades
looking for something he hasn't known
for some time
true inspiration comes from within
the confines of a cottage built for one
thought escapes as another re-enters
his view out the window
and into a neighbor's yard
grass neatly trimmed
as thoughts for later stored
under a hat with all the memories
and
at this moment more than any other
he misses his creators...

through glass

back in the shadows

when trees bend

and wind can be heard

through glass

a pressure felt

through a door

with a screen

across the room

incredibly speed

like an attack

at chest level…

fight the never matter

gotta fight the urge

to go outside on the porch

might fall back into a bad habit

recently kicked out

like breaking a window

to get into a car

or use a coat hanger

whether it is easier or not

he’ll take the call

even if he is sleeping silent

and then the traffic picks up again

as if it never stopped

even for a moment

even if that moment

can never matter again…

crazy with the thoughts

crazy with the thoughts

you can tell she is getting worse

sitting where he does he may not

realize it gets hard to understand

words come out all jumbled

and with the constant ramble he may go mad

all at once he tries so hard to understand

let her make sense of it all be patient

when she doesn't he gives up just a little bit

each day it gets harder to take care

two instead of just one

somehow she feels for him a second

rubs his back and says I know I know

forgets how to drink her coffee

does this every week and still can't remember

maybe she will surprise him tonight

with a memory of who she was and really is

who are we all that we know or more

same confusion until the body gives up

on the mission before us all

the sounds remind us

something else will get rid of the thoughts

time will pass and neither her or him will know

who she is confused and alone

he tries to keep her company now

she is lost and he will not give up

on looking for her everywhere...

ten definitions

wish eyes were not crossed

the bridge was steady under foot

heavy at times as light as air

cleaner than only days ago

seems strange to think it might slow down

take notice of all the staring faces

everyone's staring with those eyes

that say they don't trust each other

or anyone for that matter

he has ten definitions

and none of them are truly believable

he sits waiting for the train of thought

arriving with everyone around

as if there was a celebration

waiting for the end of another conversation

after which questions will be raised

like flags on poles symbolic of some freedom

how many really feel free

work all day and don't know half the story

never mind the rest...

don't ask

don't ask he's awake entirely too early

trip to the RMV and he's convinced

they get paid more to be rude

it's 830am and this middle aged man

is already having a bad day

he smiles and realizes he can get nowhere

with this woman she is dead set on being

miserable

'look here—read line 2'

'sign here—in the box'

'sit there—look here

and smile if you want.'

don't ask he thinks she must be up

entirely too early as well

luckily the entire miserable

process only took 15 minutes...

under a shaky fan

sitting cross-legged in a green booth
under a shaky ceiling fan that might fall
back to the idea of words on the page
in happiness in rage rising to the top
of this bottomless cup of bitter coffee
would rather drink tap water
no matter what is in it
sitting cross-legged until the knees
start to ache then feet onto the floor
carpet of pins and needles
right through shoes just like that
wearing a long sleeve shirt
wearing out on the elbows
he can feel the cold sticky table under
pushing the pen everyday wishing
for a day when it will push back
hair under thinking hat
staring off into the night
probably thinking about someone
who would never sit across the table
legs crossed again understand the ramble
from one end of the day to the other
next minute up and out the door
on a mission impossible to describe
with words in detail
left to the imagination
if there is any left
swimming in indecision
confusion...

gonna do it anyway

what is he supposed to do when he feels

empty no inspiration

some will say pick up a book

some might even say pick up a gun

he picks up the pen instead

shoots blanks and tears the page

what's he going to do when everyone

laughs at the words he finds staring

back from the page who knew

they would never really look within

to see what resides deep

what is he supposed to do

when the wind blows him over

and no one understands

truly he doesn't care he is going to do it

whether they buy it or not

whether they even read it

relate or respond

what else is he going to do

with all this nothing...

difference this time

back when it meant

something one might

believe words

only cloud skies

on a beautiful day

unbearable feeling

reaching a point

found emptiness

fighting the despair

confidence has to be

the difference this time…

thunder at the end

out on the porch

suddenly ninety degrees

not quite humid

glad for that

makes people crazy

a strong breeze

keeping everyone cool enough

sun for one day

evening approaches

some even hope for some

thunder to end the day…

voice of the voiceless

read the story of his life

new respect rising from these words

intrigued to know more about

the voice of the voiceless

sat down nine o’clock

opened On A Move

didn’t close it until I finished it

unbelievable that someone

could do so much good

with his journalism

to expose corruption

and help victimized people

could be shot framed and convicted

of murder and now awaits death

a story of a target to be silenced

not a cop killer truth be told

truly the voice of the voiceless

look it up and read it up

free Mumia and free The Truth…

sticky afternoon

beginning to break a sweat standing

still no breeze

chill comes one day then humidity the next

two minutes feel like hours

could be days before

he is allowed back into the population

finally the electricity is back

and the ceiling fan spins on high

takes the edge off the stagnating air

this sticky afternoon...

sugar high

green bottle afternoon sugar high

above the busy street

and car alarms blare

making sure no one is sleeping

this afternoon the sun plays chase

around and through the clouds

here one second gone the next

time you hear the sound of the wind

pause and see into your thoughts

green bottle and a little smoke

turn the afternoon perfect

as the sun shines down like the first time

this year has much to offer

but what do I do but waste on the porch

looking down who's got anything to say

everyone in their little circles waving back and forth

trying to catch a glimpse of when the sun shines down

into their lives for a change of scenery

do they even know what they want

green bottle and a phone call to make...

way out there

it can be hard to understand

the other side might be right

away he is wrong

move from the edge

in a voice too scrambled

to hear or there might be

another side as well

with someone who is right

in front of everyone who will look

into an eye opened at all times

are going to change if it’s allowed

enough for all to hear

and now slightly proud

what’s been put in print

words no longer remain

only in the brain sealed

the mind might change

if given the chance

to sit in the sun

burning through the morning clouds

they don’t stand a chance

when it comes to what

is said and heard repeatedly

making stories out of thoughts

and things might make you want to freeze

actions until further notice

every bud in the trees that hang

from overhead to over heard

like the songs that the birds sing

from way out there…

reached deep

reached down deep

blue above wind all around

as if in water

still dying of thirst in the mind

headstand just to straighten

things out number nothing

getting them here remains the only

problem unsolved like a mystery

amusing on lookers like a traffic accident

without purpose writing with what comes out

pay no attention to how

and don’t ask why it won’t make sense

still common enough

to make one read no audience can hear

where he sits only cats and birds

can comment with song

that’s if they can read over his shoulder

it’s quiet out in the sun no relief

cool breeze blowing smoke back in his face

the other direction is slow

and his fingers can’t stand the cold

air in April an oxymoron

like living the weather in New England…

died in San Pedro

all the words get lost

when snow returns to April

showers too cold for most to handle

his head could nearly explode

with information how many million

situations seated squarely

across the table set for one

might show him he is not always wrong

way down the one way street

he knows too well been stuck in the headlights

he hasn't moved an inch

someone will turn him the right way eventually

going back to where it might all make sense

probably not as he rethinks his path

stopping as his lights dim

in the presence of another

sometimes it is not supposed to matter

it it makes sense

it's just life and people just don't seem

to care about the words

scattered dying in the streets of San Pedro

rebirth in the east at nineteen

unknowingly choosing the pen

and smoke over bat and ball

how many are really disappointed

possess the painting

sitting on the floor once again

no eye contact

what could the thoughts

be after all this time

only visiting a painting

place once called home

maybe not long at all

or long enough

he knows the song

well enough by now

everyone else is going

here and there

and he remains stationary

still sharing a laugh

from time to time

is it the goal to possess the painting

he doesn’t feel the same

about the sculpture he sees

can’t get eye contact and

no one allows him closer

than arm’s length…

two different faces

how does it make sense

when you step back

out of you for a second

see him and don’t ignore the thought

rapid return and two stories unfold

one on the same side of the table

once heard saying he was

favorite writer or something

yet never a free moment for the friend

he is not trying to accomplish anything

and probably doing a good job at that

seen both of the faces

not even sure if it is known…

should have known

417/2001 420pm


he's right in thinking

it's amazing he is still here

the wind blows

from all directions

seeming to point to the end

of his pen forgetting he could never

take on responsibility

within a structure

that has so many cracks

and loopholes to get lost in

the shuffle of qualified persons

forgetting he could never

be taken serious

on any level the playing

field any questions to those

who really give a shit how many dollars

the store can make

it's as if he

might never make it

in the cruel business

world with nothing

to lose he closes his eyes

to the future dreams

within the dirty walls

thought to be thick

with everyday people

doing everyday things

and this should be enough

should have known...

more than he thought

it’s late and he’s not really here

he musters some energy

makes a call

he says hello

the reply says everything

he feels it might be

excitement he hears

so far away

possibly dreaming

back to when everyone

right around the corner

now everyone is gone

the shadows trick his mind

into thinking it’s not too late

he is more awake than he thought…