Reader Meet Author Again

I was asked recently if I ever write anything that is pretty and again criticized for not writing enough and why I don’t add any more fuel to the fire that is Occupy Wall Street which I do agree with sadly
On an average day beautiful things do pass through my brain and pass my eye
I can put words to 400 different things through the course of a 24 hour period
even the people who said this are the epitome of beauty to me
the words commit themselves as they will and as they land together
Was I born melancholy?
Could I use therapy?
Which came first the world,the love,the angst or the view were I align true north?
the answer is D everything and nothing all rolled in a coffee and a smoke
I still do not answer the emails asking if I would like to chat to someone about my my half empty syndrome, so that is a straight answer at least
All of us have carried torch of Zuccoti Park our whole lives it just took this long for it to get carried around proudly in the open air
or I could but flat out batshit crazy but that’s a whole other horse of a different set of colored questions

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Monday is always Monday

Days of this nature drain the soul out of living things with every ugly downward fucking
stare it’s just the normal state of the Monday zombie complex
but then again most days are Monday on repeat,that broken mp3 player that will only Three Dog Night’s One is the Loneliest Number…it is a miserable working world after all
At the end of it even though oceans are huge
streets are ready to explode with dissent among us infidels
I am content with getting her to smile
Romantics kill fascists only a daily basis
they just take too long to figure it out

Her and that Hotel Pen

The chaotic holiday glory that is Grand Central Station three days before Christmas
grand swarms of shopping bags around the huge glass doors whilst tourist trappers snare street flooding masses
a Salvation Army bell is a metronome nailed to where i am standing as it all unfolds
a smile pushing ear to ear
Moses blue eyes split a red sea mixed with greens
im the lucky one here in this downbeat
all the trains could derail
all the honking traffic could stop in awkward dead silence
nothing could take this away
as children
were taught to be good for goodness sake
not for this smile heading my way
my name must have been on Santa’s good grace list more than a few times
this greeting was for me
stagehand passersby blur into the next scene
no scripts or cue cards just ready for the set change
her language is not written anywhere its all her own as she strolls
even with a translator it wouldnt’ do her any justice
loud and clear it screamed
i was in over my head and i knew it