Poetry · Writing

regis tower

we took the elevator to the top floor

sunny day, we came to play, in my arms till we’re all gray.

wondering how we got this high

in the middle of july

you beautiful monarch butterfly-

and than you were gone.

flew away too a city not far away.

i can’t cross that border

elevator out of order;

floor 99 these stairs are loud

95 the people form a crowd

92 i can’t remember how i got here

84 maybe i should just disappear

why the fuck is the elevator out of order

is this my disorder?

62 i wonder if the people that wrote Dexter realized it was bad

58 mj’s greatest hits and we start bad

i can hear the rain outside

droplets searing like cyanide

44 chest beating like a drum

than why do i feel so numb.

52 i can hear the sound of your voice

pretend that my words are from joyce

sit around sing clap an rejoice

66 here is good- i like here,

safe from the rain and the sun

nothing can touch me today

just the eye of a seer

when all is said and done

i don’t want to block the walkway

Poetry · Writing

1-800-555-2457

the static channel is louder today,

the musty recliner sinks deeper,

a socked foot blocks the left most side of the hushing screen,

the channel changes the static turns to picture

of a woman

selling pans

her golden curled hair flowed as she walked back and forth

just under was the number 18005552457

stainless steel and a non stick surface for a premium cooking experience

for three payments of 19.99 you can have this pan today

but if you act fast you can-

the static channel claimed her back into a loud shh,

the toe dissapears from the screen

a dial tone matches the static.

Poetry · Writing

on the road

it has been awhile

hey,

can i join you

what are you drinking

i know it’s been awhile

can i top you off

never wrote us off

just wondered

after those years apart

where we could have been;

i see it in my dreams

it’s usually my fault

maybe we could get dinner

i would love to hear

how we both ended up

at this bar

with each other

Poetry · Writing

scrapyard

you changed a lot-

all for the better

just not sure who’s

all in an attempt to be better

just not sure,

better than who,

i hope you sit down a write this out

before all that is left

is a scrapyard

of mixed dreams

false identities

wrapped in a fleece blanket,

each step was good

it was your own;

Poetry · Writing

four apples

hands behind my back

these aren’t the apples

i was looking for

i remember

the strength leavin’ my tips

for four straight nights

four bars over four moons

this cell is my home

brought an apple every fourth hour

four steps in four steps out

just the white lines on the stone ground,

they were different four days ago

is this

granny smith