smalltalk

What would the sheets say as dark shapes sway to and fro in the moonlight glow beneath them? Would they whisper sheepishly, or ripple listlessly from our toes? Who knows what prose hides in the rows of fabric that slide in such a maverick way. Would they lay silent, or in a violent fray   fall in disarray at the foot of your bed. Or is it I that will fall instead? Grasping at shreds of that thread for a foot or an arm or a hand or that charm that adorns your wrist? Or will I just find a fist in the lining to resist   my whining persistence to close the distance between the floor and your existence? Is that

And then my hand slipped off the rock, or maybe the mountain slipped from me, for all manner of debris freed itself from my grip. And as I began to flip a strange question skipped my mind, 'was I falling from the mountain, or was the mountain falling behind?' And as I tumbled end to end, from her peak into the floor, I began to comprehend that I had stumbled once before. So another question hit my mind right before I hit the sea, 'I've already fallen for the mountain, when will the mountain fall for me?'

Welcome to the one-man circus, Watch as he juggles a surplus of thought, throwing the lot Over his head, colorful balls of words left unsaid, Watch him trapeze over common sense and with total ease fall In an immense pool of confusion, Creating the illusion of complete seclusion, He is ringmaster to disaster, the faster his whip cracks The closer the lion's tracks become, and there he Stands with nothing but his drum, The one-man band, in one hand a cymbal and in the other A thimble to stitch the rich circus tent, Slowly, the three rings ascent, The one-man clown car, speeding down that great bizarre Stage on which he was hu

I find it amazing how you can fall on the same floor twice, rise Back to the ceiling, feeling elated, yet once again be fated To be awaited by the smack of the tiles, Those are my trials, A constant fight with gravity, losing sight of sanity With only profanity to soften the ground, Yet I'm bound to hear the sound of my own decline, Of my spine torn like twine and the whine From a harsh descent, Still, it is not the cement which I most resent, but the dents Which are left on my pride, who wide-eyed cries, I have fallen once more, And still I sore away from that floor as if trying to ignore The inevitable, and yet finding it in

I have twenty-six miles left to run Yet with a skip and smile I wait for that gun Because after the trial there will be a ton lifted From my shoulder, I have twenty-six miles calling my name Twenty-six miles cursing in blame Twenty-six miles proclaiming my fame Twenty-six miles all claiming in shame That I cannot finish With every marker, the trail will become darker, At every check, I will be more of a wreck, At every station I will feel the temptation To give up in frustration this useless vocation And just collapse… Yet I will demand a hand and stand, Wipe off the sand from my face, Put every hair back in its place beca

I like to throw myself down the cliffs of life. A sudden strife with gravity within the Cavity of my heart, To depart from any net, and leap past The sweat of my worried mind, I become blind to fear, yet all too clear do I hear the rushing of rocks and the hands Of my clock, If I could just block that knock on my soul, I would fall and stand whole, Yet I have no control over the ground, always Around and all too real, I feel the years Of hard earned falls, Remember the calls from the canyon walls, And the cries of the moles right under, Yet I still fall and blunder and get torn asunder By the jagged edges and protruding

Darwin's Book of Poetry Natural selection is a gradual rejection of the weak, Meek collections which are no more than streaks On the windshield of my car, A scar on the glass, shooting-star-like in mass, Far from the grass from where they nursed, Headfirst into the accursed chill that is the grill Of my automobile, Sliding down the steel lining and into the wheels shining On a the road bestowed on an unwilling land, An ode to the greatness of man, Riding in leather seats, Gliding on city streets, Colliding with the one of the few animals With love in their name… And would it be called murder if Darwin had written a book of po

. Take the Silver Train Take the silver train, strain in vain and without shame through The crowded pain and yank the chain to drain… … the sink, overflowing to the brink with the ink-like Stink of zinc and rotting matter, quickly, think… … of something to say, don't just stay there and sway, stray Away from your fears, seize the day, start with hey… … then cover in dirt, a bit of mulch wouldn't hurt either, flirt with The idea of a skirt of manure or a squirt of, well, to be curt… … dreams, that's what it seems sometimes, just gleams and screams Of pink beams, right between your eyes, streams and schemes… … of rich quick scanda

. Blue/Green Collar In a million eyes live the white lies of the blue collar, Stained red with the lipstick of the dollar, Washed by the hands of mans best friend Who only recognizes his hind end, Affairs on the stairs to the maternal ward And on the limited time warranty ford, Trials of quarter final and vaginal matches Between the Redskins and nicotine patches, Walking on the glass and class of the "others" With resting homes for their mothers, Dreaming of pearly white and bright candles To better lighten their scandals, Schedules and lectures on the benefits of wealth When you can't afford good health, Files on this and th

Manuel Malverde Narco-saint Manuel Malverde, Worshipped in Tijuana, Selling his drugs on the church steps, White powders made of nirvana, But in the narco-corridors, He's nothing but a saint, No rum running common bandit, Like his drugs, hard to taint, "Hunted by all the crooked cops," Sing the mariachis, "Crucified just like our savior, " In their native Spanish, Levi good looks, smile of the devil, The best mug shot around, The poster boy of injustice, From blood forging his crown, A kingdom made of broken homes, A kingdom of wrecked glass, Yet still barefoot sings the masses, Right below his green grass, A simple