ink pad night unfolds
dog trots under fireflies
headlamps catch his eye

remembered color

memory vein draws the blood

fruitful with sunrise

TRAINING WHEELS

I’m not a follower

though I glean
I’m not angry
yet I check my spleen
I’m not a child
of the in-between

where hurdles are placed
on tracks and fields
I can sidestep the crowd

do as I please

skipping the damaged part

of my film if I choose

what have I got?

nothing to lose

but to pedal to righteous
freedom of thought

to fly without wings
is an arrogant fraud

training wheels are forever

our greatest mistake

is to loosen the bolts
on what looks like fate
training wheels are forever
adjust the size
rebuild with the lessons
then rise, then rise

wild life, a new story in the works

susurrous slides under my window
the hissing of traffic below
like a shouder to cry on
though I am not unhappy
the sound I rely on
in the late night scrappy
i’m writing a story behind my window
a man lost to pleasure
a character you’ll defend though
no matter his sins or his
untouchable valor
he is mine in the story
to be yours as the reader
we won’t part until it’s clear
that his story is told
in his own words, while the author holds…

tonight I cried

prepared as I was with 
a pinot noire
and a pipe truth be told
so that I could drift afar
from a smoke-filled brain
to a wine-dressed heart
remembering what grew me
what words overthrew me
a writer had died
was he all that, I thought
or more like a builder
a plumber, a doctor,
a runner, a cyclist, a teacher,
a mobster
who raps the truth
with poetic restraint
tonight I cried like I did for Lennon
and Janis not Ian but Joplin the saint
I cried like a child who can’t
find its toy
poured a glass had a toke
with such risible joy
tonight I cried
for all I was worth
hereafter indulging in heroes
now gone
still gnawing at nerves
still proving their worth.

when waking you is
scandalous in the extreme
i bow to your dreams

PATHS

Stay with me on this path,
I cannot pretend to feel
like you do
we will not share
the path though we
breathe the same air
of the few
what we thought
was purgatory
is heaven and love
here below are the paths
we choose from above
until daylight boasts
our singular roads
when we hold hands
it’s across the paths
the hallmark romantic
those pop up fantasy lives
recorded messages
on phone calls of survival
cheering in stadiums
praying in temples
crawling over the fields of war
paths lie lonely and singular
for a reason or many
to soften, or comfort
to run from when plenty are
striding in tandem
in front or behind
there is nothing to fear
on a path alone
the way is crowded
first time out of the womb
with mothers and family and
neighbors and friends
with priests and teachers
what might have been
there is nothing to fear on
a path alone
the road signs to flee
to the path we seek
euphoria
regret
choice and repentance
pride and the
company we need
for sleep
not a sentence
no matter the love
or whatever you call it
no matter the need
and how we address it
mind the gap
when you step from
your path to mine
mind that gap
it is sacred
mind that gap
it is ours

City

city sounds like city

urban raw and full of pity

for the deaf and the blind

ocean in the black street below

waves like traffic on

on asphalt or hot tar or

whatever it takes however far you go

through city sounds
cotton silent and underground
paths for the hearing and sighted

flushed with wine glass feeding

words of remembering

metro gone north for the

geese that race safe to the reservoir

city breathes as city does

scratching earth for life

for love of urban scent requited

in the lungs the after thoughts

underneath the gaming noughts

killer boots upon the ground

poetry left unrenowned

city wandering

cold called floundering

she remains unknown

she remains a foundling

eyeing age with a heart in disguise
bars are loaded

she folds under the skies
wine is still coded her age defies

city wandering

cold called floundering

she remains unknown

she remains a foundling

she retrains the song
she remains the wanderer

what we forget to remember
are the flat tires fixed 
by roadside strangers
we forget when young we 
snatched the cane of an overlord
and righted the elder
with no intent
like a swan necked round a lover
feathers laid back in alarm
are you my hero
are you here to harm
this is the universe crawling begotten
this is the friendship
we are faced with uncertain
how many times have I drunk
elixir well spoken in language
I know when I’m drunk and broken
it comes back forever
this drink this reposting
beware of the bulls when they
crash through the wrong
I am drunk and unhinged
bored with bleating song
Make a video of this
you panting sad poseurs
this city ain’t dead
though it makes a great poem
this city ain’t dead’
though it makes a great poem.

DRUNK

I don’t sleep until I’ve drunk
all the wine to sea level
until I’ve come down
from the mountain
alighted on a limb
I don’t sleep easily when
I refuse to give in
secret lives make me hunger
for rare is the time
a story is realized
without the wine
when it comes, this sleep
this battle I’ve waged
silence reacts like
a dream uncaged
sober, I wake to what
the muse demands
sober, I write while
the cats eye the day
we miss you, they whine
in the creeping night
your drunken unburdening
your nail-biting ride
to a story you’ve
unearthed at the bottom of a glass
while we sleep in the daylight
and you are free at last
a paw needs licking
a head needs kissing
the rule book’s in place
and as she ages
they give her the floor
write a story, they say
until you can’t anymore
we’ll carry on leaping in
late night intent
while you carry on making
your way to repent
tomorrow is always a fickle thing
bravado or Zen is challenging
the secret of life
are cows not so far
from the writer
we trust or we don’t anymore
it’s the path we’d rather
a sober collective or
a bloody bother
I don’t sleep until
I contact the courier
I don’t sleep until
I drink the blood of the warrior

canvas sky unknown

game called travelers have flown

golden diamond

WHAADYA DO when your book is finally approved for printing? Sit back and relax and await delivery? Why you start back in on the next batch of short stories and their characters…all new, all waiting to be heard.

Among Us

what was less then

what was lost

what was found in

in our round table

was mostly future

among the cats and the wine

what we failed was the nurture

we traveled away

from the canvas the studio

we huddled too close

to the answer the obvious

I shed you

I did

for my own self worth

Sacrificed you for me

Still undecided

You touched the bottle

a reprimand to my flight

I understood

too late

too angry to fight

Amsterdam pulled the plug

Amsterdam was the flood

that lifted me over redeeming waters

I was young then and mostly drunk

I was young then

and mostly alone

you tracked how I flew

my singular path

Breakfast in Amsterdam

Breakfast was a drag

And I made a picture

of us in the round

Of us as artists underground

the basement the studio

I have never recovered

your sly criticisms

your tiny canvases of mirth

I am still here

That’s my singular birth