...set fire to the bedroom....

Day Old Coffee

Day old coffee,

the ceramic skin heats my fingers

my purposeful exhale expels

literature of a spector

who departs in a rush of cowardice,

under the guise of pride 
and hidden gluttony.

It is beyond me.

Coffee goes down easy,

there's June wind on my feet

and I singing to myself

about the running Blue.

The master mind is now a war machine

I see Heaven and Hell and lightening.

Thoughts grinding forward

like a juggernaut  

and my soul turns to iron.

I am craving river water

to sweep me away from the day.

The bombs have fallen and I sit pretty

in the frames of a demolished city;

forgiveness is only hard

when it means something.

These Hours

In these hours I see so clearly,

I see all the finer movements

of a rain dance and war machine

in the face of a clock pushing on

unaware that she is the anchor.

I can float so high

I escape the supervision of stars

and the constellations lose track of me

But I have crawled and will not be denied

my thirst for what other’s have been lacking.

A good friend of mine always says

“It’s going to be okay, love.”

And mostly I believe

in her modest hopes be delivered

But some nights we howl off the Severn bridge

believing in nothing but the rushing of the river.

In these hours I breathe so freely

and save my blues for another day

because I can I be sad 

with soft eyes seeing through me

but it’s for another time and place

so just for awhile,

let me stay.

Silks

She fades from me

and I can breathe

and move myself in reclamation.

My body protests the wildfire

but it sanctifies my mind,

I owe no one any explanations.

Words are nothing more than words;

a fool’s fortune is a promise

four and twenty ravens make a murder

a hearts an organ

nothing more, none the less.

I hear sky calling all the time

in the integrity of every rhyme

and we are all blank paper drifting.

One eye on the west coast

one hand on a nameless ghost

I push back hard with the weight 

I’ve been shamefully lifting.

My lover’s gone and I love to be wrong,

I conquer the day and capture the night.

I dive into Prussian silks

black coffee spooning with eggshell white.

Sometimes I wish the tide would....

In The Rain

That night I really heard the rain

coming from my own windows,

heard only in a state of true solace;

it returned something to me.

Part of me walked among Icarus, 

as a mark of the liberated

sunk deep into my heart.

Coming to Terms