Mean a Thing

The old fears

Dried up tears

Move up

Move out

All the changes happen

In specific time

And moments

We remove ourselves

To see the grand scheme

By it doesn’t mean a thing

When your heart is torn

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

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