all i can be

without reason a ring in the dark

who is this calling to me and my spark
lights the way on the porch under the stars
only noise left bats and some stars
my beads and I, om mani padme hum
compassion in prayer around my neck hung
some may not see four fires burning,
but some do not care about spiritual learning
too many hours in the day, no waste
a life without meaning is a meal with no taste
a book with no words a song with no sound
a gathering for all with no one around
day after day the thought tower tall
next to me only my appearance so small
only one out of many and words come and go
as the weather changes from rain into snow
sky going from clear blue to gray
as the night turns so slow into day
I sit quietly with pen in my hand
gathering thought in a fistful of sand
slips right through fingers back into the sea
but I am content with all I can be…

9:07am

they would all laugh

if they knew
what it took to get
through a day
in the life of only I
under only the weight
of the sky
pressing hard and
I know some can’t wait
until tomorrow they
anticipate
events ready for what
they desire
sitting so silent, patience,
my fire
and it won’t burn, so
come, no fear
closer still, who’s
conscience is clear
as the sky on one of
these days
so many situations, react
in different ways
to the end or beginning of
it all
careful of everything avoiding
a fall
from a station where
they put their feet
I haven’t moved from
this hard wooden seat
and I found comfort
while many stay sad
waking with the sun
for that I am glad…

five years ago

people returning from the

past and only a few
I would actually trust
 
another name on a list
not-so-long, people to
remember and some
 
to forget, standing side
by side and thoughts
turned upside down
 
don’t even know when
the last time I was
thinking on these
 
forgotten and unforgotten
people, some five years
ago splitting for
 
our separate lives
and all of a sudden
thrown back…

summers pass

seasons pass

slow until summer
 
arrives, welcomed with
open arms and soon
 
after greeting, it’s gone
traded for rain, turned
 
cold, turned to snow
and lingering for months
 
wish the days were
always as long as
 
twenty-one days into
June, but they shrink
 
like cotton shirts not
washed with care
 
and maybe it’s the
same length as the
 
other three, but the only
hot one so it seems
 
to me that there are
two seasons, summer
 
and not summer…

desolate mind

three alone
watching out the window
what will come next
and what thoughts press
at the sides of desolate minds…

so full of this day
and all it brings
to the eyes and
all senses working
overtime, desire too
once again be empty…

almost forgot what
no thought felt like
until the moment
emptiness hit, square
in the nose, like
not watching where
you are going and
walking into a wall…

who painted the pictures
on the wall, who put
that stain there, who
filled the salt shaker
who cares, some may
think, but a desolate mind
finds thoughts
when most would say
“not thinking about
anything”…

to paranoia

pain in my gut
tells me to watch my back
never turned
from happiness
to paranoia…

thieves are around
the corner I watch
waiting to see
so many smiles
only from a distance
never when I am close 

enough to see eyes
always watch those around
the corner in turn
writing to paranoia…

keep your friends close
your enemies closer
who is who
how can I distinguish
good from bad and right from wrong
to accuse but it is better
to be double-crossed
by agents of disaster

speaking no elevated tongue
to paranoia…

walls are pushing on
all sides can’t hide
my thoughts alone
deserving no better
ungrateful because
of my other self
un-trusting because of the
beaten road I left behind
a trail of corpse-like memories
and they still look alive
kill them again
a warning to paranoia…

can go for years and you can’t
go for weeks without desire
crushed can’t move again
sounding as if I have a problem
starts to brew
a storm from deep inside
the furnace I’ll wait
by the brook realizing
I would be better off dead or alone
then I would never get to the point
of no return the borrowed books
lines on the fence counted twice
hitting the wall and it isn’t soft
pillow beneath my head
in the box it better burn
only way to extinguish paranoia…

before they bleed

only one on that lonely highway

and fog crosses my eyes,

one too many cars at the house

and I won’t stop, can’t stand

the smell coming from the backyard

and too bad tired eyes had to sleep

for me, but still awake and of course I

can’t be what I am, but

wounds have scarred

still know they are there

how blind I once was

now I find cuts before they bleed…

against the wall

623/1998

tear my skin
won’t stretch this far
is too far all ready
for a war within
my mind
has exploded so much
of nothing
makes sense
scattered on the
bloody carpet
rolled out of the way
you think is how
I react
based upon
nothing important
picture I find
and burn
crash and burn
light up and burn
my determination
into skin so smooth
rock I found
on the beach I
sun my anger
will never smile
at my anger gone
down to hell and back
against the wall
killing them all
watch as I spin
cycle wash my mind
and hands of any
guilt I feel none
of it is all a part
of the plan
my escape well
is deep and I will escape
better chop me up or I will
come back
against the wall
killing them all
watch as I spin
dry off the sunken
manuscript, a sea
so deep I might drown,
but will not die
find me hiding in the boxcar
headed south,
but you’ll never
find me until
I come back
against the wall
comes crashing
down with the masses,
see my eyes and know who
I have become…

nothing concluded 97

on the hard

cement I sit

realizing today

the truth in

“all life is suffering”

to myself

over and over

six syllables

to get me through today

om mani padme hum

those around

won’t hear

my voice

even at the top

of my lungs

on the hard cement

I dream of tomorrow

and tear up

mental pictures of

yesterday, unnecessary

closing my eyes

to the world

around me now

om mani padme hum

nothing concluded

i escaped

622/1998

what to do
you understand
beside me, hold my hand
over the thought
I would be dead
end road, I can’t stop
the madness, happy eyes
drawn in sand
storm swirling
thoughts bring me the same
conclusion that nothing’s ever concluded
with a prayer, no one here
to stop the pain
pushes itself into me
and mine will be far
from here by the time
you get to know me I
will have changed
into something new
more appropriate
for the events that will transpire,
expired parking meter
and a twenty dollar
ticket for the show I missed
the boat was sinking
anyway so I am glad I
escaped…

observations

hard to fit

into a long drawn out day

of work watching as people dodge

raindrops getting wet just the same

as the cars they arrived in

not far from my home

but far enough away

everyone here is a stranger

so many pass and so many more on the way

can only concentrate on what’s here right now

rain, work and thoughts that help me

pass the time with a smile

all the while observing that which goes on all around me

some run they hate rain

some walk not bothered by the soaking drops

and some still children mostly enjoy the skies tears

and rejoice jumping in puddles…

strange separation

a strange separation

desolation sets in

there is no one around

the corner is so sharp

it cuts too deep

as we dig ourselves into the hole

thing blows up in the small space

provided we understand each other

lemon colored sun shining down

in the five o’clock sky

I wait with no hopes or fears

for this moment is perfect

truthfully it is all I have

right here in this uncomfortable seat…

strange says

strange says the pelican

the armpits grow more hair

as we all wonder

but knowing and wondering

go hand in hand need to go on

line by line until all is read

then done, undone

can’t read this but once

read it again over four times

each day new news

good news for the papers and radios

television sleeps and when eye can’t find

the darkness bells ringing

old women singing old prayers

in old buildings called then holy once

this time I can’t tell what is right or wrong

that water bird may have a big beak

but Boris says he’s all right

I’ll take his word for it this time…

not that I do

they don’t know you

not that I do

and not that they think

they do, but they don’t

and this is as good

or as close as they will get

and sure it’s a little bit sad, but

what did they expect?

a prize for knowing the most

they think they know

what you like or how you’ll react

again they are wrong in thinking

they are all right

listen close because this is no abbreviated version

first and last word is all they hear

because they have heard it all before

they have no patience for your story telling techniques

you are a waste of their time

to try to figure out because

as soon as they think they know

what you are about

you change and change is usually disregarded

I stop and pick it all up

a separate place for each change

the level of tolerance for your

strangeness

is next to nothing, if that…

not that I do

have the answers or anything

I do have a busy schedule

I watch as they scribble in their little notebooks

using crayons or markers to draw a picture or two

of someone they would like you to be

better if you were someone else

they won’t return your mail or want to sit and chat

over coffee or whatever

they need something else

to distract their busy minds

if they think do they think about you

when you aren’t around the corner waiting for them to call or come by

the way you might die

the whole process will go unnoticed

don’t you ever think about things in this way

you can’t tell me that you don’t talk to yourself

at least a couple times a day

they do 

they won’t admit it so don’t even try to get a straight answer from you know,

you know but no you don’t know

what that means—not that I do…

another black night crash

stuttering like the rebel
wearing sunglasses at night
right off the road and into the brush 
never touched
as yellow as the sun shining
eighty degrees and not a dirty bird in sight
seeing and hearing 
but no one is here but me 
and one other on the other side…

and as the silent movie rolls I get bored
especially with army talk 
and rolling grass that has never been cut 
or at least since the late eighties 
ten years down the road 
and I can’t even imagine where I’ll be 
home soon enough
there’s no need to wait up I have my key

tonight shall be interesting I don’t 
feel like moving while the others can’t stop 
telling me I am wrong again I realize it 
doesn’t matter as much as I try 
the seagull won’t swim and the trees won’t walk 
but weep and they do plenty of that 
and I wish I could crash neck first 
with gravity pulling at my feet 
first falling like that cat frozen in the headlight
the world’s largest book store junkie feeding the need

tomorrow will bring snow and I guess I have no patience 
wrong place wrong time and now I am alone again 
and I patiently wait for the spider web to fall in the rain
but it is too strong and I cannot move 
from the black square blocked on all sides
closing in too fast for feet so furry
and eyes running circles around an empty room
enough to breathe but even the most pleasant breathing
is filled with seeds of suffering
what is night anyway
another black night crash…

surviving a lonely stretch

what is in my eyes that I have not spent
what in my mind caused the huge dent
as if it metal or something else
and the snow is much better as it quickly melts
some things hide deep down inside
so to my best friend I must confide
for he will not judge what I say or do
or the way that I feel when I don’t have a clue
as to where I am going or wherever I’ve been
and I don’t ever know when I’ll be back again
really can’t explain the words that I write
or the thoughts that I spin here late at night
when no one is around to make my smile wide
what else can I do, but run and hide
all that is gone now, once the snow melts
going in circles like those black leather belts
keeping my pants on not too loose or too tight
as I move away and steal into the night
but it hasn’t started to smile
and as for sitting I’ve been here awhile
longer until these some thoughts run away
far from this mind is where they must stay
because they’ll say how sad and I think it untrue
can’t help it that sometimes I get tangled up in that blue
of the sky hasn’t been here for days
and the things that I do I do in different ways
and it isn’t better or worse for that matter
for choosing a position I would stick with the latter
of two or three or seven eight and nine
I am just quiet won’t waste words or their wine
and I know I miss out, heard it tastes good
and all of these thoughts are kept under a hood
or hat or even my hair
and if you can’t see them doesn't mean they aren't there
and what if I told you that tomorrow’s not real
or I found a bank from which we can steal
or take or give or burn
why waste time trying to earn
and up on the mantle I’ll be there not long
but I don’t sing so you won’t hear a song
just the scratch of my pen as it runs out of ink
and they never fill the pen enough for as much as I think
I don’t think I am right, but know I am not wrong
to hold on and so many people, not one not a pawn
or a piece of the puzzle, part of the game
no matter where I go, it’s all the same
can’t find a spot as comfortable as this one right here
just wish for release from all of my fear…

an afternoon

one cup filled only with ice

and feet covered with snow

boots on a sunny day in may—

and one cup of coffee

the other with melting ice

and a maroon vest

buttoned to the top

right beneath the chin

in the smoking section

of this dirty restaurant—

two wrinkled faces

talking of onion soup

over long skinny brown cigarettes

and plenty of coughing

deep voiced waitress spilling coffee

smiles from here to there

and back again

with more ice for the boot man—

and the sun is finally shining

after hiding for almost ten days

no moon at night

or stars to wish upon

but what would one wish for

that we don’t all ready have

can we start again going back

from ten and then

the brown cigarette

wrinkle faces smile

thinking the leather may tear

I turn away and I must

move from this spot as

another afternoon ends…

thought collector

collecting thoughts

as if they were

rare coins or stamps

keeping them in

a book or two

busting the binding

book can’t hold onto

the thought

holds them together or apart

of the whole

image is one

compromised of all the feeling

that hides down deep

digging feet into the spot

so as not to lose this place

hands together in front

and behind these eyes

teardrops wait for

the right moment

losing track of time and space

between two

draws closer to the edge

but further from the ground

stares up into the night sky

has finally cleared…

another year

another year has passed

before these eyes of mine

is the mind of a lonely man

sitting off to the side

without a word to offer

or a thought to lean on

my left foot and practice

some balance will help

me concentrate on the

important things and

and learn to forget the rest

is meaningless, unless

of course the moon is full

and the tide is high

and rising up again I will

create something

no one will see…

without a care

three quarters full, but still

half empty and spilling

out from top or bottom

can’t quite remember

how to forget sadness

comes and goes back

to wherever there is

a spot within me that

is never sad

seven spots on arms

serving as constant

permanent reminders

of the most important

but simple ideas

that came as quietly

as this one did and

does any of this confuse

the closed minded

refuse to hear words written

continuing without a care…

rain filled nights

rain filled nights
seems as though
we’re a month behind schedule
but I have
always hated them
anyway, conserving
energy tonight, need
it for tomorrow don’t ask
why or for what
reason the constant
rain is so late, but
it is so what can I
do, but enjoy and
the sky is painted
gray again, I can’t
mind too much
because I love to look
at it and study it
as if it holds so much meaning and
it may be empty
but to me it is full of
something and I watch
it fall like tears from
so many eyes and the
ears can’t hear and here
I am alone wishing and
waiting for someone
I know I could wait
for days, but I won’t
and a cigarette falls
to the ground a drop
right on the head and
it’s gone until the rain
ends in June and the
sun covers the moon
sitting smiling at the stars
breathing in and
out of my mind…

all that i have

Sunday morning after

tube filled with smoke 

descending upon me

as rain from the darkest of clouds

can’t see the sky blue

and so I sit while they walk 

for the hungry guilt hits me

like a bat to the back as I eat breakfast

wishing I could give them some 

of what I have it isn’t much

it’s much more and I feel so guilty

and only two sticks starting the fire today

not the greatest nights sleep

found myself lonely and tired

cold and alone on Sunday

sitting breathing and smiling

for I will not take for granted

my eyes and what I am able to do with ease

some will go about day to day

without ever thinking about those who cannot see

hear or do what we do with extreme ease

even superman confined to a wheelchair life

and how would that feel

ever wonder as I do

pen would fall from my hand

would lie motionless by my side

what courage to go on and not despair

true to his name imagine being lazy for a day

just sitting watching the television

and not doing anything else

are you comfortable?

—now imagine not having any choice

you can do nothing else

and even a simple task such as getting dressed

can take you hours

trapped in your head with nowhere to go

would you have the courage to blink

into tomorrow what if you couldn’t

look to the beautiful sunset sky

think about this everyday

an appreciation for all that I have…

bald Sampson

overcast and gray sort of like the color of confusion

my mind

doing circles around the closed sign posted on the door

can barely take a deep enough breath

all the sound is muffled

circling the square

sitting here waiting my life away

watching as the lonely waitress walks westward

who am I

wondering as the color of the clouds gets lighter

here at Angus’ Ranch

where dreams are forgotten

the regulars are treated just as though they are tourists

god bless Sampson’s final lock of hair…

burned toast

close shave egg
plant a new seed and
watch a smile take over
and destroy the sorrow
that surrounds
like looking clouds
of smoke
that are as thick as the toast
we burned some years back
thought I knew you
it wasn’t me
but by the dog with a hangover
and a lame paw
don’t blame me anymore
automatically righting the wrongs
that have been done for years
all that is past now
watch the union sundown-down
sweating with the bruise I received
air mail from France
never been there either
don’t ask me what they put on fries
on the side and I can’t swallow
got a lump in my throat
all choked down and dropped up
from the top or bottom
so that really doesn’t matter
and I am probably making you dumber
with my constant humming ramble
that won’t stop…