the new dark age
heart goes out
world goes up
all due to a love of concrete
and iron indignities

buildings grown in the heartland
steel your future
wrap your face in a foreign flag
make it medieval
so fear and superstition
can live on each floor

from above the cityscape
blueprints of a pinball machine
a train to nowhere
like candles on a cake
that will burn someday
when least expected

ladies against the glass
of morning commutes
show too much cleavage
to people on Sunday
gentlemen with their death sticks
conjure the factory smoke
poisoning a life of leisure
these infinite vistas
continue to rise
elevation well in hand
stitched together
but growing apart

the biomechanical soul
a species out of control
mother solitude and her
modern failures
take the stairs to the roof of her mouth
progress leaves an echo
her final words are
empty, foreboding
and full of lead

A strange pattern for
writing has came
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.

I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away
Or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.

I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry, and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.

I wandered lonely as a cloud.
That floats on high,of vales and hills.
When all at once I saw a crowd.
A host of golden daffodils.
Besides the lake, beneath the tree's.
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

By  William Wordsworth.

I cuddled up with
a metaphor that was
caught in the corner of
my room.
I dressed it in the
silk of kings, and fed
it from the fractured
trees of innocence.
Low-hanging fruit of
despair gets us
every time.

Walking and writng work in tandem
Even in intense heat and pouring rain
Could be a word or phrase
A memory
It is needed and necessary because it works for me
That is why I leave music home
Silence the mobile phone
Never really alone

What happened to your heart?
It used to be so strong.
When did these **** nights
get so ****** long

You're my Lady of ashes,
and I'm all burnt up.
You threw me in the fire;
And my soul has had enough.
I've had enough...
I've had enough,

I've had enough
Yeah.

One of the first times I
went to jail, it was in
Polk County for
public intox.
Drunk in public.
I was homeless for years,
where else was I supposed
to get drunk?

They took me to the
station booked me, and gave
me my phonecall.
I called the bail bonds.
They wanted collateral.
I didn't have anything.
To act tough, I said,
"*******." and hung up.

The cop asked if I felt suicidal.
I didn't but in my drunken
stupor, I said,
"I wish I were dead, you ******* pig."

My next steps were to a small
room with a drain in the middle of
the floor.  They had me strip all my
clothes off and gave me a paper gown.
It was the worst ten hours in jail I
ever spent.
Then, I did wish I was dead.

I was released the next morning.
Kind of sober, and kind of glad to
be alive.
I changed into my clothes.
I found two valiums in my back pocket.
I took them quickly and thought I
need to find a safer place to
get drunk.

A companion poem to:
When Love Grows Old [1]




a differing perspective,
liking the eye opening
view this occluded,
cloudy closed Saturday,
a morning gray, early days,
it comes with opportunities
aplenty & new word combinations
in a new world awaiting a Magellan
I spy discoverer, and
we
two
have more than 150 years
existence tween us and that
makes me grin, because I anointed
her to a new position yesterday:
Chief Technology Officer

the very expensive machine
that supplies us with energizing
fresh plasma, clean blood invigorating, without which
we could nary drag our antiquated
bodies to the next day,
got on the phone, dialed an
800 number,
stuck het hand deep into it's gizzard innards, and released the
machina from it looping flashing
display of displaying its non-cooperation and its message that
It was unwell, abd she operated,
and made out coffee machine well
again



snd gave us this Sabbath, a reason to be thankful having righted this
left footed poet to a younger
poet boy~man
again, a gain!