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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
A Cup of Songwriting 