but better

it's not the same as if I were

at some café somewhere

bean town or the apple

Crestone or Amsterdam

it's the same hand holding the pen

not likely the same moleskin

it's possible anything is possible

under the cover of dark and clouds

and two out of three ain't bad

it's not the same as it once was

merely one or two years ago

my own wooden table

same table my grandfather

used to sit at not some crappy booth

with gum stuck to the bottom of the table

lit as I desire not some heat lamp

and smoke stained glass windowed walls

on two out of four sides

it's not the same Brocktown I once knew

a spot where I could sit for hours

and no one would even know I was there

used to sit out on the front porch even in the rain

back then in solitude there

as I am here out on the back porch

it's not the same

and I am glad for that

it's not the same but better

no matter who you ask and what they say

everything about what I do is better

it's not the same it's better

than any wish list fulfillment

or dream dotted together in some journal...

eye witness both

thirty years and still haven't
figured out what the hell
eye am doing here
in front of everyone eye know
and those eye will never know
what to make of sunrise and sunset
those two nearly perfect moments of each day
most of the time eye witness both...

all this time wishing something
would happen and send this thought
train rocket style into orbit
still struggling with all the thoughts
about what eye might want to be
when eye grow up no matter what
eye will not be happy with the end
of ts Eliot's life he did pen
wasteland and wound up in
the church of England
two simultaneous moments in time
as far away as they can be
eye witness both

stretching this truth here because
these moments here are bendable
and no lives depend on any decisions
made out on the back porch
as close as eye get to back woods
small fire at my feet
and in one month it will be summer
doesn't even feel like spring
and eye witness both...

45 degrees in May

it's 45° and it's almost June

it's new england and the saying goes

if you don't like the weather

wait a minute it will change

how true it is

the night slips way out of reach

down beside the seat

on the other side of the car

his nose is running

by the end of the tenth cigarette

of the night back wondering

how it could be so late

when he's got to wake so early...

listen, he says

here we go

another serial cluster of calls

coming at all hours

caller ID shows when it is him

from now on it's his choice

of whether or not he answers the call

curiosity usually makes him pick up

the ringing phone what's on the other end

what's he got to say tonight

he's not doing anything else

might as well give a listen tonight

claims he can turn on his CD player

with his mind and pause it too

'listen' he says

as he proves his talent over the phone

it's all he can do to keep from laughing

he's dreaming his own rage against the machine

that no one can somehow avoid

and get caught 'pause, you hear that?'

and so he lights a stinky clove

someone else left behind

he sits in the corner

almost ten minutes

and never stayed on the same subject

more than 45 seconds or so

he claims he is somehow

a JEDI knight

science fiction and reality mesh

in his boxed up bedroom

sharing the house with his mom

nothing wrong with the picture

it's simply what it's become

after thirty something years...

nothing concluded 152

as the eleven o'clock

purple line pulls

into town

blows a horn

or a some sort of whistle

because the sound

of a train

isn't loud enough

for some people

need the noise

nothing concluded

and the ringing

into his ears

won't soon go away

twenty-four hours now

and he will

pause to load up

another cigarette

a day of rest tomorrow

some sleeps at this hour

therefore there is no reason

for a taxi to be leaning on

the horn out in front of the house

bad enough the sirens

blare down silent sleeping street

strobe light wake up

the neighborhood false alarm

nothing concluded

nothing more than

teenager boredom

one page from completion

it seems

not conclusion

nothing concluded

almost put down

the pen anyway

don't know how he would

explain the blank page

so he continues

until he is blue

with smoke of all kinds

bud vase built into the dash

how convenient still

nothing concluded

entering the home stretch

feeling sleep

right around the corner

turned it down already

ready to rest

nothing concluded...

come back again

the table
has become shaky
customize the night
the cane which he chose at times
comes in handy when night air gets thin
thoughts explosive hard to find
come back again...

only minutes

only minutes

since the last thought

onto the next

the minutes don't

stop or slow down

and neither should the pen

and he needs to make more use

of his modern day typewriter

only minutes

until the sun will

disappear behind newly grown leaves

taller it seems than last year

how would he know

he has taken the picture to prove

it but will anyone take the time

to notice the purple flowers

have popped up everywhere

in the moss grown backyard

scattered patches of really green grass

and patches of dirt

and a pile of rocks around the biggest tree

in the far left corner

at least 40 years old if not older

only minutes since the dog

last went outside and he's sniffing around

looking for a spot because I am ignoring

him at the moment and only minutes

until I either bring him back out

or clean up his mess...

after another long day

after another long day

of the physicals

sitting now on the back porch

surrounded by the back woods

smoke rising like a fire

started first thing in the morning

to beat the rising sun

after another long night

he will be back

in the spot

the marketplace

with the accidental conversations

that won't stop with everyone

and/or anyone who will listen

as the thoughts pour over the page

not home thirty minutes

and already he's got

pen in hand ready

at the first instantaneous idea

poor pen never stood a chance

just a tool in this thought process...

nothing concluded 151

another verse or chapter

depending how often

one reads words put under eyes

nothing concluded

and he struggles daily

wonder why we accept

what they provide

for answers don't make sense

half-truths impersonating evidence

what do they expect

eventually conclusion drawn

out as plans to recapture

the personal freedom

we will lose and have lost

nothing concluded

he is completely determined

to sit and wait

patiently planning

his escape from

and into reality

nothing concluded

been putting it down

in front of for years now

and then answering to

my own interrogation

now and then

deciding to take the day off

so what the only one

here to stop him was the dog

no chance he knew

what he was barking

at eight in the morning

the head wasn't even clear

and of course

nothing concluded

as he enters the second half of the day

a lot like the first half

under a suspicious cloud

thoughts are always worth digging

and finding a day’s worth

treasure tucked up in the mind

silent still as ink

hits the page

nothing concluded

as it was then and is now as well...

50/fifty no other way

the flow is steady tonight
no different it's May and he still throws
a hood up as if he's cold
an old man he works with
asks him every day if his head is cold
old man's name is Herb Tripp
how funny is that
the flow is steady and the head is hot
under a needls knit with brim and bag
he sits with a cigar hanging out of his mouth
back porch behind the blinds style
thinking of the brother he wishes to chill with
he too understands the mind to be a maze
running around trying to amaze
someone with a particular skill
he hopes to find another steady flow
onto the next page someone always has something
to say and the noise this late will not be appreciated
by the neighbors no doubt loud enough
to wake anyone trying to sleep at this point nearby
the flow could continue all night long
if he let it ring out slow and smooth like a bell
bringing about a mindfulness he can bring
into the unconscious night ahead
a flow he cannot control or even plan to remember
it's hit or miss with him
50/fifty, no other way...

listen all night

he could literally sit

and listen to the rain all night

the work place brings everything

to a stand still he waits until the storm

clouds pass before he dares

a trip out in the town

with big city envy occasional

bolts of lightning across the sky

a blueish white light only lightning has

anyone seen an extra thought

floating through the wet night air

cools down with the moisture in the rain

the clouds slap high fives with the tree tops

he sits quietly at the bottom of tonight...

sort of out of the ordinary

the rain rattles the windows

as the wind forces it horizontal

plenty of smoke already

ready for whatever

they decide to throw at him today

a day in the life

of something

sort of out of the ordinary

sort of normal

back room

eyes closed and dreaming...

plan an early sleep

even when I try to plan

and early sleep

(so I might wake feeling rested)

end up on the porch all hours

even when I tell myself to use

the keyboard

(might speed up the process)

end up on the porch

pen and new page

even when the dog snores

louder than I do

wonder if the smoke

keeps him low to the ground

asleep on the floor

next time I try to plan

an early sleep maybe I

will take my own advice

so I won't have to wake

with the need for 30mg a day

even when I try

to steady the hand

and uncross the eyes

staring into the bowl

half full most of the time

planning a restful night

even when I try

to squeeze out one more page

on a night when the skies are hazy

but the full moon breaks through

anyway as if it knew

which buttons to push a test

of patience and tolerance

just trying to hit forty

and find some time to plan

some restful sleep...

under foot as I walk

remember when

someone would bring me coffee

near the biggest high school

in the area

every day there is about

one hundred school buses

up & down the street

always sitting near the window

so if the sun happens to set when there

wouldn't miss it

became a regular

not even twenty

years old at the time

little bit strange what the mind

comes up with when you let it

wonder away for an hour

or so then right up to the face

the music alone out on the porch

and most likely create the isolation

only choice is to use it

some advantage

bringing whatever truth

existing to light this chalice

or the path that exists under foot

as I walk...

planned all along

back at the table

covered as not get wet

not for one moment

understand the night

time shivers he’ll be lucky

if he doesn’t break all his teeth

unconsciously as if intentional

was an option what’s the surprise

one month aside from another year older

much wiser or at least more knowledgeable

about the current state of our nation

under attack by the corporate terror

created at the highest point

out of sight

power monger standing with iron shoes on

life, liberty and the pursuit of happy times up

the liars time has most definitely expired

unless they somehow grab the power to continue

their reign comes down nearly fro-Zen in April

no one seems to want to admit it might be snowing again

if the cold doesn’t snap out of sight

508 automatic style might rhyme might not

read on how many coffees will he drink

without food to absorb the insanity of reality

makes all the clouds seem much too close to the ground

remembering the days when

a ride at midnight was nearly expected

and now nearly non-existent

like clear air for a day is entirely too much to ask for

time off here now and taking it anyway

he’s back at the table with his vision elite

and thoughts on the blues stringed instruments

from upstairs the sound insulates him from the clouded sky

above now he’s back to familiar spot

because twenty-five years ago he was in the very spot

facing in the other direction playing with the keys

break for a moment to suck on some smoke

quick hold it deliver directly to the brain

twist contort and fit into any box

it’s the way it is the TAO of this here present moment

recognizing the wonderful nature of each moment

stacked to the sky whether or not it’s blue

and time or a break in the action

ten minutes until a return formulated

as if it were the drink they say will keep one forever young

days dwindle break up a dry bud burn it quick

like kindle to get the fire started

still dreaming of green to spindle like a spider

in the web above a smoky spot

as it was planned all along the watchtower

he sits in is down below the street

whoever might travel this way

will pass right over these words

might hold some meaning

for some the imagination knows no bounds…

pick a thought

stir up the punch

ask someone who knows

what might be for lunch

on the fly vision elite held the hand

edge of the only continent he knows

feet buried and hands raised to the sky

taking form for a moment as a big letter Y

and it’s the question perpetually asked

three digits on the hat

if there was one that still fit

like an epileptic rigor mortis style

he might have another still fit

exercise daily not a slack

he is still fit for any task

got a question just stop and ask

might wear a mask if I have sneak in

some might even cheat if they think they can’t win

what they need to retain some power

and the car I drive has a spot for a flower

or something peaceful to drown out the lies

if you look really quick from the front

it appears to have eyes

to stare down any one trying to push on up

remember half full or half empty

I knocked over the cup

from the window where I sat

watched the seasons change

all night long if I had to

no matter who thought it strange

it’s just the way it is

the TAO of who I am and may be

quick to pick a thought slam it

back forcefully in an erratic manner

as quick as thoughts pop out

like veins an addict might poke

and stick around long enough

might even find a joke hidden

down deep inside the serious nature of now

everyone still has confidence

we’ll make it somehow

but no one really knows when or how

to end the story up in smoke

or a blaze of glory

pick your poison while I pick up the pen

vision elite and moving

and done it again and over twice

compared to yesterday

today would be ice

to yesterdays fire

but let me inquire

a couple more questions

before time will expire

they let it happen above the law

help pick the new pope

and I will sit calmly

holding the end of this rope

what’s it tied to pulling too hard

pulled the new car up close in the backyard…

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…