what was imagined here
between the lines
where words did play

what did fingers trace
while parting metaphors
tattooed on flowered thigh

what sound escaped
warm parted lips
where kisses lingered
in long drawn out breaths

was it something lost
or something found
in voyage through
a sea mist scent of love
over sheets soaked
in sinful sweat

where there bodies imagined
what happened here
as their words did play
between the lines

The poetry section is small
and somewhat hidden
Bukowski still floods the shelves
Baudelaire’s flowers still in bloom
eternity lives here
pressed between the pages
taken into our lungs
and released in every word

lucky for us
the dead write remarkably well
considering the are either ash
or dry bones
names long ago engraved into stone
printed along the spine of new books
and why should death
stop anyone from writing
it makes life more bearable for the living
and more hopeful for the dying

at least
sometimes it does

books, poems, fairy songs
somewhere to escape
something to escape with

writers, poets, storytellers
hiding in plain sight
sipping coffee
drinking wine
shooting whiskey

a sketch pad or journal isn’t official
until it has a stain of some type
a ring left behind
from a cup or mug or bottle
a splash of this or that

we tend to admire the dead
more than the living
as if living is something
we just  need to survive
as we wait our turn in line
to grow old
to become useless
to reach the wastebasket
that we can dump our dreams into
to let go of the burden of hope
and just settle into our caskets
our coffins
and wait for sleep
to become death

and that wait is made easier
by the dead who still write
as most of the living
seem to have forgotten
the color of their dreams
and what they had to live for

I can barely remember
there was something though
some dream
that feels a lifetime ago
or a lifetime away

maybe I could remember
if I could just sleep
through waking up
and wake up
while still dreaming

maybe I could read
some more Bukowski
while walking through
Baudelaire’s flower
lost somewhere in a bookstore
found between the lines of eternity

Big Daddy World
Take us for a whirl
Stray bullet to the head
All our innocence is dead
No more sleeping
No more dreaming
Just keep all the cogs spinning
Its not raining
All the clouds are weeping

At one time we were
The fastest little swimmer
That's why we were born

We sip our coffee and cream
  and drink our whiskey and beer
Then listen to wolves
   dressed as doctors
     with deaf ears
       and big empty eyes
        and blood stained teeth
Who tell us to dull the pain with pills
  and drown emotions
   in prescription prayers
    refillable
     at the small cost of our souls
And we sit in front of flat screens
  and smart phones and insta-gratification
    and press the illusion of our face
      between pages of a metaphor
        disguised as a book
And the imagined life is better
  than what is really going on
   so we script our day to day lives
     and step into the ring
       and wrestle like big men
         pretending its not just
           another form of ballet
We've doubled down on dumbing down
  and we're losing more than we're gaining
    but we keep spinning the wheel
      and the barrel
        and pulling the trigger
          playing the game
            of suicide
          and Russian Roulette
There is two bullets for every name
  and a bomb of every size
   waiting for its time to go BOOM
     and war is just a business
        for the rich
      payed for by the innocent
       and the ignorant
Death is big money
  and blood is cheap
    pump up the world population
      and the rise of inflation
        keep education at a minimum
          as well as a wage
Keep the poor hunger
  and give them an illusion to hate
    divide and separate
     fear is the season of reason
      needed to segregate and dissipate
       any sympathy or empathy
        or kindness or love
We live in a nation of sheep
  being lead by a pig
   and it sounds like fiction
    but it's horrifyingly real
     and he tweets and he oinks
      and he huffs and he puffs
       and he is just a sad little man
        having a bad hair day
         day after day
The world is watching
  and laughing
    a nervous laugh
Maybe it's nothing to worry about
  maybe I'm just late for my pill
   and my beer and my whiskey
    and maybe I just need a little
      cyanide and cream
       to lighten the mood
        of the black coffee news

Music and poetry
Oils and paint
Blank canvas and
  empty stage
Pointe shoes and
  bare feet
The seeds of life and
  love just out of reach

Let's lay down on a blanket
made of stars and the night
and will watch life pass
like clouds in a dream
made of me loving you
and you loving me
and we will collide and connect
and burst through
our sins and the sun
we will lay heaven to waste
and burn hell and its gates
to rubble and cinder and ash
and will make fools out
of desire and lust
and wear them like a second skin
and you'll be my moon
and my prayer
and my sleepy time song
and I'll be your pulse
and your rhythm
and your bedtime story lullaby
and we'll sleep
and we'll dream
and we'll love
on a blanket made of stars
and the night

A white dress made of bleached black veils
And a wedding ring forged over a funeral pyre
Black flames burning over the red sea
Lost love swimming in a dead ocean
Nothing living inside of me
Nothing dreaming in my hollow heart
Nothing matters
With you so far away
No wheres home
When the roads don't lead to you
Just a ghost
Of a fleeting hope
A penny tossed
Into a poisoned well
A wish made
On a star gone mad
A pillow full of secrets
That will never whisper in your ear
A blanket warming
An empty bed
A skeleton bird
Pecking away at my ribs
I can't feel anything
Except numb
Unless I dream of you
And all I can do
Is dream of you
Wearing a white dress
Made of bleached black veils

What’s is it that we are looking for
as we stare blankly at the sun
pretending to not be blind

what is it that we hope to find
in the lost space weaved
throughout the colors of our eyes
is there anybody there
we would really want to find

what is it we were thinking
when we lost our train of thought
I can’t remember were there
even any passengers on board

what is it that we are waiting for
before we can see the white
of one another’s eye
is it the lost meaning of the life
we are about to take away

different god
different country
same pride
same loss

killing in the name of who created who
the last whisper of a man praying
to a god praying to a man
pretending to not be blind
as he stared blankly at the sun

The only blind thing
I will follow is my heart
For love needs no eyes

Playgrounds turn to battlefields
as our children grow into children
who **** children
and it's always us vs them
as sneakers filling with sand
turn into boots filling with blood
but blood is cheap
and easy to make
the less we educate
the more likely our babies
will make babies of their own
while they are still babies
so take away birth control and information
and it doesn't have to be safe ***
as long as they keep getting pregnant
consensual or ****
lets keep that fetus safe
we need new feet to keep marching
to keep those old war drums banging
late into the night
to keep our enemies hating
on what we do because
they just don't get our idea
of what it means to be cool
it's live by our cross
or die by our sword
in the might of the dollar
and the words printed on every coin
we know we're always right
so military or civilian just bomb them all
and let god sort them out
because blood is cheap
and the dollar needs
  more
    more
      more
of that beautiful thing we call war

The thing I like about bookstores and libraries is that the front door isn't really a door... or at least not just a door.  It's a trans-dimensional portal, a time machine, a gateway, a secret passage, a hidden staircase... all of them leading into worlds within worlds of wonder and fantasy and facts and science, some made up, some real.   Worlds of good vs. evil and dimensions where monsters and dragons are heros, times before war and planets that have never known peace.  We walk through these doors that are much more than just doors  and we find thousands upon thousands of villans and victims from unknown  cities and deserts.  Sitting on shelves waiting, just waiting for our hands and our fingers to pull them down and open up their stories and turn their pages.  Their lives eager to unfold and dance before our eyes and our minds.  Realms within realms of worlds within worlds within universes and timescapes.  Some filled with goblins and kings, beasts and queens, others demon and magic and possibilities endless.
And as if that isn't enough...we walk into history and future, fill our heads with knowledge and know how, customs and facts, lives lived and lost.  Artist tortured by their craft, celebrities killed by their name and their fame, poets and writers that traded their lives and their souls to solitude to leave us the gift of their words.  Infinite possibilities to teach and inspire ourselves to become anything our hearts can dream of.  The thing I like about bookstores and libraries is that the front door is so much more than a door, it is the first step of a journey, the first word in a book...

I’ve seen you sitting quietly in the corner
of coffee shops and bookstores
watching the world turning all around you
I’ve heard the nervous shyness
in the soft sound of the words
you rarely speak and the words
that never quite make it past your throat

I know how scared of love you are
I can feel that fear in my own heart
we both carry that heavy weight
of having a plethora of love to give
and no one to give it to
or more specifically
being to afraid of giving it
whenever we find ourselves
desperately in love

why do we let fear sit so closely
to our hearts
if we never take the risk
of our hearts breaking
how will we ever know the joy
of our hearts being seen
I see your heart
I have seen your heart for so long now
that I can’t remember a time
of not knowing what it looks like
what it sounds like

I’ve been there ever time
it has pounded against your chest
trying to break through your ribcage
so it could give itself away
to the people you wanted to tell
that you use the letters of their name
to spell the word love

when you weren’t looking
I snuck through your sketch pads
I’ve read their names and all the poems
you were to shy to share
I’ve been that person for my whole life
unable to share through an unbearable shyness

I know how long you have been alone
I know how comfortable solitude has become
I know the comfort of silence
in a world that is big
on the ceaseless chatter
of small talk

I know you have a lot to say
I know you keep those words
locked safely in your heart
I know they are weighing your heart down  

If its not too awkward
you could let me share your corner
and we could read some books
and forget about the coffee we ordered
until it is too cold to drink
but drink it anyway
and sit still enough to feel the earth
turning all around us
and we could trade our hearts
for a moment

or a lifetime

and talk without saying a word
and learn each other’s language
and then I could show you
that I spell the word love
with the letters of your name

Maybe I'm just bored
With *******
Or maybe the brush
Just fells better
In my hand
Or it could be the colors
That distract
The blood flow
Up
Instead of down
Or maybe its
Something deeper
Gnawing
At my
Flesh
From within
My bones
****
Its the silence
And
The solitude
And the
Darkness
Spilling out
The ugly
Truth of beauty
Of
Spending
Time
Alone

She looked pretty enough
to **** the boredom between his legs
and he was drunk enough
that she could make him beg
and bark and do anything
she would command
and it was ten past desperation
and a quarter till nothing
but the cold embrace of an empty bed
and nothing really mattered
between the pages
of a dime store novel
drowning at the bottom
of a wishing well
full of bad pennies
and poor luck in the matters
of fairy tale love
and she was too broken to care
and he was too lost to find
and they found themselves
exchanging plastic smiles
and hollow laughs
and there was more ***** and alcohol
than blood inside their veins
and the regret of bad decisions
was something that
they didn’t seem to mind
and neither one could remember
whose house that they were in
as their clothes and inhibitions
were both lying outside
of the bedroom door
and they couldn’t tell if it felt good
because they couldn’t remember
what good was
but he grunted and barked
and she gasped and she moaned
and at some point they felt the need
for cigarettes
so they pretended
to be done and satisfied
and they didn’t speak a word
that didn’t end up in a laugh
and they were both the punchline
of a joke that no one else could hear
and they both decided to drown
in the bottom of another bottle
so they couldn’t see their tears

I saw you today or maybe it was just a picture or your name in a mirror and I fell again over my head and to the bottom of it all and nostalgia forgot to worry about the pain of longing just long enough to feel bliss and joy and all the little things that count the way towards love and I felt like a school boy with a crush on the most beautiful girl in the world that he would never be brave enough to talk to but still walked home with his feet never touching the ground and I day dreamed of dark swirling Vincent skys and stars and sailing across the endless ocean trapped in your eyes and it was a brief passing moment that lasted an eternity and then you were gone and all I could see was your name in a mirror that held onto your picture I found at the bottom of a dream where I was sleeping still falling into the madness of it all

There once was a boy who lived above the clouds
With only the sun and the moon and the stars
Collecting all the things our hands
Did foolishly let slip away
Kites with string
And ballons with ribbon
And planes of paper
And hearts both whole and broken
And he played with it all
Dancing and running and singing and laughing
Soaring high with all the kites
Floating softly on each balloon
Flying swiftly with the racing wings folded from paper
But kind and carefully with each heart
Softly mending the broken with thread colored purple by rain
Gently kissing the knots on every last stitch
Shaping wings from stray clouds
And placing them on the whole hearts
Then showing and teaching them they could still fly
Both to new and old faces
Each heart free to choose itself
Letting them stay when they
Needed more time
Wether to heal or cry
Before knowing what to do next
Letting them play
With the kites and the ribbons and the ballons and the strings
And the paper and the planes
Every heart welcome to laugh and run and sing and dance
Until it felt ready to fly back home
And the boy who lived in the clouds
Lives there still
Watching and waiting for more planes and ballons and kites
And for hearts that need mending
And hearts that need homes
He may live by himself
But he is never alone

My heart breaks everyday
Just so it can bloom a new
And I can once again
Fall madly
In love with
You
Everyday

Broken but still beautiful
This heart of mine
That still loves you

I need you the way the skin needs a knife
Cutting away the dead and exposing the new
Such raw painful feelings
Such addicted needings
I want you like the page needs the pen
Spilling your dreams into my pulp
Feeding my pulse with your love
I'm just the face of a clock without hands
In each moment I spend without you
No use or no purpose
I'm dying for the cut of your kiss
Break the skin of my neck with your teeth
Expose all the lust and dreams hiding beneath
I'm aching for a drop of your heart
To absorb your light and your hopes
To be sweetly bleesed on the high of your touch
I need your hands on my face
Wipe away this dusty deaperation of tears
Give my life reason and heart hope
With your love

Broken we sit and dream alone
in a world that won’t stop turning tragic tales
into melancholy doses of strange beauty
and the winds only whisper of love
to the lost that have never known
the way or comfort of home

and the road is deserted of everything
but heartache and dim scattered moon shadows
and somewhere in the dark corners
of hidden forests creatures lurk
with false promises and bad breath
pointing out suspicious short cuts to happiness
with the path littered with the bones of dead innocence
maybe some of our own
maybe some of the ones we left behind
on the way to adult maturity and shame

as if believing in ourselves so little
wasn’t enough of a burden
we had to make a list of the what not to do’s
when it comes to finding pleasure

this is ok

that is most definitely not

and if it feels good you better not do it
because it feels good
only do it because that is the way it is suppose to be
and if it isn’t
you’ve been warned
that someone or something or some sick and perverted god
is watching and judging and jerking in horror
at all our sinful acts
and the list has been checked
and the video watched twice

and it’s all the same over and over again
pawns without a board or a square
pretending to be kings that love queens
and queens that love fools
and fools that love themselves
with fists grasped in self gratification
building castles that crumble
as we sit alone in broken dreams

And what if we're just bubbles in a dream
Dreaming up more bubbles as we breathe...

Sticks and stones are known
To break bones or can be used
To build house and home

Art has the unfortunate responsibility
of reflecting all the ugly truths
of the world
while at the same time
upholding the heavy burden
of hope

at the times breathing
becomes its hardest
we must inhale deeper
and transform the pain
in our lungs
and the doubts
in our own hearts
into something for others
to hold onto
to rest upon
to take refuge in

we must fight hate with love
give kindness the strength
to hold back cruelty
we must eat a little less
so those with nothing
will have something to eat

humanity may seem
to be slipping away
taking a step too far away
to ever come back
to ever remember
who we could be

and isn’t this a beautiful burden
this heavy weight upon our backs
and within our hearts

this feeling
that we are still alive
still able to breath
despite the pain

that we can still create
something out of the things
others would see destroyed

the ugly beasts
that dress like presidents
and kings with no clothes
with their ****** power
and their blatant lies

history will remember their crimes
as we will not let them be forgotten

tomorrow is not a day they own...

yet...

but if we want to take it back
we must start
by doing something today

remember

artist need other artist
to remind them
that there is still something left
in this world worth
making something beautiful for

and everyone

everyone of us
is an artist

so pick up your bricks
and your hammers
and your buckets of paint
and let your hearts
run wild through the streets
and start the taking of tomorrow
by turning the world
into something better today

Tired but not asleep
Dreamful but not dreaming
Looking through the ceiling
Imagined moon
And countless stars
Touching your ethereal skin
Hell trembling and
Heaven breathing deep within
I know the taste of your lips
Although we have never kissed

Only in dreams
Have I felt your *******
Your weight ontop of me
Heard your whispers
And your moans
Known the fire of your soul
Bathed in the colors of your heart
Dreams of desires lustful rage
Taste the salt between your legs
But only while lost in sleep
Have I ever known you beneath these sheets
Illusions of wanted love
Ghost of things that have not been
Leave their fingerprints
On my hardened skin
When the sun comes crawling in

I have no shame
I have no pride
Only this love
That burns inside