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


How Long Can it Go Wrong

Is there a limit to wrong

At some point is it all gone

The ability to screw things up

Over and over again and again

Writer repeat send

How many letters do we need to not have

To read anymore

How long can it all go wrong

A day

A year


Affirm me

Please that is not a possibility


But possibly

I guess it could go on eternally

I will wait

And see


Venice Coffee

Coffee in Venice

On the streets of LA

Caffeine buzz on the way

Open skies from open industrial canyons

Wall brushed with soft crayons

A mix of intellectual and visual


In lines of different tones and colors

Every world represented here

Music bass traps through the hall

While baristas subtlety call

The next customer 


To your complete


The Industrial Coffee Machine









The music burns the air

Down the conveyor

Dancing swirling

White shoes on concrete floors

Exposed raw steel constrains the space

Wood beams pop out 

The swell on conversations mellow out

With every drink served

Waking up a city

While The OK king is sitting on the curb


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



Just on the Outskirts

Bradley is a happy man

He falls asleep on the island

To the sound of a bellowing fog horn

Cutting through the air as rich as worn leather

He awakes to coffee that envelops him

With a hug

Rather than a mere raspy handshake

He is content on the coast

Billowing up steam from a morning roast

Falling asleep as the fog crosshatches the eve sky

Across the bay

Happy till the day he may day

Rent control his eternal protection

Umbrella’s held in rather polite distinction

Humanity’s bustle he has no strict participation

Watching the sunrise

Heightened by windy anticipation

However the wind blows

On the edge of the sleepy little beach town

Bradley has it right

Bradley is a happy man

Just on the outskirts of San Fran


Second Crack Sound

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The fleet of beans

From all over the world it brings

A cup to hand

An arithmetic of modern invention

Shipped all over with modest intention

From the solid green

To a hollow black and brown

The second crack sound

A record taste of tremendous body

Not to be deceived or forgotton

With authority flavors delivered

A coffee from Burundi has me completely