I have finished reading a novel.
It doesn't really matter
 whether it was short or long,
just strong enough 
to root in my conscience
and grow within
like little green tufts
in the snowless winter forest.

It is finished. It is gone.
It feels like a death of a pet. 
Reading is too distracting.
Stirring my entire being,
it makes impossible
                 to come back. 

running in place gets you nowhere
hiding out does the same
missing out on what life has to offer
methinks is a bloody shame

Almost every minute of living
I compromise to survive;
Cruise control in the middle lane,
And in the middle lane of life-
I wait my turn to be heard
And never preach my rage.
My budget determines which wine,
As I choose my ultimate style.
I would have stayed out late last night
But today I had to be on time,
So I tried to find love...

Just in a moment
our driver turned right
a car following at jet speed
overtook him,
Wow just slight...

Heaven knows why
the other guy
was over speeding

Maybe he had an appointment
Dating his gal in heaven
he would have had us as company

four hoping and laughing happily
post a dry run nice dinner

But at that instant moment
our driver had maintained
his mental presence
else NEO
would have been busy
posting an Obituary

poetry is our riskiest breathplay:
wringing throatgrip wrought from unringed fingers
blood-choking-out and about our routines

cross-faced confusion/ red-cell infusion
our Bodies Electric with Whitman's words
oh! Little death expression impression

dated, mated, asphyxiated
pen sputters ink in gasping sentences
oratorical rhetoric silenced

angered almighty 'ass-fixed', (apt statement)
two curmudgeons bludgeoned; Eros dungeon
rejoiced in moist merger, innocent ooze

Under a tree on a hill,
daylight silhouette,
a leaf fell blood orange death,
fell back and forth,
the tree exhaled winters breath.

I went to church with a bottle,
to meet withe the twelve apostles,
for atonement of tomorrow's plot,
for who I was,
and for who I was not.

I went to a movie,
my date was my dog,
our tickets were a gift,
in a black envelope,
a big fat spliff.

There is beauty in peace
Yet I avoid silence
It is late in the evening
All good people sleep

I am an owl type
I sit writing to you
There in my head music
The pipes of Pan tonight

It cuts out the noise I hear
Where it comes from I know not
Hiss whistle of no tune
To disturb my thoughts

I am a slave to writing
So to think there must be noise
But a noise of my choice
Not that damn white stuff

The clock out of the universe
Keeps me mediating
Like the ascending and descending of man
The agreed hour shall come
When the unvisitable moment is scheduled
And the frozen breath will be our victory.

As wavy as green plants
So do beings wagging and lagging
Unforgettable we must all know
From dust we arose to it we return
Power strivers are like hovers
Viciously we are grim reapers.

Kon ga, Kon ga Kon ga Kon ga
Kun du, Kun du Kun du Kun du
The ogene speaks in the hand of the priest,
With his one chalked eye of the gods
He dances in a circle like a cock approaching a hen
Hmnnnnnnn with a shake of his head, he sits.

Why will the gods inflict me with females?
The great hunter, and the best of farmers
I’ve married seven wives, still, the gods are silent
My name will not stop in my generation,
Eye of the gods if there's anything let them speak.