When The Music Stops

when the music stops…
last note from the last song fades into the background
the album’s spin is through…

that’s when you hear the sound
of an echo turning blue

then you feel the freeze
colder than the arctic


a lead-footed frost nips at your ears
’cause there’s no sound
to muffle the splashing of your tears


The Race

don’t overexert yourself
nothing stays the same anyway


The 21st century and race still matters

A race to what
& where are we going?

don’t get lost in the race

there’s never gonna be a winner & there sure as hell won’t be a loser

don’t get lost in looking around
at the gauntlet of unavoidables on the track
nothing stays the same anyway

so run and tell your friend about that
and while you’re at it, tell your soul about this

don’t get lost in the race

Mother Nature finds it insignificant

Letitgo In Sweet Sorrow [Soon]


a black star imploding on the 7th alley ’round the upside down
veiling the path towards the nexus of all creation behind a canvas scribbled in haste with heavy charcoal
an all black affair, as a matter of fact

down the dusty halls, down trails of a catacomb of the supersweet unknown to rectify a situation blown into a Big Bang


a proverbial cry on behalf of all humanity, those of whom have any humanity left under the surface of the still & deceptively deep blues

down the drain at the bottom of the sea and spat out the other side, where few things seem familiar & what is familiar is subject to intense scrutiny, warranted or not


a word with a myriad of connotations leading to too many conclusions 

down with it all
you, me, we, & the rest
allowing the deep unwind to manifest
gravity of a neutron star crushing down those on stand by
from this day forth

for The Dawn


Home Work

Now we weave a plight of controversial qualm to quench the insatiable amateurishness that flows through the webs & woes of the easily entertained and morally famished.

Scapegoats, savages, beasts of bourbon & the days of wine and neurosis. Plot means nothing in the face of fellated hubris.

Spare no expense! The Deadline approachth

The Short & Sticky

Frustration when your fingers stick together in a web of dubious intent
Clumsy clumsy fingers, pressing all the wrong pressure points

blissful serendipity are not in these here fingertips, nor is a technicolor climax while attempting to push the apex up so we could get down together
but alas, ’twas not in the cards, not within these short stubbed reaches!

But listen to the the sound. Get closer.
The strum of an angel’s wing. Crystal gleam, a steaming train of thought. Glam. Plenty o’strawberry jam.
A harmony rings from above “All Right All Right All Right All Right All Right…” 
a rhythmic clap rumbles behind billowy dark violet clouds. The aroma of honeydew drops clinging to tall grass at dawn, a calm culmination of all things considered.

So close yet so far away

if only I could get these sticky fingers to spread that way.