Got my feet on and
well, they ain’t half bad
bit a rust on them worn out plates
but they ain’t no worse then the off-balanced splintered
plank of wood I got to slap on
Got my feet back and
there ain’t no pain
aches are gone, fear is cracking
tape may be worn out
but the bug is swimmin’
the virus slowly infectin’
watchin’ them glory days I never quite hit it in
but I knew, and I still know,
I just gotta listen for the rhythm

af

(written on computer)

huddled in hibernation
trying to come home
naked woolly skin
wishing to illicit puddles
because the ego always needs aspirations
a purpose to this purpose

pen drying up
air getting cold
keeping head down to get through
evolution…

sure to awaken soon,
sure spring will come again
after this winter of eternity

af

(written in little notebook back in the frozen tundra of new york city)

all these years
all this loneliness
depression
anger;
giving and giving
yet never receiving;
questioning
‘why can’t I find one person
willing to
push me as I am willing to push?’

and this god
this universe
this energy of spirits and the living
refused to give in to my
petulance
because
I needed to understand
I
need to do my own work

A relationship is not about
pushing
someone forward on their path
and, they, pushing me along mine

it is about
as is life
pushing myself
and
accepting the support behind me

I often look for salvation in love
when all it really is obligated to provide
is love…
my drive
my dreams
my effort
are my doing.

 
af

(written on computer)

i am always given the choice
the vixen
or
the girl-next-door

i am always choosing the meek over the brazen
i am always choosing unsatisfied

perhaps this year
is for the illogical choice

i have seen proof…
choose wrong,
and all will be right

af

(written in little notebook)

Tomorrow night I will be back under the moonlights of the Mississippi,
will walk in the warm streets and eat
a healthy helping of red beans, sausage, fried chicken.

Right now I am tired, cold, hungry
my toes still damp and blue

Exotic trips to plan
journeys to document
wine beer and Jack to drink
Gotta buy some wood
to express myself by creating funky hittin’
…like needing to get tied off
secure a fix on life.

Gray america used to be so beautiful
so sad and so beautiful
so urgent, so creative, so full of information,
so intense, so driven with artistic purpose;
round tables, square chairs and triangular slices of apple pie.

Love was the one danger I would drive off a cliff for
It would knock me flat on my ass, destroy me everytime
and like a true fighter would just get up and fight again
knowing I would get, again, blasted down
…but I would never compromise;
always would toss myself into that sipher of seduction

I existed because of love
…and now?

af

(written with pen on paper, scattered)

Where you from?
“New York.”
What do you do?
“I am a poet.”
And for money?
“I direct…commercials”
Sorry
“Yea”
Art is art.
“As long as it is created.”
What ya mean?
“Recycling only saves the environment.”
Ain’t it too late for original thought?
“Don’t mean ya can’t try.”
Settling’s the issue?
“Recognition is.”
Deep
“Creates expectations and most artists only -”
- give the people what they want -
“- instead of what needs to be created.”
Save the world -
“- and slander the soul.”
Ain’t that a cynic’s view?
“The artist is critical.”
The other adjectives?
“Just descriptions within the cynicism.”
So, good luck, then?
“Naw…I trust in this journey…”
Good travels, then…

 
af

(written with pen on paper)

Please help me
spirit of spirits
to never take myself
seriously
no wheelin’ and dealin’
pretentiousness be gone
never appear

I am but
a speck of dust
an atom of
playful energy who
cares

god of multiverse
hidden meanings in these words
do not exist
mustaches over voices
too loud
should be shaven

I was clean before I
walked into this world;
it is all
not that important

be with me on this walk
o’ holy existence…

af

(written with pen on paper)