The Bookstore

Bukowski had his bar stool

the last seat at the end,

Shakespeare had his room

in the back of the theatre,

Thoreau had his cozy pond estate

among rural Boston trees,

this egregious little amateur has his table

in the corner of a book store.

It has everything I could ever need:

bitter and sweet coffee,

the company of every great soul

to ever slow dance with a pen,

the graceful movements of strangers

with endless mysteries I’ll never know,

some woman in a red sweater

that I can fall in love with

while she flips through used poetry.

This is my castle,

my muse,

my blank canvas.

If I could instantly travel

through any breath of time,

any scene of space,

anywhere in the whole of existence:

I’d go

maybe half a foot to the left

for just a little more leg room.

Unexpected Lover

The sound of rain water

dripping off the roof,

The white lights of the west

dancing with porch-light orange,

The view from my balcony

with its majestic consistency:

This is not the woman I thought I’d love

This is not my expected muse –

But my god

she is gorgeous

and oh how she loves me.

Again the Dam Breaks

My soul is like paper

yours eyes, my love, the rain

and a rusty chain

bends just enough

until it breaks in pain.

My heart’s a closed window

your smile, my dear, a stone

and these weeds have grown

much too high now

for the tulip reeds to show.

These nights are cool waters

our ties, my sweet, a dam

and each efforts claims

these things won’t break again…

then again

and again

the Dam keeps breaking.

Yet late at night,

I still pray

those raging waters

took you somewhere softer.

Waiting on the Rain

I sat across from him

a decrepit old man breathing

into lungs of sawdust and glass.

I slowly slide over some tea

his hand shakes as he reaches for it ,

How did you do it? – I asked

“Well it may get dark

and there may be pain

but air tastes sweetest

right before the rain”

His face had these lines

these deep trenches. Like each

memory, was dragged across his face.

But the sea of lines

parted when he smiled.

“don’t you dare give in

these times won’t stay

my boy this sky,

will shortly rain”

His papery hand reached out

to grab my hand.

He squeezed with all his might.

I stood from my chair,

I kissed his forehead,

then got up to leave.

My Personal Jesus

to the Blockbuster district manager

to the tape deck enthusiast

to the pay phone repair specialist

to the ambassador of the Ottoman Empire

to the kid playing Jazz

to the soul singing Opera

to the fucking Fool,

writing his little Poems

don’t let it die

or wither

please try

keep trying

be my sacrifice

by my personal Jesus

die trying

so I can keep living like this

Reading to Walt

Late at night you lay beside me

vibrating like the love and kindness within you

is simply too much to contain.

Whatever room I am in

you are not far away

sleeping under desk or on window sill.

You sweeten the energy of whatever room

that you grace with your vibrancy

like a spoon of sugar in a cup of tea.

I want to explain how much I love you

to unravel the multitudes of your perfection

so that you understand

but you won’t understand

and that is okay,

so I settle…

for scratching behind your ears.

Fingerprints of Strangers

I wake up to a meow,

my new cat nudging

his head against my

side. As I look into

his mint green eyes

I wonder about the

person who gave

him up. Too sweet

and too brave to

never know love.

(He knew to come

to the sound of a

bag of food.)

Wiping the crust off

my long week, off

my meek eyes. I look

out at a tree in blossom.

I notice how many

apartments face the

tree. How many souls

staying and left,

smelled the tree

in its spring bloom.

I slide into a bath,

reading a poetry book.

Used. Ten dollars.

I get to a page

dog eared in the

corner. Someone else

loved my animal.

Someone else smelled

those blossoms. Someone else

read this poem. Felt like

I did. My environment,

this conveyor belt of

other souls. I never met.

How easily I’d trade all

my futures. To meet

them in their pasts.

I got to the end

of the marked poem. It’s

last words:

“But I don’t weep,

do you?”.

I looked at the dog eared page.

I heard my cat cry.

I could no longer smell

the blossoms in the tree.

I put my face in my hands

and then I wept.

Will you?

Highway of Wishes

I wish the highway

would wash away from under me

taking with it

all these long seconds

so void of voice

lonely of laughter

I wish each patch

of broken asphalt and dirt

would lead me some bit closer

to the softness of your palms

to the slow drag of finger tips

I wish these roads

could lead me to a closer place

where I can dance and play

among those wild youthful eyes

I wish I could whisper my love

against the nape of your neck

instead of mumbling about it

in a restless sleep

Oh highway of wishes,

take me somewhere new

take me anywhere

just take me to you

Summer Spirit

If I could ever find God

it would be on this cold step

feeling the grace of a warm sun

kissing freckles onto my cheek.

If I ever heard god’s voice

it would ring against these walls

with the same sugary melody

as these summer song birds.

If I evert felt god’s presence

I imagine the waves of love

would keep me here floating

in a similar sense of peace.

but I haven’t found God

heard her voice or

felt her presence fall over me.

However, in this moment now:

with its glowing sun,

serenading birds,

and calm air,

well –

it has a special kind of divinity

all its own.