I've got a reading!
And the venue's all sold out.
It's an old phone booth,
that some company threw out.

It's standing room only,
but you can get in by arrangement.
I'll just hop out, for the term
of your engagement.

If you show up
you won't even need a mask,
'cause you'll be standing
on the other side of the glass.

My voice sounds muffled
in the sound-proof enclosure
so my poetry won't be getting
very much exposure.

For my fan base,
it's the ideal place to show.
See, I can do the reading,
and no one else will know.

Most times we pray
And we’re not on our knees
So we forget we’re praying
Sometimes we’re taking things for granted
And forgetting to be thankful
And give homage to that which is greater than myself
The Rhythmic
Nature
Miracles
And failures
Hoping
To not fail
And rely on
Rhythm
Not miracles
Sometimes
We reject
It gets boring after a while
Rhythm
Sometimes we do it in large groups
**** gets real with the rhythm
When the rhythm twangs too much off key
All asunder it goes
Rhythm with no flow
Scribbles on a paper,
Cross other colors
Make a unique mix
Maybe cross again one day
But God is better than me, so God sees those squiggles in different colors.  
Maybe God thinks I have a unique- colored
Squiggle
But that’s probably what everyone
Thinks

if you can look at a cat
but not see a creature
that is both cute
and cunning
a hunter
and a scavenger
loyal yet with a pure sense
of it's own self importance
you're not ready
for people yet

I just found a treasure
Still in the field
Playing in sunshine gentle rays
I could pick it up
However
Who is to say
The field might be where treasures
Wish to stay

One night, while I waited for you
I sat in the midwest summer heat, hot and sticky
like juice from a sun-ripened peach-
a balcony in the city, a small temple amidst the headlights and occasional sweet, gasping breezes
the house was asleep, settling in its aged wooden bones
while I wrote you poetry on its back.

you never arrived, but I felt somehow better for it:
the warm and pulsing beauty of my silent night's watch.

and leave,
leave as if i don't exist and never existed,

i know you are strong enough, and you are made for this kind of touch,
i promise not to ask you anything, or nag you; i won't cry, won't scream,
i won't run after you, either
or try to pull your sleeve, make you look back,

touch me, like then
when you love someone secretly for years and years and
you dream and dream,
you dream and  pray in secret to die with her, and one day you wake up, stunned in front of her, you wake up
and wait for the wind to play with leaves in her hair and you just pick them gently
and touch her chin, lips and after,
after, you  leave, hunchbacked
you leave
without saying a word, stiff as stones
without looking back

touch me like you have no idea i'm here on earth
and i do my own things and
i have no idea that you are here on earth doing your own things,
but
we know what it's like not to be touched, not to be hugged
while the stars are closer than the eyes,
we know how courage can save the white bird and the blackbird in a blink of an eye,

touch me in your eyes
-in your eyes, as if you are making love to me,
like you're making love to me and we hold each other so tight, so tight we hold each other like we hate each other, so tight
we hate
we hate each other to death

I became Holmes, past knowing true:
In every sense, I'd seek for you.

Now, taking the cobbles consciously,
Sick, mad, of the essence of this construct,
Dismantling the ancien régime to see
That I am all your stains in concert -

I am made up of every last touch -
Originality's a lie, save in
The combination that you see - as such
It is unique, but I still cave in

At the dawn that nothing is my own,
And much like as if you were a coffee
I'd downed: I could not, for my life, disown
The five million senses cutting me

For the time, for every conscious cup
I'd take and take again: Why should I dull
And cut myself this way, a life made-up
Of such a tannin-full ideal?

My way as a writer is to fall
In love, in my eyes, in yours, in raptures,
In despair, in tough crowds, on God, to call
On my muse and survive the ruptures

Of worlds and heavens, both real and made,
And feel the rain upon my face, but Lord,
How often do I feel, and feel the raid,
Engaged by scent, blush, needle, salt, word?

All too much makes nothing, and I can't flee
To seek another cup: I must seek me.

so much silence in the promise of a new
green and the heart of the city is waltzing
with never the same sun and I wear
my skin tinged with the impossible words you never speak
with the thoughts that run away from you towards
an unseen horizon; when you are not careful something
moves up and down drawing an infinity column (the infinite is just the super flow of everything into everything else inventing space and time)
when you are not careful your smile is beautiful
I want you to plant your soul in the soil of
my palms, my feet, into the earth of my bones,
into the hearing of my heart
light is a journey, darkness a story to tell

We did not come here on the orders of others
We came freely, our own choice, blown by the soft winds
scattered o'er many a mile
Landed upon Flanders Fields and rested a while

Then death came, disturbed the earth
Destruction hit the ground in which we slept so quietly
Awoke us from our slumber sweet
To witness tragedies and defeat

Now we are risen
and in our place beneath lie men and boys of courage, strong and true
Who fought valiantly but now lay slain
Our gentle roots entwine around their bodies that remain

Each dawn we wake for them and face the summer sun
At night our gaze doth meet moon
We stand tall and proud and dip our heads
And honour them that lie beneath with our petals red