I love,
All the little scraggly birds,
wide-eyed and feather-ruffled,
Tossed aside by the wind,
Into garden beds or against,
Reflections of the sky.
Category: Poems
The Things That You Do
Good Morning Michael,
Who are you?
Can you tell us a little something about the things that you do?
What’s your story about?
What type of things do you write?
Are you familiar with deception as a fictive device?
Gigantic rents in the sky,
A speck of sand in your eye,
I’m like a creature that has wings and yet refuses to fly.
Well that’s nice,
But what do you know about current publishing trends?
Do you start work on a sequel as soon as one story ends?
I’m like a murder scene played backwards until nobody dies,
Gotta keep this shit tight,
Like a CD track at night,
Played in a car with engine idling that’s stopped at traffic lights.
Well you’re certainly creative, so there’s no problem there,
But you’ve still given us no reason for the reader to care…
Oh, I am nothing to you,
But you are something to me,
For I dwell in a space too far for even Hubble to see,
And your existence is the stars that light up my night sky,
Without the stars I’d be alone and have no reason to try.
These Hills
these hills are a place
where it is always night
not the mean blackness
some knights possess
but a diffuse sort of darkness
lit by the distant pin-pricks
of exploding gas
and the moon
catching the light
from an unseen sun
and dripping it like honey
such that these hills
and this ever-night
is lit by milky amber
hues that carry the promise
of magic
carved of stone
the poet sits
on a simple throne
made of stone
for you he waits
he waits for no one
you are no one
Shedding
oh how I long to shed
this absurd
existence
like a dessicated corpse
swaddled in cloth
to tear free from
and scream from
the start to the end
Diet Cola
the clanging is louder
it keeps coming closer
on rickety rails
like an old rollercoaster
i’m supposed to remember
my cup runneth over
it’s not filled with riches
but just diet cola
Beyond the Wall
i see major
things dream
major things
make wagers
forget faces
like time
wastes us
away
case of
delay
traces
the way
makes us
the way
we are
the stuff
from stars
the dust
from stars
the rust
on cars
the rust
on tins
and jars
shattered like scars
shattered like dreams
broken like kings
broken like wings
on birds that fall
beyond the wall
The Righteousness of a Broken Clock
Initials carved in wet concrete, worn smooth by the passage of passing feet.
Time passes, yet those indelible figures remain; through burning sun and falling rain.
Steps pass over weary stone, ankles click and muscles groan.
I am not immune to the passing of time. Each step is mine; each second mine.
Each crack in concrete marks the time and old carved initials become a sign…
Of things we’ve lost and days enshrined.
By faded photographs, our lives unwind.
Like broken cuckoo clocks.
Little Conquest
pain and darkness
tremble in the middle of this
little conquest
It Is Yours
Do you ever feel like…
You are dying inside?
Do you ever feel like…
You’ve got something to hide?
Do you ever feel like…
That for every door open,
You can still hear the sound,
Of another ten closing,
And everything’s closing in on you now,
The whole room is shrinking,
And about your mistakes is all that you’re thinking about,
And you’re mired,
In each bad decision,
The air crushed from your lungs,
But you are still living–
You’re living!
And you feel that the pressure is easing,
Push the walls back,
With this power you’re feeling,
And dreaming,
Of bursting out,
Thirsting out,
For something more:
It is yours.
It is yours.