3/4

piano keys. wet notes.
dripping taps
and dancing shoes.
pinging scales. sun arose
falling stocks
and singing birds.
ugly papers. set clocks.
stalling engines
and towering egos.
major chords. dead hands.
beautiful echos
and faulty wires.
tired friends. press play.
serving lulls
and faster cars
jet lag. torn apart.
countered commas
and blistering thoughts.
piano keys. wet notes.
dripping taps
and dancing shoes.

always screwed out of royalties

she
told me
that
there was
this simple song
that always reminded
her
of me
so i listened
some
and sure enough
it was mine
my life that
the singer sang of
i'd lived
his words
a thousand
times
over
my bright
eyes flickered
and burned
out
no one carries
those fuses
anymore
so he gets the glory
and i get all the fucked mornings

bright club

(the last poem of 2009)

it took me almost a year
but i've finally got them all
for the better part of eleven months
i've spent all my evenings in space
just me and my trusty butterfly net
one by one i gathered each and every star
the shooting ones were the hardest to catch
they're not fond of stillness you know
one might even suggest
that they're a bit on the temperamental side
but you didn't hear that from me
i've spent many mornings patching holes in my duffel
because of all of their fussing about
but i've got every last one of them now
tonight, the entire world will look in wonder
at a sky that's only barely lit by the moon
i'd have taken her too, but there just wasn't room
when the blackness blankets us this evening
i'll take my sorry looking duffel bag from the closet
and gently place it down on the centre of my bed
i'll board up the window and remove the light bulb from the fixture
at the stoke of midnight, with a new decade upon us
i will unzipper my restless little friends
and watch as a gazillion brilliant stars fill my bedroom
don't worry - i'll put them all back
eventually

incandescence

a perfect smile adorns her face.
stunning!

and how am i to sit still
without touching? in morning light.

such wondrous arch of her back
seemingly perfect

attired in cloth of a damsel -
i pace emptied of reason.

the dewy drops of her cathartic
heart

carry me atop the clouds
watch me unravel

the landscape rolls itself out
spanning forever

her arms stretched behind her head
reaching for the setting sun

her eyes
dancing over my palette

i keep going back to her photograph
breathing in its pixels

i want her to be mine
mine to be hers

these lamps play games with me
casting resembling shadows

touching and feeling
nothing.

comfort

we get comfortable
set in our day to day's
walking the beaten path
baby steppin 'round the clock
keeping saturday's and sunday's for ourselves
we get our routine down pat
meandering until its time is up
we get comfortable
we get idle
we get stale
we give it up

milk cartons

no one ever really disappears
the police are looking in all the wrong places
all the milk cartons in the world won't bring them back
the missing people of the world
aren't really missing at all
they are the pigeons you see in the street
so be nice

god forbid

don't look too closely into my eyes
you may not like what you see
don't reach too far into my insides
you may not like what you find
don't listen too attentively to my song
you may not like what you hear
don't fall in love with me
you might just like it