It Would Be Nice

It would be nice to think I could do something right for a change
That I could a part of my life
That I needn't rearrange

I skip about so freely
Seldom stopping to think
My mind whirls like a bicycle doing a wheelie

It would be nice if some thought could be shown
Perhaps at long last the right decision made
Not another situation blown

I could really stand to feel good about it all
Would be wonderful to sense some order and direction
Not like I was taking another fall

It would be nice to think that I could count on me
That reliability and steadfastness in myself
Was something others could someday see

Moments

Dripping seconds gone forever

Time going nowhere

Empty

Thoughts

Dying 

Fading embers

The purity of those moments

When the life force

Is surging and I

Am actually doing something

There be the light

A question

How important to ask

To be able to seek

Exploration

Essence of the soul

Distilled into moments

Never lost

Always 

A gain

Of radiance

Wear it

“I am the false character that follows the name around.” - from White Noise by Don DeLillo.

Lighting and tall lean legs of light leanings and lost purposes

I carry with me the angry cacophony of the desperately lost

People who wander from thought to thought but can’t stand the notion of settling into any one of them

As if deep contemplation were a book and they favored television

I have felt their rages at all that life has denied them

So harried from place to place

So desperate for a taste of yesterday

Supposing that the leisure of the past is reality

I wonder

Who will help them grasp reality as they cling to the words of hate emanating from radios and TVs

And written across websites and repeated in bars and golf courses and hunting trips And wherever the intellectually timid gather

Cascading, tremulous voices disengaged from everywhere

All the notions taken in and spit out and the bile remains to sicken the mind

Lost children I have heard you

I shun you because I am just the saint of better tomorrows

Pray to your heavens and curse your fates

But leave me

I am going

So soft the names of angels and tired lessons

We learn from the awakenings

We who are brave thank you.

My Own Tragic Hands

My own tragic hands. 
Drunken sousaphone players. 
My death at age infinity from causes unknown. 
All the lonely nights I spent looking for the incredible whiteness of her being. 
These laments so profound that the dark night fairly ripples as I cry out for you and only you and the edge of nothingness approaches but I cry. 
Not. 
There is love and there is eternity and there is the madness of the man on the precipice. 
I tried to fake it. 
But no more the tears than the wasted years of everything I ever said or did. 
And still I dream.

There are apples that explode with the juices an mingle with the saliva and spell the word healthy. 
I munch. 
You love me. 
You who are so lost sometimes in the passing cascade. 
Come to me, my love. 
Share in the tomorrow of my yesterday. 
As I strip away the false hopes of tender hearted lies. 
We who are happy smile.

Put Off Until Tomorrow

I delay delay and again I delay
Forestall put off
A pro at procrastination
Adept at...
Never mind too much work to go on
Must set this aside for later
There is no greater cause then...
Oh bother -- another
Can't let this go on
Spun out of the way
From the fray
Cannot conceive of...
Hold on
Hang on
Just a sec
There's no rush anyway
And so I die
With much undone
What for fun?

A Hot Day in Berkeley

A hot day in Berkeley
Is a bad day in Berkeley
City not made for heat
All the scruffy looking people
Who dwell in this city
Look all the scruffier
The streets are dirtier
And more desolate
AM radios blasting
Cars, cars, cars
Everywhere there are cars
With people in them
Being hot
And they blast more noise
More heat
Hairy men in shorts and sandals
Looking hairier then ever
Bad smells are worse
All the trash bins seem overflowing
No one is happy
People in wheelchairs whir by
Joggers sweat past you on busy sidewalks
Sweating bicyclists crowd onto sidewalks too
The assholes
No central air in the house
Just a weak little fan
Praying for the fog

Except For The Simpsons

Soft like a dream or kisses from an angel. 

Gentle breezes and complex whispers buttoning my caresses so that I could face the day. 

Then the walk was over and I faced the snarling reality of 

What should have been home and hearth.

Only my fantasies could protect me now. 

Feed them the pulsating rock music, or tickle them with a novel. 

Or sedate them with television. 

You accursed box, dulling my mind since early childhood. 

Telling me your feeble stories, refusing to challenge me or ask me even the simplest questions. You great pacifier. 

You ugly menace to society. 

You purveyor of indelicate lies and trodden hopes. 

Death of the mind your spawn. 

I shouldn’t have had you as a lover. 

But we all risk it.