[And, now: Unexplained Poetry from This Author]

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The words come late or not at all,
To build, to break, to make it shine,
But the words are all we have, you know;
I heard they were burying you in effigy,
I heard quiet whispers of the draft of your eulogy,
I heard that you died after a midnight epiphany;
When symbols have been all used up,
Perhaps, perchance, for a change . . .

"Coffee, ma'am, two cream."

The trees lean-to in the dawn sun,
A bird's nest built on filth for free,
Here is the empty, mountain-side spring,
In photographs, was such a sight to see.

"Eggs . . . Two . . . Scrambled."

A man too slow to make a change,
To live, to die, to make or break,
He was a great man, though, they'll say;
I heard he was an engineer of some degree,
I heard he built a machine to help you breathe,
I heard they sold his research a grand on three;
Once the simile is dust, Homer,
What shall we pen, what shall we pen?

"I would like some bacon, too: crispy, please."

A coin in hand, a gun in mind,
The coat's not keeping us warm anymore,
Clean the blood up with sulfur,
In time, the children won't know to suffer.

"No, nothing else. That's good."

I see your lips and how they smile,
In pain, I have walked more than a mile,
Not in my own mind, not in my own shoes.

I see your hand try to hide the bruise,
Again, you've chosen to fold and just lose,
Not liking the odds without promised success.

I see your eyes shut for that long rest,
Refrain, and blame it on that time we kissed,
You tasted love and turned it vile.

"You'll never guess who called me, yesterday."

The seas have been called much rougher,
My brother the lover, told on me to mother,
Us children, we played in fields of grey,
Green grass uprooted for another Safeway.

"No, I haven't heard from him in forever, actually."

The times are fading fast between us,
To know, to hold, to finally forget that cold,
All our past is slowly banking on bust;
I heard the market has become rich for new writers,
I heard you hurriedly put in an application at Reuter's,
I heard they found the body underneath your shutters;
Eliot, Eliot, you made so many references,
What does it all mean, what does it all mean?

"He's dead? How did it happen?"

One rock wrought bare on crimson beaches,
Two dogs lay dead, a scene for sympathy,
The composer wrote his last symphony,
Died, now we search for missing footnotes.

"Suicide? Oh, my . . . Do they know why?"

The softest sounds we never shared,
To enjoy, to adore, to take beloved as ourn,
And the sounds are all that's left, you know;
I heard the emptiness buzzing in my aching skull,
I heard the dreams cackle beneath their black shroud,
I heard your voice telling me every one of your secrets;
We're disarmed of original wordplay (Esoterica abounds),
Say it, Shakespeare, say it like only how you do:

"I had rather be a kitten and cry mew
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers."

Moil! Moil!

It’s hard to write when everything feels like repetitive tripe, as though I am just another redundant iteration of an infinite loop of pretentious, elitist, writer slash artist syndrome. Fuck, I can’t even bring myself to feel clever over spelling out “slash” versus using the symbol. Why? Because it’s not.
I’d call it Writer’s Block, but I’m tired of labeling myself a writer; mainly, due to the fact that I fail as a writer, can I no longer use the title in good conscience. Nobody could convince me I’m even worthy of being an “artist,” at this point.
I’m on some kind of fucked-up tightrope, that just gets lower and lower as you walk out onto it, without ever reversing tension . . . Agh, that analogy sucks.
This is all whiney bullshit. I’m all out of eggnog.

Not Dead Yet?

Permeating That Eternal Barrier

Trying to find inspiration, a pile of half-complete sketches on my desk and a pencil behind my ear.
Actually, there's no pencil: I never could keep a pencil balanced like that, I just think the imagery is kinda cool and concisely symbolic of an artist at work.
I'm a blind liar with an artistic license to take liberty with reality in the name of creativity.
The same old faces stare at me from the paper's white surface, just trying to adjust the way I see them. Things aren't bad, they just aren't easy.
Ideas, sometimes, taste like eggnog.

That is All; Not Dead Yet.