November Blues

I’m drunk in Boston thinking about you.
Folks up this area seem to think the world may end soon but hey, I’m still here.
Still wondering where or if we could have been,
still considering ways I could have handled the situation
a little better.
That’s all I’ve ever aimed for,
and it seems to echo through everything I do,
cling to the fringes of everything I lose,
memories littered with could and should and you.
This bar smells like burnt cherry cough drops, my glass is sweaty,
and the cheap promo coasters are well overdue for replacement.
There is a woman screaming at the television,
a man screaming on it,
a pint was just dropped behind the counter,
and despite every distraction my mind
drags me back to your absence.
I can’t explain it.
Smoke is creeping in between leaky stain glass panes,
crawling out from the begrudging lungs
of civic duty chauvinists guarding the stoop,
into the pub and settling around my ankles.
It makes my skin itch.
All of it.


Dedicated to Bernie.



Some mornings I wake up writing.

Through my window, the early sun is shining,
my eyes still blinded I find myself rhyming syllables
with consonants that complement and comprehend the bigger picture
of the scripture prominent in the dominant society.
I see the problems with humanity…
The insanity of extreme mindsets
from every heavenly sect set to threaten the youth into fellowship,
the threat of punishment exploding in the streets
of the east and west, it’s like the people playing God
forgot to take their midday rest.
With shit like this we’re reduced
to only the children knowing what’s morally best.
And I test my patience pouring coffee
while the radio buzzes a news stream
and soon I’m three sips and set
to forget I was ever a part of humanity anyway.
Ready to write off my citizenship to earth
so I can find a place to live where the right comes first
and a shared sense of solidarity isn’t a byproduct
of a brainwashed waste of humanity repeatedly
attacking the innocent and weak.

I mean, three headlines a week shouldn’t be dedicated to mourning and obituary.

Some mornings I wake up writing,
and still hiding under the covers
I wonder why I was wired this way.
Programmed to take the pain and suffering I see
and re-channel it into a quick catchy beat
in hopes that somebody sees through to me.
I surround myself with laughter and animals and love
but sometimes it just doesn’t cut and I wake up writing,
I wake up sighing,
and I go right back to sleep unprepared to spend another day
watching the outside world dying.

National Poetry Month started several hours ago, and runs through the next 30 days.

What’s that quote?

If I only wrote when I had time I’d never write at all…?

Something like that.