Death loves us.

Follows us around every corner,

came into the living holding our hand.

Fiendish yet loving

hand guides us through life.

We can’t see her

but she’s always there. Never

feinting or exlied, just 

waiting for her turn to dance.

Fishing without a rod.

salt fizzle wind brushing the shoreline

across its forehead. Fish aren’t biting.

Fishing without a rod. Water gently strokes

the fins of dreamy trouts as they smile. Fish

aren’t biting. Clouds cover the eyes of the sun;

casting pretend night over the sleepy water.

Fishing without a rod.

Fish aren’t biting.

The centered frame

stand still for the shot

sweetie.

Your perfect moment

with fake people

and a cheap unanimous grin.

This perfect moment

standing next too a twenty-four pack.
Cousin Frank being held up

like Weekend at Bernie’s.

It’ll get cropped out. Can’t

destroy the perfect moment.

Circle the lot. Build

your self; circle the lot. Make

love to your dream. Screech

the tires: scream

outside into the open endless

wave of future tales.

It’s on a one way path

never off track

only passenger.

Ghost train.

The harrowing steel wheels

lift into screaming black

nowhere.

Window seat flash

children playing with armless

action figures.

Beer belly man

walking

a German Shepherd.

A woman on her wedding day;

peach ball gown tracing the cracks along the sweat filled sidewalk.

The train makes no stops.

Oh boy keep that clean

it’ll talk to you as long

as you keep it clean.

Dare the dare

get a little dirty

whispers pile in.

Oh Lord where did you go

I need you now

praise my deaf ears.

It’s been a solemn year;

oh its been a solemn year you’ve been gone.

Time outlasted you, yet you

will outlast time. We knew

so much when we started and you

changed the language. Changed the color of rain.

Changed the way we listen.

Speaking Prince.

 

R.I.P.

The world was yours

between your index and thumb

yet

all you wanted was a hut.

A quiet hut along a river to grow tomato’s.

The world rested in pinched pink skin

and now in the earth below. Next to

new born tomato’s.

Hello?

It’s time to wake up.

You’ve been sleeping under that tree for to long.

The sun has set

the season has changed

the winner has been crowned

your house has been moved.

Tiles of metric meaning layer over the place you once called home.

It’s time to wake up.

You’ve been sleeping way to long under that log that keeps you sane. Time to rebuild that home.

The international bandit

thee headmaster

I tell them.

I tell them the story

is you

the story breathes you

and exhales icy winds

in a hot summer day. The first

steps were taken only

because you allowed it. The snake

everyone saw but not the thief we loved. I’ll tell

you the story. Feels the pages turn

like the wind blowing through your hair on a mare

through teeming meadows.

 

Now he rides on with a full book.

 

R.I.P