Something

She was crying, crying so very hard, and it almost sounded the same as hysterical laughter——It was a sound steeped in deep emotions. Emotions are strange and uncontrollable but never wasted. She had the fading foundation of a woman who in her younger years was pretty, No, not pretty—-She had once been beautiful. She’s my Sad Autumn girl.
Getting older is rough, even more so for a woman. Losing ones attractiveness is a cruel trick of time. There’s no punch line, just laughter and tears——and we all live somewhere between the two?
Kindness is more attractive than beauty 
right there and then
I wanted to change my life
We all want to
We are all
Afraid to live
Afraid to die
some days leave us feeling like forever

Somedays will never be forgotten
somedays show us what we’re made of
It would take all my strength 
To beat back the darkness
When did it get to be so hard
Maybe nothing and no one changes
Or, maybe it’s only me who changes
I don’t really know anyone
Anymore

And no one knows me

I prefer it this way
I wanna figure it out
On my won
I miss everyone
Everything hurts
Nothings easy anymore
How do I carry on
I just want something
Something to hold on too
But something is so hard to find
I’m lost in the wonder of it all
and it makes me cry and laugh
living somewhere between the two

Twilight

Forever forgotten
an empty chair 
at silent dinner table
China ware frail
Showing tiny fractures

Pious Stained window
from the back pew
of a prayer worn church
contrition on aching knee’s 
Quiet sobbing in the dark
 
midnight cars meander
rolling by in the distance
aimless forlorn headlights

The lonely bark of a dog at 3:05 am
The measured ticking of a incessant clock
Flickering starlight 
from Dying stars
forgive-less moon
chasing Blind skies
Waiting on a tardy sun
birth of twilight 
Shadows cast from dim windows
across dark silent bedroom walls

Rain drops against window panes
endless November nights
They say the world spins
But I don’t know
What to believe 

We are given no reasons
Holy books and funny papers
Knowing, that there is, no-knowing
What’s reality, what’s illusion
What’s it matter
we all must walk through the fire
And we do our best
To carry on






Private Moment

I bet you been on the other side of this thing before, but never with me

take me up to your room, to all those secret places

Take me to where nothing else matters

Shut the light off so I can see you better

the streets are full of people who have dreamed of having you

but they will never see you the way I do

cause I’ve seen you in me, and me in you

and maybe thats love, or a private lie

gonna dream in fire, roll like thunder

live like a child, lost in the wonder

the way of love

the way of change

don’t take the risk

if you can’t take the pain

You’re my mirror and I’m your echo

the distance between us grows ever closer

I bet you been on the other side of this thing before

but never with me

water colors, roll down your cheeks

a portrait painted in tears

I’d trade it all, for a private moment with you

Let the sky fall

and castles crumble

love becomes the truth

when your pride is humbled

the way of love

the way of change

don’t take the risk

if you can’t take the pain

Soul Muscles

I wanted to be 
Understood
To be irreplaceable
But even the mightiest of loves
Is adrift between illusion and fantasy

The chasm too wide
The silence too deep

You wanted me to be whole
You wanted me to be confident
You wanted me to be stable
But I’m none of those things
I’m vulnerable, kind, sensitive
And there’s nothing worse then being gentle
In a world stilted on false bravado 

The world rewards 
Angry bitter people

Such people
Wear me out
Drain me
Suffocate me

I’d prefer my solitude

Ya see
To be a poet 
It requires that you have
Muscles in your soul

You told me to grow up
But I said why
The world’s full of fucked up grown ups

The road becomes too long
Time blurs
Love’s a vapor

I let it all go
I let you go
I was being dragged
So, I let it all go


Scoring Your Writing Prowess

Points will be deducted from your “wanna be a writer score” If—–

you wear a beatnik beret, you blather on in esoteric multi syllabic non-sensible rants, sip soy lattes, cosmopolitans or smoke a pipe, chain smoke or have a Marijuana Medical Card, sport a goatee or soul patch, you speak in metaphors no one understands, you’re a vegan, you attend or teach Haiku workshops, you always have a bottled water and smart phone within reach, you have a degree in English, Journalism or communications,  your favorite Beatle is Paul, You play golf, you have a cat named Zen.

Points will be added to your “wanna be a writer score” 

If—you’ve hoboed on a train, if you have a recipe for chili beans, beef stew or anything containing spam, you either have no cell phone and if you do, it’s a pay as you go with a cracked face plate and numbers that stick, your car stereo is worth more than you car, you dig jazz (add five points if you can play jazz),  Your favorite Beatle is John, You know how to shoot pool, You have a dog named Buddy.

The Phases Of Writing

1. Fame makes great writers drunks and madmen

2. Fame makes good writers self conscious and reclusive

3. Fame makes okay (commercial) writers rich and predicable 

  1. Anonymity makes horrible writers drunks and madmen.

Be advised, being a drunk and a madman does not make you a great 

writer—but sadly, it often comes with the territory, see rule #1 and #4.—

If you don’t find any of this shit helpful, then go live your life and write about what you hear, see and feel, then have a taco—-

Helpful Hint

“Try and make the pretty stuff sound sad and the sad stuff sound pretty—” V Uriz

Feel free to substitute your word of choice in place of the word “pretty”—depending on your mood—

Teller of Tales

a crazed woman cut my heart out of my chest, she then carelessly disassembled it and put it back together all wrong, it was slippery with blood and hard to handle, so she shoved it back inside me where the organ for caring and giving a shit use to be…..these days I compulsively take my pulse in search of a rhythm, but all I feel is an occasional spastic fluttering in my chest, like a bird beating its wings against hurricane winds—and when it gets dark, it stops all together—

come closer to me, go ahead, lay your head on my chest, I’ll whisper, cause others may be listening—-at night those blues come stalking me, they peer through my blinds like some nefarious wide-eyed peeping Tom, leaving foggy predatory breath on the window pane—-the bleakness of it all tramples across the nothingness of another specter ridden midnight—I can feel my heart go still, like an unworn love left hanging in someones dusty closet, an addiction traded against a corrupted souls collateral, broken people warehoused like damaged goods, young kids with no fire in their eyes, an old guy going in circles on the metro for an as-semblance of company, the scent of morning rain on dirty pavement, damp leaves smoldering in the drizzle, the stench of alley piss—-time is blurring by like a whirl-wind whooshing past my car window on a Sunday drive to nowhere in-particular—-once again, I’m tired of me and how things get all twisted, I’m left staring into the futility of a gray weather beaten morning, realizing I’m no longer running from something, nor running to something—-I’m slowly being crushed under the ache that comes with knowing there’s got to be something better than this—-someplace—–somewhere—-cause this life is way to long to be miserable and far to short to be boring—its time I set that caged bird free, so lets get on with it boys—-

there’s too much pain in the world to believe I’m immune to it, or can hide from it—–or selfishly fear that I’m the only one being consumed by it—that would be a righteous sadness, the kind of sadness that beckons the lugubrious to replay a heartbreak love song over and over again.  Real sadness has no soundtrack, no words, no explanation—-its like tree sap that mysteriously shows up on your hands and can’t be washed off—-

people always ask me the same question “Was that story true or made-up?”   To be perfectly honest, I’m don’t know anymore.  Most of the stuff I once thought was true, ends up being a lie or an illusion, and what I thought was fiction (made-up) is just an alternative version of truth or reality that I’ve failed to grasp.  I’ve come to believe that what’s true, and what’s made up, is a predilection reserved for the teller of tales. 

but I do know this, one day that little bird trapped inside us all will be set free—-

Where You Are

We are all pilgrims, individuals on a journey, making our way between point A and point B.  We are not just travelers, we are solitary seekers, looking for a reason, a purpose and most importantly someone we might be lucky enough to call a friend.  The price of friendship requires that we reveal our secret flaws and hidden vulnerabilities in the hopes that in spite of these things, we will be accepted and understood. Because, to be understood is to be loved, and that is why we take such foolish risks—-Experiencing love is our reason and our purpose—-these things are beyond words, they are born out of fate. 

Where you are meant to be, is where you are.

Paint me Black

Paint me black
Paint me blind

There’s a sadness inside
Only you could find

 Love seems to me 
A half written song

Promises of forever sleeping 
Here then gone

I’m sorry for you
And all the things I’ve done wrong

Lets live, lets laugh
There’s no future living in the past

The song of silence
Erasing me from you

Pieces of nothing
Coloring me blue

Holding my breath
Counting to ten

Taking us to places
We’ve never been