i followed the pigeons to Gordon park just to hear them coo their electric feathers alive in the sun
she always turns a light on when she thinks of me checks under the bed to see if i left behind a kiss
a man can be no more ready for Feb… than he is for his own death bringing in the second wave of win… icy flakes whipping in the wind relentlessly low temperature
i entered into my junior high poet… with such a sense of excitement to share the craft that i had disc… just a couple years earlier a craft that my gramma had
stuck out on a ledge with no stairs no ladder and no one to catch me
brief landings never fool me my thoughts are made of tornadoes and I know the mind will never sit… “where the heart is” is the name of a bullshit map
dying to stay in tune they rattle eagerly to play one last song
sound becomes idea phenomenon of music as to hear a soul
a $5 footlong at Subway before a meeting on Thursday Burnin’ For You came on the speak… i wanted to call you
he remembers the grapes as they would vine through his blo… like galaxies looking for a home welcomed with a kiss from his alwa… stars tickled his heart
visceral were the nights we stood… each of us armed with an instrumen… and hearts that beat like tempos we put on a show but we weren’t put-ons
i kneel on two bad knees i clasp together two
in all restaurants madness overwhelms the staff spirits break like plates
i expose myself a show boat and a show pony i suppose myself a poet
Deep in The Milky Way they will meet again. Reflections, and shadows. Never-ending satellites crashing into never-ending stars.
