isn't even mine

how many miles driven or walked

in or out of town

whether or not champions

still exist in a city famous for shoes too

the blue water tower

is in Brockton

who cares you ask

someone will don’t doubt it

for a moment and no matter who fights

who and no matter the rules laid

down under the tire

and got bored with the story

at hand the designed

to depict right now as it is now

and if I am lucky it will

al still be here when I get back

how many miles before

someone sees

what I have been moving towards

all along just never knew until the dream

and brother says it might have been

an altered reality

and I think that is what life is made up

of many parts replaceable with any or all of the above

below the poem there will be a name

and it isn’t even mine… 

it's a pool table

a little too big

to get comfortable

without feeling as if

it might fall off the table

and it’s a pool table

it is his desk for the winter

porch becomes too cold

sliding off the edge

can’t find comfort

and can’t reach

the itch in his boot…

outlast the beat

writing to the beat in the air

everyday something to put in the air

the whole world is fighting

does anyone understand why

some might cry two three times a day

fool proof plan to wake

with an ‘everything’s ok’ attitude

maybe not perfectly authentic

but the strangely strong

bursting through

full moon thin clouds

writing to the beat finding the keys

no doubt lies in the song choice

the thoughts positively pushing

out a little longer stick around

until the end of another thought

smoking out the meditation

writing it out no matter where the beat goes

into another random back to back

live it right not wrong

how many coffee shops

how many night isolated

back to the beginning

pen poised to create

lines and curves

some see and some have no idea

what the sunset sky looked like tonight

writing at last to out last

the beat still put it in the air

for freedom of thought with words

two hours and twenty minutes later…

rasta snow

rasta snow storm

who knows when and

if spring will arrive now

chillin with bob

watching the snow

recording thought…

nuff herbs

another night

up in smoke

as they say

the clouds barely dent

the beauty of the scene

no one seems to mind

but it is eight degrees

when the air is still

colder as you

sit in the cold…

lights blink quick

switch it up the slightest bit
change colors
want it to stand out nothing out of the ordinary
sat on the edge of the bed
watching as someone drifts
in and out of sleep
the wind is out of control
tonight's ice storm
becoming snow
as the night wears on
and it's still early yet
especially for him
not even nine bells ringing
everything about the day
becomes a nine
the lights blink quick...

all night smoker

it could take awhile to bust out like a jukie

do wah diddy shitty city roll out I feel pukey

sick and throw up in the sink stink

drove off the road car ends up in the drink

until the eyes roll back attack

the bubonic san andreas klak klak klak

it could take forever to flip it like a strong arm

steady are you ready don't judge me

on how I feel and make some fetti

cross country letters fill notebooks

leave before the coat crooks still my shit

and it could take seven days to reach

out with the bubble pack cds and thoughts

white owl double wrap music

truth out there keep it in there

wrap it tight tonight

extra heavy cream makes

coffee extra light

the laughing won't stop

filled up the joker

eyes never close

always half shut

all night smoker

until all whites turn red

suddenly end up above a thirty inch bed...

before we get more

from the longest book
twenty-four pages
to the shortest one of them
inspiration pouring
out of the pen
let's get started
and end the war
start with the mind
no idea I would be opposed 
to a war going on most of my life
since seventy-five
and it's oh five
thirty years spread all over
it's the chill he can't
quite get rid of
the crick in the neck
the shake he can't resist
could never thread a needle
as this snow melts
almost time to point both hands to the four
turn the page
maybe he will clean the windows today
out which shouldhe see clearly
why does it seem as though
he has been forgotten again
no big surprise
just a lot of conscious time
watching this snow melt
before we get more...

shakes take over

it's the shakes

as if he hasn't eaten

yet today

but already

took the meds

to replace the missing

serotonin and too much light

will always mess with the eyes

he has no idea what he has done

up until this point he has been

steady standing

the just finished eating calmness

has taken over...

over night

it’s a 2^nd or 3^rd wind

blowing wishing

to remain in the basement

over night

knowing it’s entirely

too cold

joints start to hurt

pun intended

regardless of intent

war at the beginning

war at the end

and all throughout

the nightly ramblings

whatever they may mean

three point one four

or not

someone’s still awake

upstairs and he remains

two floors below

two pages left

to right and write on down

he spots the bowl

nearly empty bud barely burned

blaze burning in celebration

end of another thought

spilled creativity

on top of lines

keep the thoughts

in order brock town style

even though no one is around

to see or hear

what these thoughts

make him do circles

around his own subconscious

searching for a piece of truth…

nothing concluded 150

he may not have it

all figured out

still learning as he goes

onward and deeper

into random thought

sinking deeper

into the chair

with every minute

getting closer to a time

when he's got to rest

more thought

tomorrow

what is being

written mind wandering

far across the country

nothing concluded

as the days start to tease

the population

with thoughts of spring

months less smoke

he's lost in a sea

of his own ideas

can't seem to pick up

and go thirteen years

later and nothing to show

so many have heard

and exchanged words

and ideas how many

respect the man he believes

he has become nothing concluded

four books at once

a million directions

shaky like the speed

of sound loud like

the light from above (below)...

barely 10 degrees

barely ten degrees

outside inside

almost seventy

head spinning

from all the smoke

if brother was here

he would be drawing

as I sit sketching

these thoughts with words

he makes a picture appear

capturing a moment

as I do with words

drawing thoughts together

like laces of the shoes

so they don’t fall off

this is a long steep climb

no one has returned

to explain what comes next

must remain ready

for a challenge no matter the size

cold enough to crack skin

make it dry and bleeding

the predawn funk

also known as the ride to work

dreaming about that next day off

desperately wanting to sleep it off

make the big move onward

upward no matter who is watching

or how dirty the hands might get…

nothing concluded 149

everything changes

minute to minute

who is going to explain

what has been done

to the next generation

who will go first

never straying far

from the truth

nothing concluded

as far as eye can see

he'll just keep

ongoing even

when he burns

out all the herbs

rasta—nothing concluded

changing with every breath

life out lasting

all the yesterdays

remembered by own

former inspiration

eye rise daily

with the Sunday

nothing concluded

when clouds

paint the sky

the color of the highway

beneath this car that moves

too slow everything changes

and that maybe the last words

of encouragement passed

on to the next generation

mistakes made giving

power to tyranny

history constantly

repeating one war

after another

they say it's

all the same

war against terror

nothing concluded

with oxymoron-ic phrases

and a cowboy pose

just to piss off enough

people to create a daily buzz

nothing concluded...

nothing concluded 148

as if none

with the same name

have been written

standing upside down 

thinking about

all the days

that have already gone by

nothing concluded

as it were again the first

in a series of so many

strange and random

thought as it gets later

realizing he has spent

no time editing

with a fine tooth comb

useless as the headstand

in the basement

of what fun it is to ride

nothing concluded

all the way...

three point won four

about an hour he sat in traffic

waiting on an exit only slowly

approached nothing he could do

but wait patiently a silent insanity

over took nearly everyone

in the shiny metal rolling boxes

what it might be would surprise

everyone if they could do the math

easy for some illogical to others

and still others might pass out

while he is sitting right there

three points to anyone who can guess

what he's thinking about

and the one who knows won't say

four times  the same light

blown out like a candle

on a belated birthday cake

remember days

when it was all about the game

the chase like chess reality style

who sits in the war room

contemplating imaginary moves

plan a strategy or sit back

and quit the game

three points one for

who it matters less because

who knows exactly which

conversation is which and

eventually it will be undeniable

then what who would notice

one has got to be

bringing home the bread

three point one for

the money shot out of a canon

like some freak no one knows

or cares to dare to speak

and lines of communication

more open than ever but

what's not being said

is more interesting

and if you were paying attention

you would know as well

what three points

won four...

loco-motive

paper cuts and split knuckles

painful every time

hands washed

paper cuts as the beat fills

in where the smoke lifts

watching the way the beat

moves the air

paper cuts colored with gray

puffs like a locomotive

up or down the track

east or west coast

it doesn’t matter

paper cuts and split knuckles

stinging under water

working out with the mind

spinning out of control

itself needs the hands not

the paper cuts

cutting short the motion

the motive as crazy

as it could be

smoke fills the room

until a window open

or a door cracked

it’s that puffin’ loco motive

behind what has been done

since trees could grow

mother nature created

who discovered fire

put them together

paper cuts from rolling

too close to the edge

might fall back a step

or two on the run again

paper cutting into

all the time he’s got

put aside for writing

with a beat behind

like the theme

of this mundane

reality…

nothing concluded 147

as if none

with the same name

have been written

standing so close

to perfection

nearly falling

off the edge

nothing concluded

everyone else is asleep

somehow he escapes

un-tired

pulling through

until the night

ends uneventful

nothing concluded

in the perfect fog

to get lost in finding

a thought beneath

the snow melting

before eyes

if you have the patience

or the time

preferably both

eyes glued to the road

ensures a healthy ride home

what if man never made it

to the moon

and what if the Tsunami

was a weather weapon

nothing concluded

no matter how you see the glass

still have to prop lids

in order to see

for the required interval

everything changes

minute to minute

my brother isn't answering

a call put in another hour

philosophizing within the self

nothing concluded

again becomes the consistent mantra

over times ten or even 100

who knows what the Popsicle epitaph

really meant who knew it would spawn

years of serial poetry...

maybe they are stuck

in thirty minutes

used to fill

five to seven pages at a time

some days it takes

three days to produce

three pages

what a let down

like a plumber who

has been paid

but will not work

sometimes I sit as if catatonic

for thirty minutes at a time

waiting for thought

to come out maybe

they are stuck up in the mind

and will have to wait

until it dries and cracks

then while still sitting I will

leap from my spot

with so much thought

and then everything stops

sometimes I come back and reread

what I have written

astounded shocked and awed

and a little bit saddened

as the day comes

to an abrupt end falling

asleep drowning myself

on the pool table…

up later than most

up later than most

second wind

asleep at the desk

spinning the wheel

not to particular

about which direction

he is facing

as long as he can see

he closes his eyes

to hear the rain outside

with each pass

he swings closer to

the ground thoughts

like smoke

think and swirling

around and he’s nearly

dizzy and half falling

asleep but always puffin tough

one hundred one years later

a legacy ends in the city where

it all started it’s too late

now but somehow his coffee

is still warm he is in the basement

contemplating one hundred

and one years some trees

might not live as long

up later than most

second maybe third wind

caught him in a sandstorm

luckily his eyes were shut

and mouth was closed

tight like a fist raised

and used as a hammer

to pound a point across

thirty minutes pass like thirty seconds

intervals in between thoughts

and quick rest periods…

seven one nine to the five oh eight #1

so now he’s in the basement

mixing his own medicine

underneath the pavement

trying to figure out the government

hacking like a bastard

preparing for disaster

this summer learned to plaster

only wish he could do it faster

two minutes left it might all end tonight

no worry he won’t go down without a fight

thinking of all the things that are not right

out in the backyard under the stars

arms with some muscle mostly just scars

more nervous habits like trapped behind bars

waiting to escape where’s the getaway car

parking and ready to go on a whim

no one will know or attempt to follow him

but that’s only if the future’s too grim

and shot after shot he’s hitting the rim

rhyming and reeling in a twisted state

thinking from the seven one nine

to the five oh eight…