Unpublished
And unheard
My words
Fall short
When they could
Be bold
In paperback
Or in print
But to me
It’s not important
What is
Is the process of creation
To practice
Daily
With patience
So I am set on that front
Nothing more that I want
Wooden mouths
Echo splintered fragments
Of thoughts onto the masses
Tucking hopes in the
Dried up grasses
With bone dry teeth
Never holding on
Not much to keep
On a river in Texas
People gather close
To their beverage
As the fumes of coffee and tea
Fall willfully
Speckled mist
Gathers
Around a full cup
Of a humid night
Keeping me up
Fluttering masks
In times of confusion
Hoping we can make it
Through
What is real
And an illusion
Fluttering masks
On people faces
But for me I am to wreckless
I guess
Worried too late
Than the rest
Along a winding path
Paved sun-glazed cement
Baked with a hazy grey sealant
With summer shoes
Raking the rocks
Along the freckled
Grass
Sunscreen scented fragrances
Illuminating hiatus
Under the strung out
Santa Monica Sun
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
The size of an almond
With a personality the size
Of the room
Our small dog
Named Wilco
May have a small heart
But fills the room with love
When anyone walks in
Sweet little Wilco
Can the future be brighter
If the past is not reckoned
How to know where to go
If we do not understand
What we have done
My role in this nowness
Is key to the future
I have played my own role
Ambivalently
But with more passion we approach
The future
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.
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
A Cup of Songwriting 