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 franchise virus
Growing from the roots
Of a dead cypress
Cold pressed nightmares
Held up by titans
Each man has a turn
To flame the words
Caught up on the wings
Of drunken birds
By night
And by day
What the naysayers say
Is the franchise lies
Being manufactured day
And night
Dirty hand
Never quite know
That in the depths washed
You can not quite get all of the
Dirt
If dirt is on the hands of man
Whose hands toil in the dirt
No notice is paid
But on the hands of a banker
On the hands of a tycoon
We wonder
Where does this dirt come from
The dirty hands
That can’t be washed clean
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
Oh to fly
Away from the noise
Higher than the clouds
Get away
When the world
Is pulling me down
Oh to fly like a bird
In a fresh moment
Go with the wind
Go sing songs
Songs of love
Songs of hope
Birds will fly
I wish I could go
Should we await a new fate
New destinies on the horizon
In our own time and function
With our own satisfaction
How can we learn from each other
New and open ideas
Spread through conversations
With the one’s we know
And those we do not
Here comes a chance
And I hope we take it
Thursday reflection
From Wednesday protection
We make a new day
So go into the light
Make your day right
This Wednesday
What moves us
To action
What brings us to our knees
Of in action
Whose words do we believe
When the mountains
Block the path to the seas
When the desert winds
Keep us from our kin
In the silence we must learn
As the silence continues
We continue
To grow
Wise
Not old
Waiting for the west
Getting back to the Summerfest
My own hopes lie
In a golden stream or lake
My own hope of sucess
Tucked
Out somewhere
In the west
Take the pay
Leave the people
Who is taking the stubs
When the president wins
Paid in advance
With taxes due
Who would have knew
What one man can do
With unfettered desires
To light a blazing fire
While a waining night fades
The ultimate game has been
Played
