The hands of time grind against clock
the sparks of seconds
the fiery minutes

Precious in passing
for collection by the thousands
not intended for waste
a resource finite
priceless in value

…but all I can do is reach over to my alarm clock
and allow myself a minute more


To every hero a villain
every story, two sides
the first page until last
to every future, a past

I know when I climb a hill
that I shall sail smooth on a descent somewhere
for every piece of life that does justice
lays a soul burdening the weights of unfair

The push to my pull
the giants to my small
the sunshine to my rain
the answers to my call

My unfamiliar world

The freedom of expression
a contemptuous infection
forming lies through absolute truth
basing foundations on false values

Oh, how you do not understand, my world
refusing to leave no child behind, only behind bars
unwilling to ordain all lives
a victory by majority
but more substantial through three fifths
Offer the mules a mule with acres for plunder without fuel

It is your land, indeed, but I wish it was ours
so threatened by our own actions
so reverent of our own flaws

I speak not of ill
only ponder our sickness
who begs to favor the assailants?
For I am, after all, but a simple witness

System of misunderstanding

Pushed through the rungs
for the sake of production
delivered on time, worked to exhaustion
what have you created?
what have you achieved?
was it what you intended?
was it through choice?
or were you deceived?

The labors of life
blown down with a puff of light wind
energies exhausted
patience accosted
for the sake of bills
for the magic in money
shows must continue
until we have exhausted our pennies

On freedom of form

Paint me a word
worth a thousand images
give me a million meanings
in the form of a word

I wish to delve
into the depths of labor
deep in passion
for the sake of a sentence
with whims in paragraphs
my intentions in indentation
creating texts so clear
in minds muddled with intensity

Let the words flow
free of structure
frivolous in form
liberated from their cages
of strict understanding

Old Buildings

I inhale the poisons
the fruition of weapons
the cold of ice
the stings of venom

The frigid stick of frozen metal against skin
the splinters that dig in, unwilling to budge from my pores
the callouses on my hands that refuse to peel

…And attempt exhalations of understanding under blue moonlight

On Writers

To find a message bottled
in the depths of the unimaginable
sunk to lows unreachable by choice

Resurfacing with meanings shaped
formed through sentence
worded, penned and released
into worlds open and closed

Look what we have found

The romance in the mundane
the beauty lasting through from first to last impressions
A paper shall disintegrate
books may be burned
Writers will live on
somewhere between human perceptions and tongues
weighing not as heavy as the current that flows through their inscribing fingers

The Contract

The social contract
with separate clauses
the pauses in our rhythms
coordination in our clashes
the synchronized steps
I will remain with you until my contract no longer permits
until I regret our lonely continuance
curse my passive condition
silent in my dealing
transparent in my revealing
the fine print I read first
and enjoyed what was left
of this big picture