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

Advertisements

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

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

Aches and Pains

Aches and pains

Strange held hands

In a cold rain

Under red skies

Under falling leaves

In a lake 

Not a sea

The aches and pains

Cities and lanes

Riding in the cars 

Remain the same

Chaos Control 

Let the trolls

Roll

Let the birds

Fly upon them

I am sick of lies

Sick of tails

Tired of being the end 

Of the joke

Let the chaos control

Roll out

On the world

11:57

11:57 The clock reads

Momentary and sedentary

I return to the road

We travel so often

Yet so unfamiliar

Unusual

The hope of unity

A collection of ideas

Almost perfect

But perfect in its imperfections

It has beauty despite moments

Of Lack of direction

Proceed on our journey

To find people

To share moments and peace

This is my idea to bring

Muddle by Technology

Muddle and confusion

Marry the mellow quiet

With ruptured sounds of a digital empress

Defiant of the status quo

Holding on to the last of what was

What we used to know

The cell phone rings

Elbows locked in admiration

Swing around the border

Of the new order

Tech first feeling second

Defiant I remane

But I wonder what the world would be

With no technology

Would we be more advanced

If we were connected by glance

Instead of digital connection

A tacit code of life

Implied by technical lines

We are breakable and weak

In the eye of technology

Return to the Pages

Return to the pages

Settled in and getting away

Too long

Can get contagious

I don’t write

Due to lack of inspiration

Rather I am not writing

Because it has become

A lack of motivation

Unfamiliar sensation

But it is a coal covered jewel

Untouched as the days continue

First the idea sprouts

From mind to fingers

Scatters across the keys and onto the page

I resurrect the beast  laying dormant

Back to writing and enjoyment

With rest comes ideas

Ideas with time

And now it is time to return

To the pages

To the writing burn

 

 

Articulate Assembling

Articulate assembling

Summer salad created

Hands willfully picking the pieces

Assembling the creation at hand

Southern Indiana type of man

Years spent on the eastern seaboard

Now looking a bit more windward

Back against the jet stream

And to the midwest

Now creating companies with goals set

A man and his discovery

Looking for hopeful engagements

And full recovery

We sit for dinner

My wife and I

Engaged from side to side

Discussing his next adventure

From the countryside

A home set off in the distance

Off the country roads in existence

We discuss possibilities of new futures

I wish I could have seen this sooner