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Patrick says he knew if he didn’t learn to love other people or himself —what’s the difference?— he would die a junkie Patrick says he might be able to stay clean for a while: long minutes where hope is birthed and dies between the pulse of the punch clock Patrick says he can’t love you or anyone if he needs your love because then it’s just business or addiction —what’s the difference?— but Patrick says he won’t die under that thumb
I lack faith in the power of words I have faith in the Creator Words ain’t a thing Words are often wasted But if I stopped writing, It wouldn’t save even one tree For every lie that can be destroyed, Someone can make ten more Truth is infinite But for us, misunderstandings seem even more so The Pen may be mightier Than the sword but It also has a higher learning curve I don’t have faith in life, I have faith in The Living Life ain’t a thing Lives are often wasted But if I stopped Living It wouldn’t save even one person It is easy to kill Easier still to die And birth is slow and difficult So, Here’s to The Living.
Okay stranger, plug a dollar in the jukebox, some forgotten country twang. Like cigarette smoke staining my eyes, watch me rise like a moth to the ceiling fan. This dive of don't speak so often and old men counting dimes for a drink. Is there another joint as sad as this one? A tall glass of whiskey emptied like a long swim. And on the bar top, left like a tip on a bloody napkin, someone's tooth—
We are talking Smiling finishing each other’s sentences looking into our souls through the eyes escaping nothing unafraid we move in comfort Walking thru a field of daisies laughing encouraging reciprocative words on our backs we feel the earth move realize the same bunny in the clouds i awake knowing you are my friend and i am yours
I’m ready to wrap up my current situation find a place at the West 4 Street station spend my days reading poetry for tips
high in a tall pine been here a long time this tree’ll go before we do
two car-lengths between my idea and your reality
A small sadness balloons into a creature you never imagined these walls could ever contain. All of the colors of the solstice are washed across its massive frame—bulbous and ready to burst into floodwaters. Its growth is gradual then terrifying, and you are left wondering where it should remain since you cannot leave it inconspicuous. You realize too many people build things without understanding there will be repercussions and that the real tragedy lies in the aftermath of creation.
I scuttle across the hot sharp sand up and down the dunes past rocks the size of Volkswagens through jungles of dried seaweed And there before me is the mountain I seek It is the Pao de Acucar rising out of the sand which I climb And I become Christ the redeemer Standing on the top of your big toe Gazing heavenwards at your copy of the New Yorker Held by those mysterious hands
Castles without kings Queens void of meaning Our princes and princesses left dreaming Of clean streets, walking dogs, and white picket fences Of sun shine day with fewer clouds of rain Brought about by causes The effects of our consequences The devil wrecked our defenses Destroyed our families Chaos in the black community Left with the bag of tragedy Epic sagas We make poverty look good Wearing Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Nike, and Prada We need mending With happy endings We are conditioned to accept lies given Our identity eliminated We are not what we were destined to be They were thieves Molding us unto their liking Now they spitefully Take what belongs to us and become blasphemous We are lost Needing to come unto the knowledge of the King and Queens we really are We are great Numerous as the stars Healing may still come after the scars The world needs back our Kings and Queens Queens wombs possessing the birth of many dreams Castles with their Kings Our princes and princesses living their lives with wings ©2014
Her arms Pressed So brilliantly To her chest Is a shield Against My back Turned To her Pouring Her favorite Chips In a bowl So I can feel Her armor Jumping Up And down With an almost Unfound Utterance She says it, Says she does Me, unwound When I know It’s what I’d give Anything for To hear How even The blue A plastic bowl I must forget As her words Sound Clear as when She brings it Back empty Again She’s found A way To sway again Left into What is Right Through me.