We're all hungry, we're all tired
each have impulses to be a liar
rise atop inclinations to thieve
kindle kind, goodhearted belief
Poems
Just when I think I can't take it anymore, I cans
back to the drawing board rethinking, my plans
can't leave a desk though I might pee, my pants
dreaming from a chair I've got one, final chance
Penniless don't mark the loser
though many a loser thinks so
yet here inside brutal honesty
we reject that opinion with no
Not cash then what's the bingo?
Can the Brothers Gibb ever win?
Bee Gee Barry tells us it's family
one-hundred % I stand with him
I never really caught on,
to what it's like being me
a defective astigmatic,
noncorrecting yours truly
Still nothing matters now,
or mattered way back then
as everyplace I'd ended up,
'tis exactly where I've been
In the depths of all my feelings,
is one deep love for every world
flowing universally enlightened
now great galactic flag unfurled
In the centers of each live atom,
where the stuff of life's out of breath
comes mini hydrogen explosions
eternally expanding without rest
In the matters of what materials,
get heaven picked at deconstruct
every molecular ruling's an angel
over a newborn being's good luck
It doesn't matter where you are
for imperfection forever follows
and though all hope here within
'tis oh so truly somewhat hollow
Never matter where you've been
because the flaw's always in back
so hug your perfect imperfection
at all the crossroads on life's map
Evening is upon an old man again
with it came the chaos of needing
chained beside a thorn of wanting
oh what can a soberly old man do?
submit once more to light and love
I see here in the perfect stillness
of my quiet, meditative moment
I am the love, honor, and beauty
this grand Universe searches for
There's nothing left for me but writing poetry
it's all there is and everything here mattering
keyboard driven by inspiring, invisible inertia
seeping from my highest brow as ghost sweat
fanned by jolly good intention of spirited grit
percolating taunt, fresh hot brain cell's desire
Go fuck yourself sung to to the tune of O Christmas Tree
I don't give a rat's ass sung to I'll Be Home For Christmas
I'm rubbing one out sung to Hit The Road Jack
Lying whore sung to the tune of Yesterday
Fucking Hilarious sung to Unforgettable
The low side of my depression is dreadful
like I've been bludgeoned center forehead
with a wickedly medieval, steel spike club
a sharp, pointy nail impaling my forebrain
momentarily not gone but in death's coma
eyes wide flashing terrified astonishments
at the sight of my passage through the veil
What's the secret to writing poetry?
a one and a two the time and breath
then strike emotional authenticities
yes a feeling literally needs to be felt
passion plays; joy, surprise, curiosity
but honestly I find the ughs in angst
and torment effectively read the best
