Lifes Work

The ocean and pier The gentle comforting sounds of the surf The sturdy support and solidity of the pylons drowning in consumption Pound hard noise the sound wave caries in the fading line history built brick by brick beat on top of beat These scraps of time collage themselves in my life The woman lying next to my caries on on a feathered pillow her head lies

A dolls house, a ship wrecked foster parent The alcoholic phantom who generously hands down the fever to the next generation. A fever that encompasses the basement dungeon, the same that held disastrous darkness, the same one that harbored the ghost that ate at the table which the family was meant to gather for their quality togetherness time. The same dull image which walked to school, held a job for years and caught the fever at the age of eighteen. The same one who spoke of greatness, of turning the wheels of industry but in the end just sat there wondering where it had all gone. Living on memories and seeking refuge by proclaiming the injustices of the corporations and curs of age at sixty ending with a sigh of depression as the ceiling fell on the couch crushing a long since decomposed remnant of a once self proclaimed great. But who worries about he dead? Who bothers to wonder if they are doing OK in their new after life?

A light, a light post A bedside lamp that keeps a light on the paper into dusk A story teller with whip scares and childhood memories It all lays beneath the darkest of cloud cover Beneath a hawks eye in search of… Do the lights shine through the story tellers window Highlighting white lines on his desk, mimicking the ones on his back He is so great, a delightful sole Kind and trustworthy to the extent of lonely tomorrows Of sorrows deserved and prayed for His scars remain only as comfort A warm feeling that reminds him of other times Of past comfort, past relationships with past loves His elegance and wit is part of his sole But his blame lays on all that surrounds Causing guilt, raising doubt in others morals Raising insanity with every glance. Forced goodness that flows as a pen on newly pressed paper.

Does it happen like this every time Cuffed behind the back, wrists turned out Personal perspective arguing with other’s Reality on a very personal level Love found, love lost, lover pursued Ending in no love at all Are tonsillectomies better with Vanilla or chocolate Is not wearing underwear more offensive To men who sport tighty whities or boxers Calvin and Hobbes found my childhood So I put them on my bedroom wall Limestone and granite I’ve received From old acquaintances, it breaks up The pattern on the kitchen linoleum This is a brain fart I had taco bell and full metal jacket last night, What can you expect?

9‑21 … I saw Death tonight, it had a gun and I couldn’t stop it from ending my life for love; the gun, the gun was silver, polished silver, I held it in my hads, in calm hands, hands that felt No pain no remors just cause; my hands held it as gental as a new born and they felt its weight, its solid deadly weight, a weight that was about to end my life, the life I never felt I deserved or wanted, terminated, for love, not for guolt or punishment but for love; a love I drempy of for many years, the love I felt scence I was a small boy, the love I wished everyone felt for their partner; died before my eyes, with pain, real pain, the kind I’ve never felt before but knew that there wasn’t much more I could stand, and the reality, that wispering reality that never stops, it just keeps reminding me about the posabilities, about the life that could take place in me; I just can’t see it that;s all, I can’t see anyone else trying to share my life and deal withit as well as she does; it pains me to think of my future espevialy when in a state of transission such as this, it hurts me to feal this wakefull sor, this blistering woond that can’t find the time to heal