The blackest smoke clung to my bones with a desire before

now unknown to my

heart.

I apologize for my lateness,

God, for I was tied up with worldly affairs and

thoughts that you permit me.

The lostness of focus has

given

me drive to live like you are one of those stained glass visions.

I have miracles in my dreams

every night now, and my days have lamed in comparison.

My first love gave me sunglasses, and now everything is

—-dark.

Blur by the Black Hills on your way to

Washington.

Watch them speed away from you in whispering

Wisdom,

Granted by age and passing time in the

Caribbean. No one can stop

Them.

I admit.

I once watched those mindless men who straddle on the airwaves.

They wore blue and red like hammerheads of corporate greed.

And I also admit,

To the way I used to eat up their words, ravenous for their confidence,

The smiles pulled wide by all those people searching their well-planned disguises.

But I will not admit, no way.

No how.

That every now and then, my strength might fail me,

And I’ll find myself watching with strained eyes to see their smiles again.

———

My pack is heavy and so are my eyes.

I’ve walked for days and crossed several seas,

Filled with flotsam and phosphorescent greens.

Those ocean currents pulling on me.

But now I sit on a stump surrounded by dead trees,

With twisting arms bare, praising the breeze,

And I try to soak in the few moments of relief.

———

Tell me what to type.

I murdered someone with a screwdriver tonight,

And I’m afraid that made me feel way too right..

My friends said I was alright,

But who knows what they know with their scabbed over eyesight.

–

Alright, now I see,

That depending on the summer or winter’s eve,

That I will eventually run out of steam.

My engine will rip at the seams.

I’ll be okay, or so it seems, to me.

–

But give me one moment.

My eyes are too big and stuck cement.

Idiot, sell me the sales with vehement

Sighs colored with crayons. The whole allotment.

I am a stain on the pavement.

Dennis

I forgave him for his filthy car.

I’d never seen a clean photographer,

But he shook hands like a lumberjack

Cutting trees for picture frames before the memory went too far.

His three pair of eyeglasses

Rested, overworked, in his front pocket,

With two more over his eyes, sharpening

The world, capturing every second that passes.

We spoke of French and German.

Latin had died before our time.

But I used English to say,

“See you later man.”