In a Case By the Door

“Beautiful” gives no justice to the way she can make me feel. My guitar, my all, my creation-creator. Her curves of aged mahogany show eons of creation for a all-too-short life in my hands. The essence of the forest emanates in scent, and the song of her strings is perfect in my ear. The sharp chink or the resonate strums of my pick against the bronze is a concerto of itself. Her petite silhouette, a recurving hourglass, gives no honor to her echo, resonating in the minds of generations past and yet to come. To play, to sing, to be, is her lot in life. Then why does she idle her time away in a darkened case by the door?

Ivy

a glancing gaze sent my sight

across a steaming cup

though porcelain shards reflect its light

it still was coming up

as i reached in with my right hand

to take a piece of porcelain

a wicked glare shot back at me

and so began my fight in vain

and ivy was her namey-o

employed by señor jittery joe

who knew a friendship there had kindled

that through the years would be remembered

by me and she and all who saw

especially her cousin from out of town

she bid me in the dark of night

stay for juice in naught but gown

and as i left she turned around

and made her way away that night

i saw a sight that human eyes

only dreampt could be that tight

and one day we will have our time

red lobster we will infiltrate

thanks to a cat and 2 dirt roads

maybe one day we can date

but still we'll be forever friends

despite what they would ill-intend

i'll always greet you with a smile

and always will admire your style

night-Light 3/20/03

on those

monsoon days

the night-Light

illuminates my car only

every so often, as

I pass through the

unforgiving section of town,

he stands staring

sinking in the heel-high

river falling from above.

in his soggy shirt and

waterlogged pants with a

look of sincerest

euthanasia he pleads with

his eyes:

“i want to go Home.”

in the night-Light

he becomes a candle

and with more resolve

than Prometheus

he burns himself out

looking up, with a Smile.

Dan

There was a musician named Dan

Who played for his tips in a can

He lived for his passion

Beside the old trash can

To me he was more than a man.

Ode to Birks

How Is it

my feet are

naked, yet encased

and strapped to

security?

Cork ‘cased between

leather and tread

My shoes

are My own

Not the clown’s,

Not the hunchback’s,

Patrick’s.

And with my

genuine Birkenstocks,

the molded manifest

of my burden bearers

I can take the

world

one step at a time