Tick - tock,
Sounds the dying hands,
Like bells that toll rife,
In ripened, chilly air,
And hands that stoop to fell
The seasons weary run.

Dust and dirt and minds,
And broken things reply
The token sounds:

Tock-tick-tock...

Again, again, in ceaseless
Strains chorused
From every waking yawn,
Till the lull of sleep approaches
Once again...

Decreed forever to make us dance,
Like foolish puppets,
Helpless brothers;
Hapless beings of chance,
Cousins of a controlled race.

Soul Dancing

sunlight
tumbling
rainbow drops

the clock stays still

and a shadow of a bird
trims across my thoughts

funny how this purpose
drifts me
ive been
though these before
felt the letters stirring
in thin sheaves
like wind
in the grasses

there are ruins
filled with sleeping
shadows
gates articulated
in dreams

and I feel your voice
on my shoulder
this sun is hot
and full soothing
touch
lingers

I feel so close
and so far away

Paved roads lead to interstates
which all wind up in a large city
where nothing good for me awaits
just crowded masses without pity

Yet when one goes the other way
road surfaces become unpaved
with just scant gravel over clay
where roadside growth is misbehaved

These are the roads which I prefer
where old trucks can leave a cloud of dust
while I seek fin, feather or fur
among a world I know and trust

gulls shriek a grey hunger
across my field of silence
morning ripens into Monday
and the dance begins,

cars whizz into traffic jams, doors slam
the world coming in and going out,
dogs bark their allegiance, the morning's Hallelujah chorus
still singing their bird song as if nothing else
mattered,

one day i will
stop searching crowds
i will lean backwards
to let fresh air
enter lungs
i'll inhale
colorless fate
that bleeds inside
expel you from veins
rich and thick with
the slightest graze
i won't beat down streets
causing night to pillowslip day
smothered with designs to
face your eyes with mine
strip your dignity
from the shady reasons
we
are not to be
and we will go off
into the blue
to see how things work out

When growing up, some friends boasted
They’ve become real men overnight
Had taints of mud in a wrestling match
They were bold to talk to any girl
My lack of gen dumbfounded them

You have not started, they chided me
Go back to the sand and play with toys
You still have a youngster's sense
I liked watching girls play, I was very shy
Afraid of hearing from them the word ‘no’

you know , today ,
i"m not exactely the same man
that i vas yesterday .
it"s different .
i mean i am i ,
but , with some 35 . 575 yesterdays
acumulated , colected in myself , in me ,
plus today ,
that tomorrow will be
an other yesterday ,
if meanwhile i shall not leave here
and co away for ever .

Styrofoam china
stacked high above the rim;
last night's slaw
squeezing the air,

but I can't be bothered.

My hair is greasy
it'll shape any way but clean,
the shabby beard offers
an I'm drunk look,

I only shrug.

I need to feel something more than depraved
like the loose-bowel symptoms letting go relieves,

so I'm waiting

and that's where I live
over-used and de-mused;
just take me out.

our bed
is a two-person island,
we are castaways
from other sides

in its center, we are lovers
making love in the art of
making war, sideless we
blend ripe juices of conquest
surrendered and satiated
like lords of the dance
far away
from mortal combat in the untamed
jungle of our bliss, ascending and
descending

vagabonds on a caravan
searching for the holy grail
thirsty for grace

sometimes the best conversation
is made, sometimes we have
nothing to say