I believe
when it all boils down to it
the majority of us
would rather have nothing
with someone
than everything
with no one.

It's quite a feat, walking through the
Graveyard of the Gods.
Buddah takes his time playing majong
Against Thor, his hammer near but at odds,
While Yam keeps ear near conch
Lest the Phoenicians hear his song
And pray his way once more.
They fight over the attention they receive,
A whisper by the heralds
Behind closed doors.
A hint of what may have come before

He has never seen the ocean
Though, He fantasized about it often
The crashing of waves so loud
When the final sun sets upon them
The feel a salty warmth caress
But he knows rock and stone best
The dirt…the solid ******* earth
The concrete beneath your feet
Sturdiness you feel inside the street
To mountaintops for as long as the day can be
Tress, grass, and wildlife far apart from ocean or sea
Standing atop the ***** of our mother Earth
Yet pondering the very substance of his birth
As his body craves the love of water
The inward haze when basking in the restorer
A tune to that which cannot be ignore
Seeing the vastness of water never seen before
To feel a autonomous body all flowing as one
And all merely living off the love of the sun

Don't want to speak too soon
   or speak too late, for that matter

Should speak up and speak out
   ...cat got your tongue?

But not speak ill or speak out of turn
   ...bite your tongue!

Above all, speak the truth, your truth
   ...not with a forked tongue

Truth be told
   sometimes I don't want to speak at all
And if you knew me
   that would truly be saying something

Speak!...Speak!...Good boy...

is poetry your god
is that who you bow down to
believe me, I find it easy
to bow down to it too

but what happens when the words start fading
which all words do in time
whether it be from the written page
or the center of the mind

you say poetry brings you pleasure
hence forth the daily worship
but when the last line drops in rhyme
and your faced with all life's hardships

where is it you will go
where is it you will turn
you've worked hard for this god of yours
is this all that you have earned

in the church of poetic promise
where you worship every day
as you daily tithe do you wonder why  
there's still an empty offering plate

so while poetry brings great pleasure
it's not worth bowing down to
though I must say from past escapades
that's an easy thing to do

Morning’s first scent
bathes an arousing room 

with musty fragrance
of spoiled passion.


Clothing forms little
mountains of disarray
on faded carpet.
Burned out cigarette butts
snake gray in the ashtray 

while tepid water
with a hint of scotch
wiggles in the glasses
on the end table. 

Bodies stir with memories
of unwelcomed
interruptions. Unspent fluids
still surge in naked *****. 


Her eyes feast on stubble
sharp enough to chafe her neck.
Memories of the previous evening’s
unfulfilled promise incite tightening
between her legs. She smiles,
snuggles into the crook
of his summer-tanned arm.
No phone calls, or knocks on the door
will deter her passion this morning.

Slumbered scratching into a bedside notebook
   lying in darkness under a thick blanket of revelation
Afraid that lamplight may blind these 3am eyes
   to the dim, wispy glow of mystical comprehension

Trusting that valued mysteries will later be deciphered
   from this barely legible scrawl of the night
Refusing to squander such moments of divine lucidity
   captured in a poetic hand written outside the lines

Reluctant to wait until morning lest the light of day
   exposes a tenuous relationship to reality
Causing rays of enlightenment to glance off its surface
   in beams of obscure and superficial logic

Tangential truths
   scribbled in the dark