For now is this brief telling
of a society, a world, a small neighborhood,
this is the story
of you, and me, and the neighbors,
the kid running the sidewalk
We are going another direction
tonight, to a time, or maybe a familiar
reason to act this way,
let’s all pile in,
and witness the same over there.
For the have that you speak of need,
might lessen the burden for a not,
if little houses seem the pattern,
then certain marble castles,
with gigantic columns
only in a dream.
I’m talking about hair nets and fry cooks,
a lavender sport coat in the rain,
a polished makeover that let’s another
in their moment of truth, complain.
It is easily recognized in the car
she drives, for when he once did,
she became less incredulous
she could always do the same.
Let’s remember when,
our childhood brought us to a field,
where we play for hours, just with the
tall grass and sweet rains that
gave our hearts a reason to breathe.
For that’s when,
all the crying would end,
and a body alone,
could settle in to experience peace,
in the quiet rain.
She broke my heart today,
an actor trails off to a setting in a bar,
a drink in front of him he slowly circles the glass with his fingers,
his eyes seem to say,
she is the one that broke my heart, not me.
Here at home, I haven’t any facade to count upon,
only my life, my heart, my soul,
my who I am suddenly trapped inside this world of quiet
for that is what we are after all, much like Hollywood.
We play our role, we dance a number,
sing a song sweet melody,
the world is a happy and fulfilling place,
in celluloid visual special effects.
Here at home my tears are real,
while I am here and she is there, and we are both
our lives we find some healing grace,
and we’ll move on with only a nostalgic tear …
I guess after all life is a film studio..
When surreal begins to blend
our lives in a circle of fantasy
peddle a rhythm to depend
to fuel, imagine a wait and see.
We do try to recognize humble
outpourings of human condition.
What happens to our slow tumble
when love loses its basic fortune.
Do we stand up and begin a dream,
a matter of stepping outside chance
to weather the storm to what seem
shallow ignorance, a robotic trance
So let maybe your life speak release,
the delicious nature of a wanton peace.
are only redesigned
meant to suggest
some sordid frame of mind.
might create a sense of
from our reality of life.
When it happened,
I heard stories familiar
that could never apply
to anyone marginal,
only an indication,
a wonderment of
our living soul.
Will we ever understand
a basis of approval,
the sort that prolongs
beyond visual cues,
an internal clock
boggles the mind,
when the standard suggests
time is relative.
Inside the moment
a mortal choice.
I have become bored with lust,
well, that reciprocity thing is the cause
I suppose it was a matter of time,
before one more eye roll
while another shift in posture,
indeed, I imagine it was that glare,
caused me to suggest perhaps
aspirations were beginning to
falter in an exceedingly
pretentious sea of sardonic sanity.
I won’t make light of losing desire,
of withering toward an aging leaf,
crestfallen and snapping as life steps
firmly upon the soil of reality.
I’m simply bored with wanting when we wander
through life with constant parameters
legs that would kill if given the chance …
‘hurt me please’
Yup, I’m a little tired of lust.
There is a fantasy life that lives with our dreams,
we imagine so little of our egos need screams
yet in the morning I find myself constantly yearning,
one might after years what’s this we are learning.
I tried one time, when the summer air was hot
only to discover that my needs well they’re not.
I wonder if desire is an acquired taste that sours
when even in a moment, we feel these lonely hours.
I once knew a time where desire and passion rampant
controlled our world, left me sated and impatient.
That’s one thing certainly while the skies remain
holding the same candor, the moon laughs in rain
I want to believe this is part of what we need to achieve
yet I fear that my actions may lend me to grieve.
but only for awhile, because we all know true waking days,
we often discover we have been holding back our mores.
If in the moment we parted ways,
we could have allowed our energy
an open door to solemn authenticity
we might feel as compelled is today’s
hope for memory, a simple truth
lies before us drawn with ink stains
yet the absolute, the real, abstains
again, without an optimistic youth
we wallow in the real of our imagined
crisis, playing the role, asking to know
just how far have we, where to show
our own talents in contrast determined.
While the sea continues to churn in distant
waters, here on land the solid is consistent.