Flying Kites in the Subway

I return to visit my words weekly,
And swallow the wisdom as my religion

I am a writer, prophet, and a philosopher looking not for a pulpit,
But words stolen long ago

To love women is what I desire.
Lies, love, and breakfast in bed.

I read my friend Bukowski,
And do not know how to truly take him in from the streets.
I see him and I on the same train together, but years apart.
We read the same newspaper, same stories, and secondhand triumphs.

Eventually the game of my life blends with my epic fiction and the
Way I choose the world to be rolls out on the field to play ball.

The walks along the river, ocean breezes, women scorned, and subway trains become the same.
The stories are a journey of windy days long deceased.
The memories are now worn out kites flown in the skies of majesty and pulled from the branches of life as if a tall pecan tree.

Traffic signals and Philosophy

I was separated many full moons ago from society

I search for my greener grass and

An automatic response and possibility to be with those people

 

I write today and find a comfortable separation

I ignore the urge and keep my space

No gateway to understanding is needed

and I refuse the signal to join them

 

I am a possible storyteller

I could be a poet

A plausible philosopher of economic abandonment

An interpreter will hold your hand shortly

 

My Sails are in full course

and I have found the center of effort

My compass shows the right heading

An island all my own

 

I mix my poetry and my tales with my daily routine

I pay my bills with my deceit and

Write lies to one day own my debt

 

Immortality is not an easy journey

Tonight I pack my pen and moleskin

I attempt to beat artificiality into a structure

Servitude no longer my course and my artwork will present itself.

Singing to a muse

Baby, you are on my mind
I invented you and as I wonder if you exist,
I know you are special whether I taste of you or not.
You left a mark, and I lost you within my words

You are a forbidden fruit I am biblically allowed to stare at
Your delicious taste is for other men and women and I am only left with an empty tree of knowledge

The task of desire and hearing the song you sing is a seventh day task
Rest and being lost for someone else in this world
I know you understand the situation
And no longer sing along to my song
You are the muse that refuses me
Technology cannot reach you and your unrequited soul.

Train Tracks and Steamer Trunk Memoirs (third installment)

Train Tracks and Steamer Trunk Memoirs (third installment).

Train Tracks and Steamer Trunk Memoirs (Continued)

Train Tracks and Steamer Trunk Memoirs (Continued).

Seether- Immortality

Train Tracks and Steamer Trunk Memoirs

Train Tracks and Steamer Trunk Memoirs.