all these words scribbled here were stolen, robbed ,and borrowed and redone since I was very small bastard on a dark spot that never went away when the streetlights came on
I say nothing but empty void recycling adjectives to fill the form of feeling
cluttering lines of letters on strings with dirty laundry for the neighborhood to eyeball but they never see a thing
packed away tight until an emergency
then there is an ambulance

We all yell in key

Not everything can be stolen,robbed, nicked or foreclosed on
there are things you’re born to be even if not in your pocket but buried under whom you’re told you are
a vox populi inherent to the DNA of  every city and forgotten places
ask the street lights
the benches of bus stops
bar stools
and the cubicle jail chairs
the prose of born silent stories are there to be told
the daily commute knows the voices and all our woe worries embedded with the  knowledge of the unvoiced sounds of the people
an out of tune chorus we forgot the lyrics and back beat
it’s the lost song we all know
sing people

There’s no smoking anywhere

And the mutual words that will never spoken of even under breath
bitten tongues held for the infinite
sisyphus rolling the hidden language
the thoughts
up the unheard hill past the unspeakable
what is only seen in locked eye moments that fade to the downhill roll
crushed to lustful dust blown a heavy southern airstream to the land of where aching hearts close doors to the smiles and stares
the if’s and what’s
the love unamed but known by so many
thrown to abyss for it can only exist in gravity and vacuum 
every prism of a feeling
refracting loudly inside the pure unknown


Streets lined with dire faces of American Idle lost love, there has to be more than this
The scale balancing act along the burning tightrope one foot in heaven whilst the other in the machine stuck in daily first gear slow grind well beyond immaculate design
Social grease lubricants
Coated since birth

To Whoever Finds This

Hopeless is the hollow inside the running hopelessness of the John Dread crawling the pavement towards every match light glowing in thorny short distance ,hope judges all and none inside the heavy heart hanging from sleeves hidden under every coat.passing daily through streets all keeping the weighted wrists well covered from the ugly sinister truth that hope wasn’t their burden no longer they embraced the easy hollow crumbling for flickers of light ahead in every tunnel that no one seems to find just scraping pavement into the next hopeless void ..Woody wails from his soul against the walls echoing the tale of the hopeless pain of cranium to wall whilst raising his sleeve in defiance showing his fiery scarred arm where his heart sat that was ripped off in vain on Madison Ave.just for his watch as an art piece

Sanskrit had 96 words for love wilst old romantic Persian scribbled 80 words for the condition hiding behind staring eyes
marched into carved caves of heavenly toil and silence
you can not say the words for you must go labour for the wordgivers
love all the pretty horses then adore the their grand stables
poetry is for us fools who need more than 176 words

Heroes are hung with the expectations of the hopeful
all stories are told through tellers and listeners being born again with oral tradition and imaginations
of the few whose eyes meet theirs intimately
watching it unfold in bedrooms
just for one day