I listened to a man who was terminally sick,
And he wanted to talk politics.
But I was focused on the stars
And how they'd fall like grains of sand;
And then I heard the woeful wind,
Plaintiff as this breathless man.
And I was sad
That the stars did not fall
To mark the passing of our time,
For it has no real face and hands,
Or wings to fly on, or legs to run.
Yet rushes at us like politicians;
Perhaps that's what he said.

I am not reading poetry.
I am cupping the words
in my hands, pouring them
over my head, rubbing them
through my skin, into my bones
breathing in
breathing out

becoming a poem

I am summoned
With others
All walks and sheens
Colors and creeds
All the same
But never met

We shiver
In Various stages of boredom
Half lidded eyes
Opened suddenly in disgusted salute
To the wet hacking of a dying old miser
Or that disembodied voice
A wraith
Whos pleasant words
Drip with the undeniable fear
Of wasting away
On this cheap throne I've been displaced to,
Or being brought to bare
In some jade kings court.
Made to don a jesters hat
But told to keep the bells silent
And our emotions, our humanity still
While being forced to feed on the horrors
Of civilization so that we may better
Judge the complexity of one life
In a time frame whos picture within
Is too small to be anything but abstract.

This drought of the living time
An infinity to my blood
My bones even twitch at it nervously
Begging for the freedom
Of the common fools
 as we twelve,
The demi gods,
must choose what to do with the remnants
of one desiples plate
of under decided decisions
In a life that most have never known
And even fewer wouldn't trade
a half buried pile of cat turds for.

I guess he didn't know
that we are free
as long as we Bow low enough
Not to be seen

And so we sit low
Staring at a message
A countdown
A simple marker to represent
The life we give in the hopes of
Being let back into what ever cells
We have built for ourselves

clouds
like waves
in the stormy sky.

worn out,
the silence
- it sounds
rusty.

time
ticking you away

and you don't know
what it means

like that tree in a
slow motion death.

how could you tell it,
listening to the birds
in the still light?

Angels make the bouquets 
I see as I thumb through this Chagall book
life is served on a bed of blue sky
aspirations made of soft shells 
like molting ***** 
these flowers bloom risking penury 
to offer a glimpse of eternity 

make themselves windows of the blooming tree 
a prism in a subjective room 
they chose their lives in alternative 
and reflect themselves as canals of rainbows 

I sip a glass of wine and ponder this page
the museums of silken selves the artist left for us
Chagall painted old age so devoid of color 
and vitality 
because he knew as we age
we empty our imaginations
into the angels
who then arrive
holding flowers
for the young