There is no proper time to make a proper edit to this page of life
No sentence unscathed which behooves itself to avoid run-on
No gerund to pull from the hat like a rabbit grabbed by the hand of the magician
No noun to group or singularly miss
No profound thought to flesh out
There is a time to erase the period:
and put a comma.
The apocalypse turned on a dime
the whirlpool down the drain
of my crimes
I didn't mean to do it
there was a gun and a broken window
and a lock of his hair
I didn't mean to do it
there was this mob boss thing
a sack of diamonds and a golden ring
I escaped just barely to Austria
They said do it don't matter what it cost-ya
--OH KAY--
And you'll be on a beach out of reach
but the plans were foiled
the water boiled
the snake coiled
and here I am
counting slashes on the wall
singing "Redemption Song" in B.
I don't know how I noticed it was you
your hat was pulled down over your face
Fog rolled in by the bay
and the morning boats pulled away
The shadows stretched like the tide
as the streetlights extinguished
and the sun took over
Many strange things have transpired inside of my heart
Many strangers have seen into my soul
Many souls have seen into my stranger
Many rocks have seen my roll
Many rolls have gathered stones
Moss thinks itself smarter
but it is the speed of time
that gets me now.
I cannot let the mindset of hope dwindle
I cannot let the bear of the microphone eat me
I must sing, dance and play
running circles around my own doubt
until I am laughing at myself
The computer often asks me to verify myself
and I've been asking myself the same
turning the ring on my finger
and smiling into the wind because life is short
and why not smile
Bring the good mood
Usher in the day
It's about coffee as well as
It's about jogging and eating food to gain energy
I've often thought of prayer
on rainy nights sitting by the window
heart beating and storm raging
I've often thought of sun
when sitting under the moonlight
Why can't I just see what is in front of me
for once?
I am home inside myself.
I am home inside myself.
I am home inside myself.
I am home inside myself.
The Earth tunes in to
the waving clouds
burned solid through
the mosquito smoke
trees hang in the wind
like bunches of grapes
ocean waves dark and
indigo melting into the
sand, dreaming in
wild colors.
After speaking in tongues for so long, snake pit venom mixed in with the red wine
on the table with the hemlock the hems of the dresses being pulled by the threads of time
How can I ever now turn honest, in the court of law?
And love the angel that came to me
in the fog of the Clark Street night
Second version:
The night whispers through the trees and hums my favorite tunes
in the darkness, blacker than oil, smoother than a movie star's silk robes.
First version:
Pacified for now, the heart of my jewels shines
Opened for now, the treasure trunk dusty genie lamps heave wishes
Closed for now, the door to my soul is always creaking in the wind
Pampered for now, the movie star's silk robes are dropping
Puckered for now, her lips are like a wild rose
Pumping for now, the oil fields are on fire
Burning for now, the hearts of men are charred to black
Black for now, the night is calling you
whispering for now, humming her favorite tunes.
It's weird, I've had this blog for years
and I've never tried to write a poem at night
Is it because after sunset, the demons come out?
Or perhaps a Jewish violinist can't stay awake.
Not sure. I throw rocks into the Lake at night
or run a stick through the mud
count the stars and heave smooth glass at the tree trunks
I cup the cold sand in my hand
and peacefully become a remission of my own self.
That's what I usually do at night,
not write poems.
These deceits that have no receipts
The correction on the player's book
The pool game that got thrown
The river rocks that got smooth
The grains of sand collected into a hourglass
turning it
back and forth.
The champion of the day
The child who, held close at night
The pillows cut and unfeathered--
I am no longer afraid of freeloading SOBs.
The obstacle of passion
governed by feelings
is pavement
underneath the bus
of sacred commitments.
These are small battles
affirmations of proof
evidence of words and deeds
concrete with time and progress.
Feelings are not your friends.
They plan for comfort.
You need a sherpa
leading you down the hard path
between who are are
and who you want to be.
He said that God will provide it
this feeling of abundance
of peace
He said that God will demand it
this commitment to
society's release
He said that the bandits will hand it
over, this treasure that they stole
when you became convinced
salvation was in rock and roll
He said that God will revise it
this edited Bible of verse
when spoken from the pulpits
of voices tense and terse
He said that God will reverse it
this pain and this woe
and like a child and a lamb
together you will go
but I know
he just wants guitars
hanging on the walls
raining from the skies
painted on the trees
tiger palms beckoning
Package of letters
sent from Mississippi
came by rail
and stage coach too.
Don't know what I am about to do,
I've got the Blues so deep
I need a shovel and a tool.
I don't know what I am a gonna do.
Time will tell
or will it shout
loudly at night
in the rain
when I am locked out of the car
screaming,
"you're not innocent!"
There's a story there,
but you will tell you in time.
If I wrote of diamonds or oil, would it be valuable?
If I wrote of money, trinkets, and feathers, would it be novel?
If I wrote of big skies, roaring clouds, and fierce horses, would it be of value?
Would it stir something in your heart,
more valuable than gold?
In the rustic attitudes of my history books
There is a party of fun flowers and light
masterfully played against the linen and the shack
The Impressionists and the dirt of the American South
are totally disconnected except
on my bookshelf.
The Bible sits next to Deepak Chopra
and titles like "Human Destiny"
are next to a book from the 1990s about Feng Shui.
Let's not forget all the photography books from my uncle
and one book in plastic called "Lyrics for Song Hits"
which is from the 40s approximately
and is hard backed
and the ideas of those songs being hits
is what makes it a gem.
Perhaps I will open it, and write one.
There is no proper time to make a proper edit to this page of life No sentence unscathed which behooves itself to avoid run-on No gerund to ...