The leather cold from a chilly morning
Sand from clothes the night before
One grain less
One grain more
The birds chirp rapid scores
Pushing me out the door
The radio belts out last nights memories
Sent me off for the night
Making the ways
For new
Broken in
Days
Discount advice
Should not weight more than
A grain of rice
Be thought over
More than
The passing thoughts in flight
We do not subscribe
To your tele-vibe
Confide in your free laced advice
We create our own paths
From present to past
And we
Will live on
Enter fear and dismay
Enter the feelings of dissarray
Collapsing feeling of connection
Pushing me back in my fatal direction
I ask questions for circumstance
Happenstance of my direction
I fall on flat notes of musical indecision
Lacking a true rhythm section
We select naturally
What happens supernaturally
And exit stronger men
The Santa Ana winds have picked up
On the east coast we have the
West in mind
Fires burning bright
Brightest in a long time
Broken spirits and hopes
Go out with our thoughts
Protecting homes
Thinking on LA in NY
A terrible fire season ahead
The winds picking up in every direction
It is our thoughts and prayers
We are a sendin’
The constant race
Of the human race
Coming face to face
With realities
Of what will Be
What will not be
Committed to a community
Of people breathing and sleeping
Communicating all sensations
Of creations
Temptations
Frustrations
Sharing with each other
The ideas of lovers
People hate
Other continue to love
We work well
On a Wednesday swell
Of the city
On the ground
In the NYC Town
The clock hands read the time
I search for subtleties and easy rhyme
Ideas created, lost, and forgotten
Are on my mind
Streets filled with afternoon light
Thoughts flow intermittent the skies
Rhetorical questions
Repetitious in their nature
Some thought will find me
Grab me
Then forgotten it has become
It is in my lazy procedure
I wrap my mind around signs
Posts, lamps, and lights
However I try to find
The original thought of mine
With no luck I proceed
To write new poems
Of unsung ideas
And forgotten seeds
–
I always seem to forget great ideas before I write them down. I seem to think that I can commit them to my failing memory – content with my attempts, then move on. Only to find out the next day, that those thoughts and inspirations have all but vanished. Leaving me at my desk looking for inspiration, so on some days my inspiration is the ideas lost among the other things in my life. Cheers and have a great day. ~N
I fear the mold
The uniformity theory
Of stripping conscious dignity
Of the you
Me
Pushing us forward
Never to look back
A pack of wolves
Now breathing down
My back
I fear the mass productions
Facilities
Consistency is key
Holding the soul back
From being free
I understand
Accommodating the masses
But with accommodation
Comes subtle backlashes
Loss of autonomy
Fostering dependancy
I look up
See arrows pointing ahead
I can’t help but wonder
If I’d be
Better off
Dead
2 flights of stairs
2 more stairs
Who cares
I am counting
Legs burning
From constant churning
Click and trip
Hold myself on the
Red stick
That makes a railing
The no smoking sign above my head
Make it to the second floor
Then off to bed
The coffee is decent
The lights are bright
A bit over roasted
But tastes alright
Trying to delay
A return to NYC
No need for me
To sit in traffic
On the BQE
Rain outside
Makes me further delay
Getting anything of substance
Done today
The tolls will wait
The taxis will still be there
Just trying to delay
My return
To the city
Today
You must go to Joey’s and get the clams
With her short hair and her deep eyes
Italian blood
But you know that story about Joey
She sighs
If he gets cheap and doesn’t give you the fresh
Flour bread
Let him know
Crazy Donna from Cookie Box
Said
“He’s dead!”
We spent the morning chatting
In the gym
On the stationary bike
She was straight out of
The godfather
Or Sopranos
I was so much intrigued
Her stories had my mind fatigued
These stories that loom on these streets
You must take time to listen
To stories of the pre-madonna
and the truely gritty
All float above the belts
Of mouths
In New York City
A Cup of Songwriting 