railroad views and junkyard blues

settled in
complicated simplicity
listening to songs of the dead
remembered in reverent rehabilitation

virtual construct made flesh
imitating humanity
through slow revision
and lazy adaptation
i’m sipping 3.99 wine
and picking at dead skin
with no more hope for sin

a brief moment of bliss
then dismissed

i died twice,
once in spirit
once in mind
i’m waiting for
the third death

i’ve written and discarded
enough poems
to fill a junkyard


this notebook is a
temporary vocation
a sanitized abdication
breeding a new and final

cigarette shade
and something stirred
restless, wild, breathless
interpretations blurred

i sense senile mobility
and peaceful dictation
as nature battles the matrix
for an epic creation

the misfits are lost
as the railroads are rocked
mocked, and deadlocked
they’ve been conquered and claimed
by civilized society
and now present
nothing but tactile symmetry
on a gentle landscape

stop the clock please
no more
adult half measures
we are done
lying down with bizarre words
on the shores of
today and tomorrow
remembering circles within cycles
and speaking truths
on living rooftops of yesterday

barefoot, bamboozled and
worn delicately
i’m waiting for action
or at least
a mild distraction

drunk on a moment of loneliness
it’s time to read different poetry
it’s time to seek different women
it’s time to be an artist in the ghetto



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