Shakespeare, Kerouac
& Bukowski Are Waiting
And You’re Running Late
(In Memoriam For Gerald)
Everyday
One Poet Enters
Another Exits
Handing Over The Pen
It’s the story of
The world the story of
Words the story
Of what makes a
Poet a human being
And makes a human
Being a poet
To each
Their own voice
To each their own
Gifts to share
We have been
To heaven &
Thru hell
Drank in bars
And fought
For & against
Everything
But in the end
We all walk out
The same door
Beneath the big
Red glowing
Sign that says
“Exit”
ASYLUM
Every morning comes in
Like smoke
A vision through
The trees
We have wasted
All this beauty
All this precious time
With postcards
From the damned
As memories
As our souls still
Bleed for better days
She was the universe
The black hole
You fell into
That you
Never escaped
But that
Defined you
Forever
GHOST
Like you
I was once
Human
A part of all
Things connected
But now
After these times
After these wrongs
I’m just no longer
Here disappeared
From all my friends
The bars & the big
Bad wolf called
The world
Woven
Now intermingled
With the fabric
Of history
And time
Tragedy
A Non Entity
Just a memory
A stranger
Still
Without an
Obituary
Or a song
Living
Somewhere
But just
Not here
Anymore
GENIUS IS A
DRUNK IN THE BASEMENT
A
Broken Record
Broken poet
Broken song
Something
About the flowers
Something about love
Shufflin a’lone gainst
The night &
The darkness once more
Broken Record
Broken poet
Broken poem
She is
She was
She’s a ghost
She’s the apocalypse
Taking away her burning love
In a broken world full
Of broken thoughts
Broken words
Lighting up another
Cigarette in the dark
An epiphany
A cliche
Another poem
A
Broken Record
Broken poet
Broken song
What happens
What does that
What hasn’t been
Said that hasn’t
Been sung?
Said?
God is in the trees
God is in the closet
God is all around us
Desiderata
Touch that holy
Veil muther fucker
Touch that veil before
It’s gone
But the devil
Is hanging out
All alone
In the basement
Writing
Poems
Drunk
A
Broken Record
Broken poet
Broken song
And that shit
Is pure genius
Worth more
Than any pushcart prize
Made of gold
For
Genius is just another
Drunk in the basement
Talking to himself
Writing poems
To a bottle of
Gin
