I don't really wanna talk about it.

I think it's better if I keep it to myself.

Sometimes I could really do without it.

This kinda thing's just no good for my health.

-

Because again and again
I tell the same story,
and I know it's a shame
but there's nothing that you can do for me.
Being alone don't scare me.
I'll just kick back with my friend Mary.
-
It's the usual drama.
The same old skit.
Another boy let me down
but I'll get over it.
I'll just pack another bowl
and get a clean hit
of this high grade ****.

- -

So don't ask me if I'm OK.
I don't feel any different to how I did yesterday
and it didn't matter then
and it doesn't matter now.
I just wanna numb the pain
and I don't care how.

- -

Oh Mary! Mary-Jane.

I got the real life blues again.

So take me away, let's fly.

Nothing matters when I'm high

-

and I don't really wanna talk about it.

I think it's better if I keep it to myself.

Sometimes I could really do without it.

This kinda ****'s just no good for my health.

-

I don't really wanna talk about it.

I don't really wanna talk about it.

I don't really wanna talk about it.

...

For Eliot**

a man possessed awakes and blessing pronounces that the world needs another poetry site even though nothing new under the sun nonetheless the secret passion is coded and the white swells grow into a hurricane whitecap crescendo, lighting thunders cymbals and the non believers (how I want to believe!) quietly step forward
from unpronounceable places you never heard of,
no longer cowards, not a one,
invoking a blessing of:

"me too, I am a poet with something to announce new, and I've been sitting patiently in distress, looking for a place to say, see,
I think I can,
I think therefore,
I am,
a named human.
no longer an asterisk."

6/22/17  2:40am nyc

Here the horse munches the grass
little knowing the trots of yore
for time when lays the bricks with curse
unhinges the strongest door.

Here the horse is tethered to feed
little hearing the neighs of past
for time when crumbles sows a seed
grows new order from soil of dust.

Here the horse lazes in sun
little seeing the shadow's growth
for time when ends a period's run
buries in the walls a lover's oath.

Here the horse walks in a round
little feeling the earth's spin
for time when shrinks the highest to ground
kingdoms fall in heaps of ruin.

Silhouettes emerge from the night lunar tide
lives still wriggling in their net
ghostly figures from the sea silken wide
reaping riches from the waves in spate.

The night a luminous smile wears
the belly is fired up for a bite
dried leaves would burn under stars
brewing another day under moonlight.

Mariners when not venturing into deep sea
release passions on the shallow shelf
harvest hope though the catch is measly
breathing in the winds the aroma of kelp.

I feel having long belonged to this place
wading breakers in the phosphorus' glow
gathering in my net a strange happiness
craving home when the tide is low.

watching things dry
is always the same:
the paint, the tears, the
puddled up fear that sits
on the bench and
then lives to regret it,
the solder that cools, the
hair in the breeze, the
ruffled bird's feathers when
she learns she's not free,
and she. a slight
glistening gone, trick
of the eye, flight
of the bird, end of the cry.
watching tears dry is
like watching paint dry.
the toll taker sighs
on the bridge, takes
your money and holds
it while he waits to give
it to somebody else,
just counting coins and
watching the water
hit the sky.