repost with edit.


the page before me,

essential in the hour of triumph,

in that of fierceness

in the share of native energy

throughout the contests,

in that of bloodthirstiness –

get like meditational

in the investment inks

in the auto-biographical

bringing the links

in the realm of the quiet,

as a modest writer

walkin’ in homely lanes

in the winds of atmosphere,

with a little harvest ripe

from the blowpipe

as a literary man

in the settlement

of a mix in the marketplace

from a little arms race

amongst civilized society

with a little firepower,

just to feel like

i can belong somewhere

to open doors

leaving my brand

in a seamstress move.


in a trying to break it easy,

in a lay it down

in this town,

catching a sound

to kick up a song

in a come along,

days on end,

in a be happening,

hit the road

in a freaking bus,

making a fuss

with jamming strings,

taking it slow,

taking it fast

heading to a beach,

in a no need to preach,

from following in love

under the fingers of,

in symptomatic tones,

get like in the zone,

cross my tee’s,

while sipping tea

feeling a buzz in the free,

in a don’t waste a moment.







it is a good thing

if a man stumbles

to lick his wounds

and dig deep

in getting the right spirit

to find power

and broaden the use,

in that of a common man

to serve the plain people,

even if talent

comes by way of a bloody napkin

to define a stepping stone,

in a genuine way

to defend a feeling of arousal,

necessary to advance

with a little desire

in the result of effort

to show some fight,

like a lunatic with a big stick

banging at the top of the tower.



it is deciding and knowing

that i live by a creed,

in a habit-forming,

check out the stars,

while the world stands still.

it takes a little luck

to bear bright fruit,

even if coming out of the dark.

it’s like my hand

rubs old grooves,

like that of a buddha

in little ways

that brings on good fortune.

sometimes in life

a disability can be a good thing.


there are many days learned

in grief and rebellion

that real labor begins.

poetry and hunger

go hand in hand

where it is never noticed.

it’s like that for a poet

coddling mainstream america

in the work of perception.

who said

I had to write something deep?!


the way it is,

is the way it was.

this thread in a seamstress,

right here in this room,

is a keep it for life.

some things take time

in the connections

of wherever I go,

in let life unfold in the stitches,

though quiet as the sun

that follows the hand,

in a just be ready,

cuz it’s for the best,

in a touch ya

being a wanderer

in the freedoms,

where everything seems

to be waiting

in the world to happen.


the way it is

under the arch of the sky,

is getting used to being a new person –

in a take it easy in life,

bring on the cavalry

being a lone ranger,

where no road goes far enough.

look into these eyes

of beads of light,

remains a dreamer

singing a tune

where time doesn’t hurry –

in a get lost

holding it all together

in a little bit of blue –

just being here

holding my hand out to you

in a slice of sunlight –

just be ready

for her to be truly good

as far as forever.