Running Things

So much is e'er written,

So much is always read,

Makes you wonder how there is any time,

For any action left,

Though I suppose there are lots of people,

Who do not read at all,

Who have plenty of time to orchestrate,

The greatest way for the world to evolve. 

Which is great, bring it on, less work for me,

I'm sure it will be fine,

What do they say? 'Armchair philosophers',

Prescribing all the time,

Not having done,

Just thinking how't should be,

As long as the doers follow their guide,

Shit, I forgot that they don't even read. 

Letting Go

All things you must let go,
Like mom said, 'fore she died,
A memory's already diff'rent than,
That which you did deride,

If you hold on to your disappointments,
Like the moment's still real,
There'll be less and less time for the present,
And so those things that will help how you feel,

There's no exception to this nat'ral law,
Lies, violence or shame,
We are all born new every moment,
Potential to our name,

So, to our lives,
Like there's a second chance,
Informed by moments actually good,
Just like the steps to your favorite dance.

Lay It All Out

There's something to be said,
For laying it all out, emotions, memories, pain and despair,
Your weakness and doubt,

Uncertainty at e'en the words you use,
Though sure that they are right,
To instill the feelings inside of you,
As you ponder your existence at night,

The things that you've done and were done to you,
'Spite all you wish to be,
Ev'ryone would be forced to lay it out,
If it were up to me,

Then we'd be free,
Not doing stupid things,
Just to hide that fact that we're all human,
All with the same vulnerabilities

Word on the Wind

The wind will always howl,
Except for when it soughs,
Or whispers as you lie in your hammock,
Looking up at tree boughs,

It whistles when it catches something right,
Like it wants you to know,
It once was air not doing anything,
But always around to witness your woe,

Carrying your words across empty space,
As you try to connect,
Vibrating ear drums, then filling their lungs,
While you're filled with expect.

What will you hear,
When the air travels back?
Will your mind howl, whistle, whisper or sough,
Or simply  wish you'd ne'er taken that tack?

Oh Sun

The sun is bright and hard,
Glass sterilizing it,
Belying the chilling cold just outside,
Piercing homeless garments,

Its overbearingness causing headaches,
Like micro-managers,
Or parents unsatisfied with their lives,
Pushing their offspring to become doctors,

But only resulting in slain passions,
Unrealized potential,
We do not need so much light upon us,
The heat's detrimental,

It's distracting,
You have to turn your head,
Missing the half of the world that might lead,
To the place you were meant have excelled.

Breakfast Blues

The oatmeal in my gut,
Mixed with nuts and sugar,
Rained down upon with swallows of coffee,
Repairing my liver,

Fiber easing the passing of feces,
Though there's the stomach pain,
Hunger abated for such a short time,
Then my stomach will need more food again,


Masticated and mixed with saliva,
Peristaltic journey,
Plunged into acid and dissipated,
Somehow nourishing me,

Then out the back,
What the fuck's this about?
Like you change from birth to your final breath,
So we're worlds for other lives' ins and outs.

The Real Work

Just a thousand a day,
You look at it that way,
Eighty days, you will be able to say,
You have a first draft, nay,

You will have a first pass at an attempt,
One might e'en say a dent,
Kernel of an idea, p'haps nugget,
With a smidgen of what you really meant,

Then you will go back and tear it apart,
Few things left in your cart,
But precious, mined from the depths of your heart,
Representing your art,

Your own real truth,
Both genius and uncouth,
That is when the real work begins, forsooth,
When you show the path to grown-up from youth.

I Deserve More!

My computer don't work,

What I'm supposed to do?

Write on my phone until my thumbs fall off?

Could I dictate to you?

I want to throw this fucking thing away,

Never mind child miners,

Forget the odourless heap of tech trash,

That seeps poison onto the earth at birth,

So what if its cost could feed a family,

In some places for years,

We should focus on raising them up where,

They've got money for beer,

Not roll your eyes,

When I complain out loud,

You try enjoying your time here on earth,

Denied what you know's always left you wowed. 

Oh, Chocolate-Covered Almond

Poor chocolate-covered nut,
Encased in plastic tube,
Displaced from your home, now a world away,
Where you grew your first pube,

But you never stopped living, 'cause you can't,
No one can 'til they die,
But you have been processed, shipped, shelved and tagged,
Now you lay waiting until death comes by,

Or perhaps I will decide to save you,
You cost little money,
I'll take you home to a terrarium,
White flowers and long leaves,

P'haps you'll undress,
Dark dress melt in the sun,
Soil 'neath, that you may return to the earth,
Would that be a better termination?

Made It To The End

It is not trite to say,
Anything can happen,
The only proof that I'll not die right now,
Is that this poem ends,

With all of the rules and format in place,
Four, four, ten, etcet'ra,
Some ramdom creation with naught to help,
With shelter or sust'nence or my love for ya,

Just a task to do, to feel life has worth,
In this first world country,
Proving that e'en a white male with a house,
Has reason to feel beat,

By life's real'ty,
That ev'ryone's ideal,
Is ultimately the same in and out,
And impossible to make in truth real.

Imagine the Freedom

Imagine the freedom,
Being able to love,
Enjoying all the cuddles and softness,
Raising your heart above,

To heights beyond what this world can offer,
Outside of exper'ence,
If but for the realities that call,
For physical excrement assistance,

What if you ne'er had to scoop it again,
The smell and spill and time,
Erased, so the love can now just blossom,
Like a stretching lupine.

Just simple love,
Imagine the freedom,
It rolls off your tongue when you think 'bout it,
If it was for sale, everyone'd buy one.

The Perfect Phrase

What is the perfect phrase?
The one that says it all,
That once translated, speaks to everyone,
Uniting big and small,

Left and right,that's liberal and rigid,
Folks of all religion,
Those with greed in their hearts and the giving,
Regardless of race, gender or nation,

Whether the perfect nuclear family,
Or one not status quo,
Intellect coming out of the yin yang,
Or your knife's not so honed,

Naught would matter,
We'd instantly get it,
What was once difference would be difference,
To be celebrated, not corrected.

Falling

Don't know how long it was,
Darkness enveloped me,
No caresses but that of cold, stale wind,
Devoid of gravity,

A strange solution sucked in through a straw,
How long could that maintain?
My weakness when I fell into that jar,
Made me think I would not long be sustained,

Then to be denied a view of the world,
I'd paid so much to see,
Until it was sure my journey was lost,
Should anyone ask me,

Like I was not,
Between there and my here,
A whole slice of my life paid for the chance,
To live life free from oppression and fear.

A Liberal Nudge

The honeymoon's over,
The excitement's waning,
There is a short period of time now,
'Fore the flames need fanning,

Not that intentions weren't sincere,
But it is how things go,
All your good plans become a house of cards,
If you do not deliver them, Trudeau,

Not saying any of it is easy,
That's how you captured hearts,
But, bigger the promise, the more you hurt,
When they are all missed darts,

Good luck to you,
You may pull it out, yet,
If the world cooperates with your plans,
And you figure how to minimize debt.

R.I.P. David Bowie

There's nothing I can add,
To what he's done himself,
To somehow enhance what he was, alive,
All into which he delved,

Don't matter I've loved him since I was ten,
Changes, my sister bought,
With a pumpkin-carving contest award,
That I won, but she act'lly carved a lot,

Since then, I sang Bowie in the shower,
Bought his vinyl like mad,
I've talked about his genius to my kids,
From Duke to insane lad.

But now he's gone,
Suddenly, no warning,
Though he knew for months that he was dying,
R.I.P. sir, you deserve our mourning.

Neonomads

There are people out there,
Who live nomadic lives,
From country to country, from name to name,
What a way to survive,

No responsibility to oneself,
But to who they're being,
Ready to change when the law finds them out,
So what is it that they're protecting?

Certainly not their name or origin,
Cause of so many wars,
But their right to live outside of bound'ries,
War-starters, too, of course.

'But no!' you say,
They are out to disrupt,
To destabilize the countries they're in.
Which begs who was the first to be corrupt?

Back to Nature

Just look at that wood grain,
Dark lines of age throughout,
A snapshot of death, stained for good measure,
To eliminate doubt,

That it is anything but authentic,
No plastic was used here,
Thank god, for nothing's good 'bout synthetic,
Yet, death for a picture frame deserves tears,

Then, maybe a rethink of aesthetics,
It's not immune to good,
Beauty should demand to be natural,
Before it's understood,

Like these words, here,
Typed on a computer,
Made from plastic and blood-mined minerals,
A mind's message told through a vile detour.

What You Hear

If I really listen,
The hum here's really loud,
If but for the distractions all around,
It would make me flipped out,

But there is the music in the background,
A talking barista,
Crinkles of packaging, placements of cups,
Hellos, good mornings, nice days and see yas,

The light reflecting off the merchandise,
The glow off of my screen,
The thoughts visiting me amongst all this,
They leave the hum unseen,

'Til I listen,
And hear it once again,
What else is waiting to be felt by me,
Amongst these firm sensory distractions?

F Death

Death's a real asshole,
Who does he think he is?
He never comes exactly when you'd think,
Vexatious quirkiness,

You e'er feel you should have done different,
But only have one chance,
Before he snatches away those you love,
With only their memories to enhance,

Like the times you could have told them something,
To make their life better,
You scream them now, hoping that they will hear,
But it will ne'er get there,

Or, you don't know,
Just like you can't see Death,
Just think 'bout all the time thinking of the passed,
That could be used on those who have not died, yet.

Warm Up

It's getting cold outside,
Too much for the body,
The chill would kill you if had no coat,
At least a hot toddy.

To warm you from the inside, heat your flesh,
Though you will need a lot,
Then, by the time you're done you'll be fucked up,
Not know where you are, more likely than not,

Wake up on the sidewalk, chilled to the bone,
If you're not actu'lly dead,
Then what do you do, drink more hot toddies?
P'haps try a coat instead.

That's what I do,
Now, I can afford it,
It's possible you have money for naught,
Get a flight to Miami and board it.

Your Spot

When you have a table,
That you consider yours,
E'en though it belongs to a company,
That sells coffee pours,

Many more than you will ever consume,
And if you did the math,
You sit and drink there five tenths of the time,
The stool graced by many other an ass.

Still, should you come at your regular time,
See someone sitting there,
The anger that wells up inside of you,
Sometimes cannot compare.

Why should that be?
The coffee shop will close,
You'll outlive that spot you appear to need,
What questions our possessiveness does pose.

Gone Girl

Wanna talk perspective?
That's all that this film does,
By way of a convoluted story,
And a length arduous,

That makes you think one thing from the onset,
Then something else again,
Without giving away munch of the plot,
You are thinking something else by the end,

As are all of the millions watching screens,
Following the same plot,
They too, thinking different from start to end,
Sic, not thinking a lot.

But then there's truth,
Still not clear at credits,
Not to give the movie more than its due,
Believe everything if you've read it?

Fifteen Dogs

Didn't want to read it,
Haven't finished it, yet,
The prospect of watching dogs learn to think,
Seemed like a book for vets,

And that their gift should be bestowed by gods,
My god, what year is this?
Next one of the dogs will dress like a bitch,
Then, funny, be mounted by one bewitched,

Or they'll all band together to save us,
From global climate change,
In the final scene, the world will unite,
Dogs released from their cage,

But it's not that,
At least not up to now,
It's like I have myself just learned to think,
Wond'ring why I haven't put myself down. 

The M Train

She has written so much,
In her poetic style,
Metaphors tripping into lucid dreams,
Added to endless files,

Scrawled in notebooks and on café napkins,
At her corner table,
Or searching graves of poets who've left us,
Completing missions they weren't able,

Leaving at their tombstone her epic's fruits,
Are they for her or them?
A Polaroid marks the moment for her,
So, they live longer, then.

Not a bad trade,
Passing the scribe's baton,
And one day, when Patti's with Fred again,
May there be another to pass it on.