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

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A Tiny Heart

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

A Hope for Past Future

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

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

Round the Corner

The simple smell

Can trigger so many memories

Roasting coffee

In Williamsburg

Takes me to years

On the road

So fresh and clean

Yet Smokey and full

The roast roars our into the air

Aggressive

And bringing back

Memories of good times

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

Goodnight City

Fears and hope

All mixed together

In on moment

Of letting go

Growing Up

Not growing old

Ride the train home

When the timing is just right

So the doors will open and

Step into the night

The Manhattan Strut

Water collections

Puddles

That can potentially by cars

Keep clear of inch deep waters

Splashing from others

Falling items

Birds

Traffic

Others

Walk

The tight rope

Walk on thin ice

Manhattan Strut

In the reins of winter

Staying clear

Of the hazards

How I have learned from others

My own follies

Tried and true

Walking in the rain

I’ve learned to get through

The Other Guy

Not a football type

Not a sportsman

Or a marksman

Not a fleet-footed runner

Not a Hercules

Different

But not to much

I’m the other guy

A craftsman of words

Tied up in outlandish hopes

Of artistic fancies

Guess I would rather be

Walking than dancing