Only a few make it five terms.
We are all term limited,
except, for Scott.
He’s here to make sure we are
or to take us out when he wants.
He thinks the conference room
is his execution room.
It’s where he goes to assasinate.
He has killed in there before.
It’s where he tried to kill me.
Except, I exited before he could.
I lived to write about it.
Three times a year I lost 1st class
travel and hotels with all expenses.
But, I got out Scott Free.
Mystical synchronous lightning bugs
on the top of my bucket list.
Electrified excitement.
I ran outside last night,
to sit in the dark,
holding by breath,
mesmirized,
by the
glow.
my muse field
left unsewn
a Sabbath for my muse
or turning off the poem machine
as Bukowski would say
Hey, the muse like you (and me) must rest
maybe just for a night (I hope)
longer if I must
as my days my news my pain
minds-eye
camera-eye
dead-eye
mix together
conceptualize synthesize exercise
what I wish to say
fertilizing the field
‘Til then
here’s to the muse
of an empty
poet
I stare out the window of my car.
There’s glass there,
But it’s so clear,
That there’s nothing for the light to catch between me,
And the things I stare out at,
Which all blurr together into one thing as I drive past them,
And become one reflection in the window pane.
When I stop,
I like to look out at the still world,
Look at how far I’ve come,
Look at a world that isn’t blurred by motion,
Or obscured by dirty glass.
That’s why I clean the windows every day.
There’s a gas station I stop at,
Where I find suds and water.
When I wipe them across the window,
The glass turns into a water fall.
It’s beautiful,
But I prefer when I’ve just finished cleaning,
And the windows are clear.
Springsteen playing on the radio,
A hand out the window mimicking waves,
It’s dark out, but still so warm
A light sunburn on your nose,
Which only makes your blue eyes stand out more
We talk, and talk, and talk
It just comes naturally,
Our inside jokes never get old,
I find so much peace in being around you
I wish every night could be like this
Just you and me and summer
The summer days are warm and long
and punctuated with bird song
children frolick in the daylight
not wanting to give in to the night
the light barely holds on
as they try to prolong their fun
As the parents corral their offspring
nature is enjoying the quiet that the dark brings
without the squeals of play
the neighborhood closes out the day
the day succumbed to the dark
with only the stars and moon to mark
the stillness of night promotes rest
until the sun rises with summer zest
Religion is a prison for everyone.
It keeps you bound up inside,
repressed,
shame-filled.
It keeps others out,
those not like us.
We sit in judgment,
blind to our own sin.
Whatever it is
that we want
feels like
God’s will.
Everything
we disagree with
is of the devil.
The bars of our cells
are made of
sturdy Old Testament scripture.
Religion is a prison,
no matter what side
of the bars you’re on.
a quiet cigarette
against the beat of the party:
the portal to escape
misery is hidden, no one
knows the ways we hurt ourselves:
no one knows how we survive
sweet blackberry wine & a carton of reds
we sip up the night & no one knows:
that blanket, those stars, those drugs, you—-saved me from it all
