Will light the colors of your imagination
With floating reminders of
Times not had.
I sometimes roam through streetlights
Not remembering
Having drunk too much as I
Often do
Designing upon shameful occurrences
Intrigued only by destruction.
Streetlights light the way
And I follow this path always
As a man so easily detected
And derided
Streetlights light the way
Till late dawn appears
Till dew is felt
Till I must be a tired man toiling
At a desk responsibly.
There I sit oppressed as most men are
Gazing at a screen transfixed
Or more like frozen in horror
Wondering is this how it ends
For those with souls.
What will light me a path
Out of here
Anywhere but here
In the shadow by the dumpster
Searched indifferently by the blaze
Of a moving car. I should sit huddled
Never wanting to return.

So today I saw her

amid the morning going towards afternoon,
Sitting rapt not ravaged
By the screaming insects
By the burning bush summoning
Me to remove my sandals
And to kneel.

I don't know what called me then,
Her gentle confidence in my ear
Said without reserve that for which
I was unaccustomed
And I stood listening
Unimpeded by time
By space
And by those around me
Who senseless stood
Unimpressed and I not caring.
This I reluctantly robed before you
Who you should mock
In your mundane undertakings
There I saw her in the morning
I morphing
Into who I no longer knew
A free man.


My feet on the floor 
battering the wood below
who art thou peasants?
Do you live the thug life as I do
scampering about the streets
eating snacks forbidden to bores
drinking what drunkards do?

In the heartbreak broken
unencumbered by the remembering
I nap upon a bench though house I have
nobody to call my home.

You, feeling the meager pull of my words
not impacted by my nonsense
I see it my will persisting.

What I spill here, incomprehensible
what I give you not the snooze

for the snooze is what you live
what I live is the night time.


the manner in which we must navigate
through people at times

The bartender was about the bag
who tried to charge me for a drink
saying this one's on me

Drunk I was but not so drunk
sad I am but not so sad
that I take my eye off the ball

You say oh that's cliche
but I saw you doing
the same thing yesterday
everyone's done
and you feel no guilt

I drink to you and my sadness
and your life
a cliche

Ugly people and their nostrils

 are ever present on the street on the subways
and sometimes even your homes.
They breathe and you can hear them breathing
and then they touch you.

You can only coil into a ball in the corner
clutching your skull
as the weight of 8 billion bodies
descends on it.

We were the menliest

of men, wearing fanny packs and fedoras
clutching our handbags, getting our feet rubbed
thinking that eventually
our boredom will flutter

So last night I ate a human being

I ate the creature with salt and tomato sauce
I had it with wine

So good the human
seated I on a chair at a checkered table
at the end of the world

Woody the wine like some
wine are, perhaps the cheap ones
that taste just fine.
Black and purple my lips
at the end of the world

The many plants on social media

 that are displayed by a stranger's window
a window through which you only view
views predetermined
do not belong to your house
nor any house but to wishes
carved into your brain

Your serious friends who follow the script

 who know their lives before they've started
because their parents wrote them
I don't resent you but I mourn your life corralled
into neat little spaces
in offices and public transportation
wearing predictable garb acceptable to employers
wearing a life long worn yet wasted.

Mal has no feelings

 Who is cool and cold and rarely concerned
uninterested in the plays and museums
uninterested in you for there's a function
for people to which you're uninteresting.
He has no feelings and that's okay
to be a robot sat plump upon a stool
to be the unoffending ember never burning too deep.