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.
Fill
Pull
Roast
Start the clock
Green beans fill the roaster
With another batch
Of sweet fresh coffee
On 6th Avenue
To be sent all over the city
Fresh cups to fill
Warm sport to enjoy
On a cold winters night
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
Street views
Of old time news
What comes in the wind
In the morning or at night
Old time news
Learning from the past
Our own goal
Window pane strolls
On Sunday afternoons
Empire time
From the streets of Brooklyn
From dynasty of old
Yesteryears
Untold stories
Empire time is coming
For us all
Enticed by what the future holds
Make nice
With Empire Time
Somehow the future
So quickly slips to the past
Unnoticed
Yet as smooth as a escalator
Carrying forth with no
Indifference
The days of wonder go by
From a cafe in Williamsburg Brooklyn
I will remember these days soon
As they pass from current to
Past
These moments go quickly
And pass
Air to breathe
Needed on some days
When overwhelming thoughts
Occur
And reoccur
Just a bit of wind
In the lungs
Can be the song needed
To be sung
Letting go
In a time like this
Wood burning mess
When the times are hard
An ode to control
Is called
Norms of ideals
Exist no longer
When the ice melts
And turns into water
From my tiny apartment in NYC
Packing up my life
City to city
A republic in confusing times
And settings
Ode to control
If I were a risky man
I would be betting
No eraser needed
No backspace allowed
Forward progression
Is all that will be permitted
No accident acquited
While in the chair I sit
Working words into phrases
Of decent proposal
Halfway hope
Left over
Hold on to the recreation
Of hopes of being someone else
Be a first please
Not a second
Emulation
Lacking creation
Don’t emulate
Innovate
A Cup of Songwriting 