Here’s To You Old Sport

i walk on the inventions of

men

before my time.

i’d trade concrete for mud,

asphalt,

for grass,

rubber,

for sand.

I live with the conventions

of men before my time.

and i’d trade corporations

for barter,

hiearchies,

for parallel level friends,

marriage,

for mutuality.

i get fooled by the suggestions

of men

before my time,

like painting myself with lead based

paints,

it takes time

for what the other generations

have told us to do

to really tear us apart.

we would flame bright hues of change

to undo what is deemed undooable,

to fix the world so we can prosper in it,

if only you haven’t already

subdued us

with everything we need to

make no evolution

at

all.

Get Off My Foot So I Can Move Ahead

as i take the unfamiliar clay

into my hands,

the first thing i notice is the way

it stains my hands

red.

Traces of it wedge between the wrinkles

of my fingers.

but it’s warm

and now not so unfamiliar.

it’s like the right song at the right time,

water to dry lips,

perfect for the moment.

It makes me laugh as crumbles

fall to the floor like

rubber balls.

They would play a melody had they

fallen on a xylophone.

It’s like anything else in the world

we cherish.

you don’t compare the feeling it gives you

to any other feeling.

it’s unique,

its a storming down the door of  dull moment’s home

and proclaiming

“not this moment my friend,

in the name of Feeling Anything,

not this moment.”

and it’s deeply personal,

it is stamped in your mind

and does not share exactness with

another (although you may believe it).

and yet…

we still tie our shoes together and try to run

fighting for the  recognition of our

own moments

brilliance.

we still shoot progress in the foot

by taking our feelings

and beating them with worded bats

into the helpless.

Let me have my clay,

let me have my songs,

let me have my moments,

ehh…..

you couldn’t have taken them

away anyhow.

The Formation Of Middle Class Ideals

One person,

bottles up another person,

who bottles up that other person,

and nothing real ever gets in

again.

All It Takes Is One Fall

civilization can melt into a

puddle

of tears,

and i will watch.

i will see presidents of Nations

double smirks

turn to fear

as the good ones run for their love

and the bad ones hide

underground.

as the bases of all we have built the

world to be

crush and crumble and tear apart,

the inexperienced neglected lovers

disengage with the present troubles of

wealth and lacktherof,

and reel back far into the past

when their lives were where

they wanted them.

i’ll watch the dreamers step

towards the actions of their imaginations

and fight with their hearts

for the hope of mankind.

as the ends of many are

met,

innocence will fall under the crumbling foundations,

and maybe it will be acceptance

of all they avert their eyes to

that will save them

or  the “why me’s”

that will not.

character needs a moment

to find itself,

morality,

well that just needs a chance

I Think It’s Time For Scenery

when i walk down the

dark rusty streets

of my mind,

i feel some peace.

i understand the brooding smile

of the dark skinned

brunettes

who look at the world with

brown

tired

eyes.

When i’m there,

the dusty doorhandle

never chalks my fingers,

the dim lights hide my scars

and turns

flourescent the night.

glowing radiant sparksleshowers

of fantastic adventures

fill my head

and i am off.

It’s a world i hate to hate.

i envy their hollow holed eyes

staring at the walls of their

pasts.

i want a shoulder of sorrow

to carry.

i want a ton of grief to

fill my skin.

It won’t however.

When the sparks

hit the ground

and their light rampages

into the darkness,

and as that world of failed sadness

begins to disappear,

no disaster is that beautiful,

i just

can’t

fail.

A Rare Public Admission

This is  a rare admission in the most public of places.  I guess it has always been coming and going

over the years so often that i figured it would always be there for me.  foolish, i guess.  it’s not so much  a fascination with the wild ideals of youth, but i firmly believe that it is those vastly innocent ideas we held when we were younger that are the very medicines that pull us out of the stuffy clasps of the “real world”.  The “real world” is like a defeated man’s paradise.  It’s where the losing boxer goes.  It’s full of would of’s and i could do better’s, and if i only had the chance’s.

I think back to when i was little.  The worlds i made were the worlds i lived in.  They were true to me, they led me to happiness.  The important thing was that no thought was chained to the ground.  Ideas flew, imagination flew, and with that creativity flew.  There was many times i had met a girl and knew i was going to marry her.  There was nothing in my sight to see otherwise.  I had blinders to failure.  I was seven and this was the way it was going to be.  Think if people could only follow their hearts the way we did when we were young.  think.

This all comes from a blaring omission in the manual to life, “why has it been made so hard to follow our dreams?”   There are the things we want to do and the things we have to do.  Maybe it’s the way we handle the have to do’s that really determine if we ever do the want to do’s.  The have to do’s for some of us are the same as the want to do’s.  And i really think i just answered my own question…

Leaves Under Feet

the leaves crunch under my feet

as i walk to the last day

of my life.

clouds swirl grayish hues

across the sky,

even the beams of the sun

have dust in them.

i run my hand through my hair

and i close my eyes.

i hear i’m supposed to see my life,

but i don’t.

i smile blindly into myself

and am contained

in what i am.

i have a couple hundred steps left.

there’s a song in my head,

it’s a black and white

happy sadness

two lovers converge on empty streets

and you only need yourself to feel that

kind of song.

the leaves keep crunching under my

feet

and the swish adds a sting of color

to my song,

my last song.

i wish i could have that layer of untouchable sadness

that the END has on

people,

but i can’t

i dont.

i am happy,

and not to die.

it’s just,

once you see the way it all wraps up

your free to finally be who

you

really

are.

The Crimson Hours

roses,

are the crimson spokes in the lovers

wheels

as the rusted car belts it’s off tune

down the desert road.

each stick of red flower

thieves to hide away what the brain

knows

as

truth.

this morning will not last

longer than the next oil change.

you enjoyed buying the rose,

but knew it was only a purchase

to purchase

time.

and when the day comes just let the petals burn

away.

when their fragrance leaves the room

the truth comes whistling back,

and do you really want to be there

for

that?

Life Keeps Sleeping While We Knock Furiously

death is the only end that

actively seeks us

all.

life,

doesn’t even come

when your fists pound on

it’s oak front door.

living is a warm cup of water

that everyone passes up

for

the cold one.

accepting life is accepting

spastic sporadic moments

of unknown disasters

but death,

is the same way across the world.

we are here

and then

we are not.

it’s plain and true.

we will mourn, we will cry, and

we will

move

on.

but life,

life is the card dealt last.

it begs to ask,

“is this really what you want to do?”

and we cowher for a moment,

wondering,

“why wouldn’t we want to?”

and then we live a little.

and we lose people.

and we lose powerful invisible

truths.

like the innocence of a strange friend

on the playground

when your three

and wide eyed.

we love

and we lose love

on rainy nights,

in dark cities

of our empty hearts.

we are in a blender,

it’s set on high,

and the only ingredients

are the memories of

what can be

what should be

and what is.

and we’re asked again,

“why live this life, why live any life?”

and were mute,

we cant answer.

here we are at the edge of

the world

burning on fire

and we can’t think of a reason

to put ourselves out.

thousands of people burning

aimlessly.

we don’t reply.

we can’t yet.

our lives move forward slowly,

more meticulous than before,

avoiding the spots

that have held us in fear.

we walk, and walk and walk.

more people crumble around us.

more lovers come through our

rusty doors.

our joints grind us forward to

THE

goal.

we are tired,

we are worn.

it is a long time past from the

day

we

were born.

finally,

death is coming.

it knows where i have been all

my life.

it’s passed the grocery store

and it’s gliding towards my house.

and

when death totes it’s head through

the blinds in my room,

i

won’t be

there.

“why do you want to live?”

i can hear it ask.

“because i don’t know

any

other

way,”

i can finally answer.

We Are All Bitten Apples

when i bite an apple,

i reconstruct

what should be there,

and deconstruct

what is.

and it works much like my life.

young,

energy without supplements,

imagination,

without smoke,

love,

without questions,

possibilities,

without doubt,

a world,

without boundaries.

people begin to take bites

out of us.

no longer do we live

and let live.

its a 55 in a 55,

two hands on the wheel,

eat three meals a day,

be normal or you’re wierd

type of world.

the bites begin to brown.

we grow older (we think wiser).

we have money

and

everybody else wants it.

greasy scams,

false claims,

large neon lights lit on lies,

expose more of ourselves,

tear away our red skin.

we’re naked,

we’re paranoid.

people shout from above and below us,

“give up your dreams,

it’s just not worth it.”

and that’s the bite that finishes

us

off.

the dreams,

that once held

hope

that the brown rotting bites

would grow us whole again,

are gone.

all we end up are

brown

rotting

cores

of what we once were.