i’ve lived life

like it never mattered.

i kept ya at a distance.

where i haven’t mastered anything,

except for the punishment of sex.

it’s just the way it goes,

but yet the bridge

in the book of love

brings a breakdown

through these fingers,

in a hit and run,

where every atom of my heart,

sometimes parts through these lips.

but yet i cannot hide

in the moods

that i’m trying to finish

with a little truth.



i sit staring deep

into the void,


what it would be like

to overthrow the dollar.

poems written

in how free it becomes

to tidy up my life.

the daisy, the iris, the rose,

in a wake up america.

this monk alone

living in a state of poverty,

is twisted by an appetite,

that makes me grateful

in the anti-depressants line by line.

but here i am

sitting in the chill of the air

somehow finds beauty

when your checking out my identification.

money goes where money is –

and that it really does matter.


when dreams hit rock bottom

in all the curiosities,

it’s a life

in the tell me forever’s,

lost in all the promises

of these broken stairs

that come a dime a dozen.

hold me up

in the top of your heart,

cuz i’ve been lying low

in all the see as i go.

tell me ya will heal me

into the sweet

of your spirit’s beat

that will weave me

into your forever feel good

leaving fire in my veins.


it’s a poet’s loss

in deep seated illuminations

that go beyond words –

at least that is what i think.

the suspension of patterns

in the combinations

that come between these horizontal bars

can fill the space quite nicely,

if ya don’t create any blunders

when posting to wordpress.

if i told ya that i lost all my books

and literary journals

and the rest of my belongings,

would it meaning anything,

or maybe it could be something,

when i felt a little lost

without being able to be on the internet.

when it comes to life

in the bountiful connections,

words can span across bridges.

maybe perhaps a little of me

sheds a little light,

even if it seems a little dark.




this is the place

in the black and white connections.

love to think in the grays.

just can’t help that

as it takes a little bit of shark

as a saturated bard

in the arcs

coming from the swamp

just romping around

in what brings happiness,

in concoct a poem

in leave another trademark

in the benchmarks,

pounding with the fists

to let you know

i’m hanging around my storefront

as if photoshopped

with a little camouflage.

it’s just the way it goes

in these parts

as nothing is ever so simple

when dealing with a black and white crowd,

in the coming at it straight

without ever knowing the costs

in just the way it goes

living in the greater erie area,

in the it takes forever

when dropping it off the charts.






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?!