it is the belief

that reclusion can be a good thing,

which can fuse

a highly original experience.

in the reflective,

little did i know,

i was looking outward.

inwardly strides toward better times.

to the spirit of the gods,

in patience a masterful fate,

to be thankful for everything

in the strongly nourished


sometimes i can be so distant

that sensitive delicate matters

keep pouring through my mind –

in a just knowing

that it can leave me

completely out of wack.

then i have to understand

it becomes a niche group

to pull me up,

despite all the baggage

that comes with it.

it’s a personalization

when feelings seem like major flaws.

things are never as they appear to be,

then i read between the lines

and hope it doesn’t leave me

to exhausted from my thoughts.

it can be difficult to show love

when overthinking it time after time.

would it suffice to say

that it just needs a lot of work,

and just let it hang in imagination

to get through a little loneliness

in some other long term objective.


i was always working steady,

but it left an ugly mark.

it was vicious –

trouble from the start,

so ya could say –

this is where i found my compass,

and all of my writing charts.

time after time,

i worked it as a slave –

cuz at that time –

it was slave meeting slave.

it’s how i found art,

and wish i saw it coming,

long before saddling up on a forklift.

it can be quite the prison,

to find out what a soul

really means to undying sparks

to find out what a soul really means

when not engaged in the right place.

so i’m enjoying my new ride –

meaning the writing ride,

even if it means

to sing like a meadowlark.

so i guess it’s all that matters,

even if the mist of summer kisses are denied,

as i hold out a hand

lookin for a little trouble.

it’s that little twist

of a swan song that makes life

like a long lost beggar.

who say i can’t blend things

on mutual fronts

in what happens to the heart



this shabby career,

is of so little importance,

and now there is no other.

so urgent

where hunger rests,

and strengthened by the rise

of my predicament.

i’m not the one to say

don’t listen to me,

for god knows my circumstances.

it is the truth,

the very truth,

from the place where it all began.

it really does matter,

when twisted by an appetite –

in a no time to waste

under the influence


poor me.

a poem in lackluster thought,

in a held out from the show.

pour me another shot.

it is here that i used to keep

a full picture of her,

for i cannot avoid.

don’t wanna break no window,

but it ain’t too late to start.

just an ordinary guy

with a bunch of problems.

but here i am

seeing the book of love,

in that it just ends everywhere,

though every atom

of my heart,

i spread forever,

in like there was no other,

cuz i’m just a second rater

in the down and out,

of this little truth moment

in a bluesy alert.


i’m not sure

if this is a poem,

but i’m gathering

up the splinters

of a smashed guitar

to see where it takes me.

but i want to leave it alone,

cuz it’s a different side.

the claim of not being heard,

echoes in the valley,

where the thrust of the sun

hunkers in this milky town.

there are things to obey,

but i want another margarita,

and stop writing everything down,

because it’s an uncommon problem.

i guess it makes a prayer damn worthy –

i’ll write when it’s over.


i had to get crazy

to think like a million dollar business

to fill hip pockets.

engineers drink brews

as well as pipe fitters.

here i am

sipping on a brew,

and bringing on a starlit crew,

leaving a splash

on blue lines

leaving the smoke,

where white is a lantern

in the summer winds,

where money is stacked

in bank vaults.

it’s just a dream

where rainbows consider rainbows,

and crazy gets crazy.



the word is contagious

and the angels tell me again

i ain’t had much loving,

where the gates of commitment

gather up the brokenness.

it’s not because i’m old,

but i’m slowing down the tune,

where there may be wine and roses,

at least for a little while.

the games of luck,

some call fate,

where words of words

written on my heart

become sensual illusions.

my flesh undone

looking for traces and hints

in the money run

with my fingerprints.




i didn’t know ya,

and ya didn’t know me.

for what i felt

on a beautiful day,

i put my hand across my mouth.

but something hit my brain,

and didn’t shut me down.

a flush of sugar

in the belief of a believer.

in a heaven forbid

not to go any deeper.

but i wonder if ya

will let me shine through

with an arousal taste

of a sweet distraction

in the temple of pleasure,

as if luck was all we had.