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.


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

Day to Be

The coming days to be

Letting go of what was familiar to

You and me

A city

A life

For bigger and better

Discoveries and journeys

Letting go

While others hold so tight

That they squeeze the life

Out of the joy

Thy love

And love left

It will be

Delays in Night


Unfettered display

Of reckless disregard

On guard

Words with no meaning


Backward leaning

Back in the night

When the sun lies low

That is where the weak prosper

The forbidding go

Granite Stones


Underlining counters

With reflective site

Elbow cold

Down by my side

Granite stones

In suburban homes

This life we live

The truths we own

Lays on top

Of these granite stones 

Aches and Pains

Aches and pains

Strange held hands

In a cold rain

Under red skies

Under falling leaves

In a lake 

Not a sea

The aches and pains

Cities and lanes

Riding in the cars 

Remain the same

Chaos Control 

Let the trolls


Let the birds

Fly upon them

I am sick of lies

Sick of tails

Tired of being the end 

Of the joke

Let the chaos control

Roll out

On the world

4 Minutes

In 4 minutes I will attempt

To write words

Strung together with

Some meaning

My eyes are stuck to the screen


Written in an attempt to say

What I have postponed along the way

Returning to ritual

Feels good

Yet not unusual


11:57 The clock reads

Momentary and sedentary

I return to the road

We travel so often

Yet so unfamiliar


The hope of unity

A collection of ideas

Almost perfect

But perfect in its imperfections

It has beauty despite moments

Of Lack of direction

Proceed on our journey

To find people

To share moments and peace

This is my idea to bring

Return to the Pages

Return to the pages

Settled in and getting away

Too long

Can get contagious

I don’t write

Due to lack of inspiration

Rather I am not writing

Because it has become

A lack of motivation

Unfamiliar sensation

But it is a coal covered jewel

Untouched as the days continue

First the idea sprouts

From mind to fingers

Scatters across the keys and onto the page

I resurrect the beast  laying dormant

Back to writing and enjoyment

With rest comes ideas

Ideas with time

And now it is time to return

To the pages

To the writing burn