Pain
And sometimes nothing in the world is the key to happiness
so we are of a generation that must find
pleasure in the small things and relish in the freedom.
A deserving head on the pillow
after spending the day conversing in a courtyard of fools
and doing all the heavy lifting.
To be proud and memorizing
every single moon etched detail and reinforced with iron.
I require the skill to walk the tight rope
that's been lit on fire
but connecting the lives we have
to the majestic places we have yet to see.
There are amazing flights to be flown
and sun revolutions to produce an argument
to which the existence of time is question.
Born of a sparrow
burned like a phoenix
but rising in a violet cloud of flame and pyre despite the pain.
Pain in a driving force
and pain can be absolutely beautiful Like hurricanes, gravity and love.

Hover

With the midnight sparrow I spread my wings
and latch on the blissful wind
leading me in the arms of granite gargoyles.
The church bells are quiet now
as they whisper in Latin
the secret of life and the voice of God
into a rhythm only the sky understands.
The mutiny is hot in my veins
as I truly feel your echo pass through me.
I feel the dilation from an electric touch
Each breath I take I feel the oxygen
push through me and into your mind.
I submit to you the will of my soul and body.
Soaring wings push me to the abyss
and I scream into the void still mocking me.
She never answers in a timely fashion.
The north eastern wind capsizes my body
and makes the suggestion it is best to fly home
and wait in a state of dreaming
so the eyes of a tiger can watch over me.

Exhale the Madness

I am a golden child,
the fortunate fool,
and every mother’s nightmare.
I garner pieces of the city
best savored with a broken heart,
and claim it in the name of the poets,
hooligans
and vagabonds.
The rampage of night
crushes pedagogic endeavors
of my nonpareil mania.
I’ve gone and squandered my good graces
to kiss the lips of the pretty faces,
now November nights
bedevil my ragged breath.
Turpentine and motel matchbooks
strewn across my mind like broken glass,
I exhale the madness
and go to sleep at last.

A Letter to Kore

There's a deliciously ferocious,
exceptionally wicked,
absolutely smashing thunderstorm
cackling below and flashing across
the wingspan of sparrows in the wee hours.
Gargantuan limbs of jurassic lightening
are raking across the sky
as the asphalt glows
in prose and vigilance.
I'm listening to vinyl under the deluge,
drinking from a banged up coffee mug
that has consoled me on many black Mondays.
My trepidatious fingers hug rose hip tea
and tap the feverish ceramic skin,
as morning birds twinkle from rooftops.
We relish in the early morning
and become undone by her discourse,
her dusk,
and her delirium.
The ponderous piper lures me
and I accede to the bliss
as cream slickly swirls
the abyss of a red eye.
I throw my head back into the sound,
the enticing sounds of predawn ricocheting
from the belly of the fury.
I throw my head back and I am sailing,
I’m traveling back to watching silent snowfall
coat the majestic evergreen sleeves
as we drive to the Oregon coast.

Felon

Lingering felonious angel

look to the sky...

eagle eyed and grinning.

Tremble beneath the azure waning,

like repentant arches of cathedrals.

The host of night sleeps

still dripping amber,

over a honey coated star scape

of the brave and loving Venus.

As the beaming sketches

of the climbing night time

climaxes into feathered quatrains,

A sweetness chases

a thorny kiss

into the beckoning lambs of night.

My heart swells

and stretches across the city's limits,

and the neon monuments

answers the midnight vagrants.

The southeastern fog horns

and lonely sea vessels,

Pass each other in the morning tides.

I sustain myself on their echoes.

Otherself

The giggling aching otherself

rising up in Celestine octaves

like a tidal wave

lifting through my lungs and brain.

The flesh of ruins

is easy to pierce and mark,

we make our own living pictures

upon the moving canvass

of virgin skin.

The only way to out run the past

is to remember,

to look back and know

where you've been.

The lambs of night

blow out the lights

of vigil candles

adorning forsaken alters,

I mourn the vanishing flame

by virtue of the inevitable dark.

A stranger among fine faces

in the emperors robes

goes privately parading

down Sunset Boulevard.

It is not the love songs sinking

into the magma of

the fabled tell-tale heart.