The hills

Way above the city

Where the dense fog lay

Is a town

Sleepy and slow

With shadows over the town

Trees and roads

Wind carelessly

Through hills and valleys

We rest upon these hills

And regain


Countdown to Feeling

The feeling of departure

Leaving a situation

A city

Streets of the commonplace

A place

Where the hole human race

Walks the same streets

I will be sad to depart a city

But for great opportunity

I must let go

In order to grow

The city has taught me

Many lessons

Now I must go


Spilled Milk on the Red Line

Spilled milk on the Red Line

Veins of white

Rush down the floor

“That ain’t mine”

The lady with two hats on yells

The man

Visibly exhausted with his head back

Is not one inch close to conscious

As the white pours through the isle

Pictures being snapped

A moment catches

The woman with the bike laughs

Late night Red Line

Public transportation

Strange spilled iterations

As the winds wind through

The tunnels

Below the streets

Of L.A.


New Brew




Start the clock

Green beans fill the roaster

With another batch

Of sweet fresh coffee

On 6th Avenue

To be sent all over the city

Fresh cups to fill

Warm sport to enjoy

On a cold winters night

Desperation of Desolation

The desperate times

Desperate measures

Come up with something good

A productive measure

In times worn thin

As the veil of light

Through the morning curtains

We have to continue to

Rely on food decisions

To set us right

Old Time News

Street views

Of old time news

What comes in the wind

In the morning or at night

Old time news

Learning from the past

Our own goal

Window pane strolls

On Sunday afternoons

These Days of Wonder

Somehow the future

So quickly slips to the past


Yet as smooth as a escalator

Carrying forth with no


The days of wonder go by

From a cafe in Williamsburg Brooklyn

I will remember these days soon

As they pass from current to


These moments go quickly

And pass


Ode to Control

Letting go

In a time like this

Wood burning mess

When the times are hard

An ode to control

Is called

Norms of ideals

Exist no longer

When the ice melts

And turns into water

From my tiny apartment in NYC

Packing up my life

City to city

A republic in confusing times

And settings

Ode to control

If I were a risky man

I would be betting