4 Minutes

In 4 minutes I will attempt

To write words

Strung together with

Some meaning

My eyes are stuck to the screen

Gleaming

Written in an attempt to say

What I have postponed along the way

Returning to ritual

Feels good

Yet not unusual

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Back to Brooklyn

The smell of linens

Warmed hot in driers

Lamp post

Stuck with weekend fliers

Rusted out steel on buildings facade

Bustling traffic on Kenmare

I make my way to the Williamsburg Bridge

Over the eastern edge

And back to Brooklyn

No more than a bed

To call my own

The only options are rent

No hopes to own

So our time here is quick

Subtle and sweet

Seeing some familiar

Faces out on the street

The people still hustle

Just as I remember

Checking in 2 months past

September

The city sways easy in Autumn leaves

Until it will soon be our time to leave

Uneasy Life Matters

A mind scattered

Pulled apart and tattered

Will make not one noise when shattered

Yet others will wonder and chatter

With him there is something wrong

Something must be the matter

But no words will be used to flatter

My uneasy life matters

We Fail: Us

Where can we turn

When the world turning around

The world we created

Falls down

We fail us

Celebrities casting cosmic dust

On a race of humanity

Yet at times so inhumane

Full of disdain

Pains

Me to see this travesty

All around

In the papers

Insidious creatures from the ground

Clown

With my future

Its subversive to even ask now

Why there is such a break down

In race negotiations

Legitimate marriage situations

Crime in big cities

I need some good news

Something so good I can not refuse

The beauty of the love we all share

We share it somewhere

Just not in the headlines

More so in the outerlines

Humanity is great than celebrity

Is greater than these travesties

Is greater than cheap obscenity

And I hold this hope

To be true

Unknowingly Unknown

A case of distracting news

One that one can not simply refuse

The future of art

Is held in the arms of one minds repose

Unknowingly unknown

Somehow the highest calling

Is called from a distant awning

The creation of art

To focus on filters

Rather than a focus in part

Somehow the filters of heard and unheard

Call out some higher prestige fallen

On a certain selection of words

The construction of words

All hail to the critics

It’s all pretty sick

A devastating form of salutation

Pounding into my mind

I hold back the gates

Unfiltered

Untamed

I learned from my mistakes

The best form of creation

Happens in pure refinement

In an attempt to fasten the muscles

To make a call to creation

A new creation in the making

Unattainable Repose

The elusive ghost

Chased through streets

Competing with our hands

Feet

Mouths open and close

Drifting words hung

Before the evening repose

This unattainable drifting ghost

My soul collapses on Wednesday

To only renew the next day

The brittleness of surviving

Well below the standards of

Living well and thriving

Conniving thoughts land soft

When arriving

Then dismissed in the thought abyss

Of carrying on

This day I just long for easy nights

Well rested then feeling alright

Keeping the feelings down

In my mind

In time

I will find

A rhyme of words

To keep me ahead

Instead of walking

Flying

In moments of desperation

It’s feet ahead

Eyes wide open

To just keep on trying

The Single Bird on the Avenue

A single bird flies down Manhattan Avenue

2 wings flapping strong in the wind

Gentle acceleration

Calling out lightly at 6 AM

Such stillness can exist in the city

High hitting trains come to a stop

To see this small bird perched atop

The brownstones of Brooklyn

Resting its wings

To begin it’s ritual sing

Lighten the roads with laughter

The clanking of iron clad walls

Retracted

Open for business now

Seemingly attractive

Deliveries on time and delayed

Now I rush out the door

To see the bird fly away

Sentimental Tease

Oh the heart strings

Pulled in every way

Frayed

Dismayed and overplayed

I relish past moments

With pleasure

Small delights

Love beheld in my eyes

Yet it is lies

Nothing more

Nothing less

Just a quest into the past

No answers given

No questions asked

But in a very uneasy way

There is always lust

In such great nostalgia

What is past is past

What is gone is lost

What I want I will take

What is left I will leave

It’s just another little

Sentimental Tease

Anomoly of Jackhammers

Eyes slap open

With the crack of the jackhammer

It’s 9 AM

Monday in the City

I rush over to close the small gap

In the window

The loud crash of shovels

Iron cast on asphalt

Giant machines with splendid

Saws, jacks, and hammers

Traffic held back

While the men hit the ground

With cement hammers

The window to the city

Has shown so much to me

It is a true story

Yet an untold anomaly

Of jackhammers

I grew up in the soft quiet fields on Indiana

Acquaint myself

To the new sounds

Of my surroundings

The Orange Sky of Brooklyn

Sometimes the flow

Is easier

Or more clear

At least

It feels a little more

Like a hampster

Than a wretched beast

Feast on these times

When flow comes barreling in

In from the high sky

The noon hour

Or the late night

Capture and release

No hold

Please give back

Whatever it is you are leased

I have a quick smile on these

Days

When work feels more like play

I remembered the feeling

The feeling of rampant creativity

From the lows of procrastination

Stagnations now creates re-inflation

For the seed of creativity is not gone

It has hid for long

But Brooklyn

Lit with smoke high

I have found my breathe again

Amidst an organe sky