Reading Nick Hornby alone at 2 a.m.

If words measured
the depth of my heart
the Grand Canyon
could only hold the
first paragraph in a
three novel series

Kenya

Right now Kenya seems like a dream seen
through the smoke of a vanilla Cojimar half
burnt between my cold fingers.
Just a place, nothing else.
Foreign tongues, colored skin,
thousands of gallons of dirty water.
Thats not a place for a musician.
What if I got dirt on my freshly bought
designer jeans? My Puma's?
Would it come out?
Like a photograph in a back issue of
National Geographic. Swollen bellies,
HIV, visions of Sally Struthers getting
paid for sitting at home.
If faith is a plane ride then I'm in.
But if faith is getting dirty and touching
someone who's never heard of Bono,
I may have to wait a while.

11/24/07

Every once and again, mostly on holidays,
the idea that people have no true
redeeming value pops into my head.
Skipping family for early morning sales,
thirty channels of football,
enough food to feed an African
country for at least a month.
Lines out the door at Starbucks,
young bands playing shoddy tunes
from from the nineties as shoppers
push each other down for the
last Harry Potter gift box set.
Skinny girls laboring behind a counter,
promising themselves that they'll
run off mothers cornbread stuffing
on their next fifteen minute break.
Teenage hard ons clamoring for the
girl in the short skirt in twenty
degree weather.
"She's gotta be noticing me man!"
A time of love lost inside light
and dark meat, pushed behind the piles
of leftovers in your aunts ice box.
What happened to fires and thank yous
and girls who knew to cover their midriff?
Have we lost the simple joy of holding hands?
Looking in each others eyes and saying
"I Love You?"
If long checkout lanes and bust lines are
any indicator, maybe I should just buy
my coffee, stand in line and join in.

Sarah's Year

Not so unlike Gina.
Browner hair, ambition,
a smile that faded the summer.
Just like last June,
only now it's July
and things are moving faster.
It was "I Love You"
pushed between adoption
and cold fatherly stares
from the back of the room.
She always had a way of surprising,
photogenic poses, and the smell
of mountains laced in her hair.
I'll never forget the cold air
in the back of a Texas parking lot.
Her warm hands as she looked
into my eyes for the last time.
I'm sorry I didn't write back.
All I could think of was late
night water parks, blond haired
girls and how some things never change.
June to July.
August to October.
I wish I could have been
different. Maybe then I could
finally write back.

Love and the Machine

On calloused skin
her hand rests, an
awkward show of care.
Tracing lines between
small spots of melanin
'till her name appears.
H
O
P
E
Slowly passing time
with the tips of her
fingers softly on
her lovers back,
pushing down fast,
thought of impending
morning and approaching
goodbyes.
Sometimes the sun isn't
the biggest thing in the sky.
Tossing through sheets
and wires, trying not to
unplug the last semblance
of her name from love,
and the machine.

Love and Drugs

I imagine love is like taking
that first hit of heroin after
two months on methadone.

Slowly sinking back,
a euphoric state of
self abasement.

Chemical constructs bleeding
your system cold of memories,
stereotypes, and needles.

A mind scarred from nights
of chasing the dragon
all around town, hoping

she shows up while you wait.
I guess if love is this
unpredictable,

withdrawal
can't hurt
much worse.

Beautiful

As the light dips slowly across the table, inching perilously close to my latte, I'm suddenly aware of how beautiful life is. The curve of hips. Yellow complimenting blue. The genius of the iPod. Sure you can see it in mountains and plains, but it's in Manhattan, London, and Kyoto. Bright neon disasters welcoming everyone to a loss of privacy. The way a cellphone drops a call right before she ends it, delaying the future by the seconds it takes to hit redial. The frown of a person waking up with blood on their wrists and breath in their lungs. It's knowing things will never work and still trying, with every tear, to find the words to say. Maybe she'll notice one day. Maybe she won't. Tomorrows not just a new day, it's another one. Stop waiting for the sun to shine. You never know when it'll explode in a beautiful hydrogen fourth of July. Isn't life beautiful for all the wrong reasons?

Untitled #74

Sometimes on Friday I dream up
how easily I could become a cokehead.
Cutting lines with my friends razorblade,
I would never keep my own in case of
really horrible binge nights. An ornate mirror
would sit majestically in the middle of an
imaginary French coffee table that my parents
got me at some antique barn in Indiana.
People would beg to do lines next to my gold
records and ’72 Telecaster Custom.
“Just one more before I drive him,” my
girlfriend would say, but I wouldn’t let her.
Even cokeheads have limits.
Maybe I would be involved in some type of
Eastern European supply chain that decided it
was easier to move the dust in through airports
in Kansas, cause who’d expect that.
“Stuff’s good this month,” I’d snipe at the
Mafioso who switched bags. Only to settle
back in close to my Parisian throne.
Sometimes on Friday I dream of being
a cocaine addict, only to realize that it’s
Saturday morning and I’m too broke
to even afford prescription meds.

Dirty, Bloody, Love

On Fridays we sat through hours of films;
comedy, romance, B-grade horror, A-grade trash.
All to be close enough for our arms to touch on top of the dirty armrest.
My mind always played tricks on me when your head moved more then an inch.
Funny how an Australian slasher flick can take a backseat to your eyes so quickly.

Allium Cepa

It's like cutting the heart
out of an onion, there's always
crying involved and layers
must be shed before it can
be used, even to the most
bland of tongues.
For a moment the smell
takes you over, invoking fear
in the nostril as triggers
in your brain push
tears to your eyes.
It's similar to the burning
sensation you get when the
one person you can't get
out of your head, tells you
that they've finally gotten
you out of theirs.

10/7/07

Nothing ever moved me
the way your touch made
me desire to see the world.
Not even the night Bob Dylan
seemed to stop everything to
sing a song that dripped
directly into my veins.
Or the time I saw Jesus
in Nashville,he had
short hair, and no beard.
Yet your soft fingers
pushed past the troubadour
and the savior of Hollywood
to keep me completely still.
Maybe, in some way, you
are Europe, and this
wanderlust is simply my
desire to know you better
than I already do.

10/2/07

Sometimes I think about the
way she used to look at me.
Lips the color of peppermints.
Eyes like almond M&M's.
Like she just couldn't ever
get enough.
Sometimes I think about the
way she used to look at me,
but it's getting harder
and harder
to remember.

The Cost of Leaving

I tried reading Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises" to get the feel of how Spain would be in the summer, but it doesn't sound anything like the stories you used to tell me. If it were only that easy. Then maybe I would be holding you in my arms right now instead of scribbling in this little Moleskine, wishing you were close enough to beg me to read what I was thinking. I still wouldn't. No matter how crinkled your nose gets. I like to think it's something about principle. Just come find me. It would be so much easier that way.

The Last Day in Brum

Its raining,
so normal,
as I trudge to the
newsagents just
off Bristol.
The 62 breezes by
on its way down to
City Centre, packing
people off to work
and the Bullring.
The chippies are all
closed but the smell
still hovers,
sour vinegar and old cod.
A woman pushes a buggey
and dodges an ambulance
with nimble ease.
Sara said I would
never be the same.
I think she's right,
so I pick up a
Cadbury's and Coke,
push my collar up
till it touches my ears
and brave the rain
all the way down
to London. Maybe there
I'll find what I've
been looking for.

All Souls

Here we are.
All together.
Fumbling through tradition.

Welcome all.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Pray. Confess. Recite.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Baptize.
Sprinkle the head.
Vow. Recite. Repeat.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Pray.
For war. Church. Missions.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Whats new.
Consult the scripture.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

"Turn to God."
Prostitutes. Sinners. People.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Here we are.
All together.
Dying in tradition.

Family Bible

It used to look old,
cracked and worn from turning.
Everyday it sat on the oak table
like a glass candy dish
waiting to be opened
and its contents devoured.

It never seemed to mind
all the attention going elsewhere.
Quietly it would sit,
patiently waiting its turn.

We always came back.
Like it was calling us,
when life fell apart
we retreated to the wisdom
and worn pages of hope.
But that didn't matter.
It loved us just the same.

I let it fall once,
like a normal book.
Crumpled pages, torn binding,
coffee marred Proverbs.
It hit the wood like a hot plate
shattering around the feet
of my embarrassed mother.

But that didn't matter.
It just waited to picked up.
Patient and diligent
just like I had read.

It used to look old,
wordy, out of date.
But it doesn't mind.
It just waits for us to see
beyond the thees and thous.

Maybe someday I will.

Table #3

Pale green
the grass in early Spring,
up, like her eyes.
Freckled nose
worn, as the
tops of her hands.
Safe,
glimmering eyes.
Not so different
then dew on glass,
pouting slowly
at my approach.
I wonder what
she's thinking?

At Lunch

If this was London, would you be impressed by someone simple as I?
Or would it be like productions down West End and rooms at the Savoy.
Maybe a smile could be enough,if it was lit by the water in St. James Park.
Is that how love looks?
Laying in the sun, ducks playing by two year-olds as a football glides across the green.
Or a slow night walking down Holloway, radiant clouds and awkward stares.
Would you love me if nothing ever changed?
If London was still in a different country?
If your eyes left mine?
Does it take silence to show how much I'm afraid?
Quietly sitting across the table, wishing I could come up with something so you would notice me.
Is it working?

Untitled #11

Stiffling passion
underneath folded arms,
intently gazing at
a world so foreign.
Neutral colors.
Chestnut locks.
Wicked eyes.
Tempered cheeks.
Dropped like a tulip
among roses.
Silently sitting,
fists clinched.
Waiting on the
world to move.

Love at a Distance

I have seen light,
radiant as the sun,
dipping low across
the English horizon.
Beat, O heart as
waves, feeling
the last spark of
heat from the
fading star.

These eyes,
tired from night,
want for the
sight of fleeting
beauty and
everlasting grace,
locked deep in
the last rays over
the summer Thames.

Be it not for brevity
of speech and the
feeble plight dealt
to lovers at sundown,
caught between
the sun's fire and
the frigid water.
Fire and ice
stranded in the
hopeless gaze
careening from
her eyes.

Oh, if distance
were but a word
not a hindrance,
then would love
be true, steadfast,
complete.

Untitled #16

For what it's worth,
the argument that
ten hours isn't that
far away had to
be originated by
someone in love
with their next
door neighbor.

The Wizard of Odd

It's a red bricked road
seen through yellowing eyes.
A small white cat
setting fire to a lion
made of straw.
The disgruntled dwarf
yelling at a farm boy about
his funny haircut, lost
inside the fury of
a hurricane
in Nebraska.
It's emerald shoes on
a girl in Starbucks as
I slowly melt into a
man made of tin.
Here's to the world
thats upside down,
and the one I see
when I'm
dreaming.

Maybe

If only I could stop looking for
more then the length of Bob Dylan's
"If You See Her, Say Hello."
How nice would a distraction be,
like a marathon of Cary Grant or
Bogart films playing against the
back of my eyelids.
Maybe I could wake up and only
see the lines from "The Sun Also Rises."
Then I could stop worrying about
running into you every time
I open my eyes.
Maybe.

Untitled #6

Calm as brush strokes
she disregarded
every single thing
I said.

Dovehouse Green

Pigeons scrounging.
Rye, birdseed,
concrete, grass.
Pillar for the fallen
used as a toilet
by a small Boxer
who chases away
the birds.
Rolling on the lawn,
neglecting his stick,
and master.
Jumping on walkers.
Smudging books.
Soiling jeans.
As happy as
can be.

London Pt. 2

It's coffee and a muffin
down on Fleet Street
at eleven in the morning.
Out of place amongst
the slim fit charcoal
suits that normally
take up residence.
It's hearing Farsee
on the nineteen,
trying to get to
Piccadilly on time,
stuck in traffic
in Holborn.
It's a lady having
a row with
a TFL official all
because the Victoria
is shut down for
the weekend.
Stuck north of
Highbury, forced to
walk all the way
from Arsenal.
It's a middle aged
woman, eyes closed,
singing with Elton,
for Diana.
A grown man putting
down his Carling and
taking notice of a tribute.
It's the American cashier
at Starbucks. The Indian
barrista, Spanish
housekeeper, and
Australian guest.
It's the Queen,
the busker,
Chinatown,
and St. Pauls.
All completely different.
All perfectly at home.

30/6/07

It's bourbon and whiskey
from old oaken barrels,
sitting next to a large
framed man with a
long stemmed pipe.

In, out.
In, out.

The smoke billows
into the air with
the aroma of cherries
and old bathrooms.
The spirits swirl
in the glass as he
slowly sips away.

Up, down.
Up, down.

It's eleven thirty.
Not much time.
Pack it again
then say goodbye.

In, out.
In, out.

The smoke has gone
the way off the buffalo.

On Slowly Dying, Voluntarily

O' troubled soul.
Lost amidst the wars
and frivolities of
post-modern America.
Searching for truth
in a world uncertain,
drunk on desperation.

O' wounded heart,
crimson from battle.
Clinging to a life
that isn't yours.
Clutching swords,
sharp enough to
scar the wielder.
Where is your
battle song?
The sweet melody
of dirges, victory
tunes, too far gone
to be remembered.

O' trifled spirit,
where is your love?
Sick from war
and famine, longing
for a simpler life.
Breathe in deep,
feel emptiness
in your stomach,
tangible as cancer

Is this all you have left?
Or shall you stand up,
refuse to be
driven back by
mere arrows?

Alien

I wonder what they think of me.
Foreigner.
Capitalist.
Bad driver.
Neatly tucked into my loosely
tailored shirt and thinly knotted tie.
Tax dodger.
Traitor.
Bloody baseballer.
With my neatly trimmed mane.
Hippie.
Funny talker.
Seperatist.
Waiting for walking lights at traffic signals.
Slow.
Charlattan.
Baby.
I wonder if they really see me?
Vulnerable.
Timid.
Lonely.

La Ballerina

Coffe sips
Three men banter
Amy Winehouse is awful

Single slice of bread
Peacock napkin
Full glass, Chardonnay

La dolce da vita
Tiramisu
Royal Opera

Galvanina
Icey ballerinas
Single red roses

A couple laughs
Sips at their red
Coddles hands intimately

Mobile rings
Jacket pulled quickly
Late as always

A drip of heaven
High on Holborn
Just out of the pubs reach

Keep On Dancing

She dances in the Square
with all the elegance
of a young Ginger Rogers
locked into a five foot two
freckled frame.
The music plays
brilliantly underneath
her sunkissed auburn locks.

Da de da dah
Da de da da dah

Effortlessly her feet
glide across the wet
cement, trainers
barely making contact.

Da de da dum
Da de da da dah

Her arms swing
with the same
gentle force behind
a single engine aircraft.
Peaceful, violent,
breathtaking.
A vision of innocence
amidst a backdrop
of continued chaos.
Nails in cars.
Jeeps in airports.
Eyes unopened.
The music echoes past.
She can't see the
hopelessness.
So she dances.

Da da de
Da da da

Da da dum
Da da de

Da da dah
Da da de
Da da dum.

Sitting by the Thames listening to Amos Lee

It's the soft motion
of breaking tides
against pillars tucked
beneath bridges
too majestic for
most to walk on.
The birds waiting
intently for some
tourist kid to drop
his Cadbury bar so
they can retreat to
feast at the waters edge.
It's my wet jeans as
they rub the inside of
my legs raw.
The rain that just
won't stop in the city
that just won't
burn forever.
It's hearing
"I'm Not Myself" and
knowing that he's
singing directly from
a studio into
my heart.

Soho

The circus never stops.
Men dressed like ladies
looking for a good
time and tip.
Filing in and out to
see the hip new DJ at
whatever place isn't
charging cover.
Trash, tramps,
and Bentleys
seamlessly woven
into the streets.
A menage a trois of
lifestyles looking for
something they don't
know how to find.
A rat in the gutter
next to Blackout.
Such a sleek scene.
Heaving it's last breath,
exchanging lungs,
and moving on again.

Forest Whitaker

There are somedays I wish
I were Forest Whitaker.
With a loud booming voice,
eyes like a child, and a
body the size of Oscar.
Not trapped in this petite,
pale skin that burns too
easily in moderate sunlight.
Arms too small to fill out
a jacket made for boys.
Slightly playful hair that
only stays in place with help,
and in most cases, a lot of help.
Out of shape and balding.
Maybe if I looked like
Forest Whitaker, people
would pay more attention
to me.

Faith

Its in Africa
buried deep in
drumbeats,
trees, and
ritual folk masks.

It's in Australia
lying hidden with
the Aborigines
just outside of
Ayers rock.

It's in England,
tucked away in
ancient cathedrals,
cheers for Arsenal,
a baby's baptism.

It's in Spain,
unnoficially,
and almost killed
by the war and
post-modernism.

It's in Mexico,
lying still with
the lady of
Guadalupe,
hanging in
lower class villages.

It's in America,
quieter then before.
Huddled into societies,
tossed out of life,
like our pilgrim founders.

It's in the Middle East,
in praying five
times a day,
secrets in a cave,
and a human bomb.

It's in everyone,
even the unborn,
that they might
get the chance
to believe,
like Me.

London

The rain never stops
Same for the people
buses
roundabouts
parties
accents
It's Trafalgar Square
in a tsunami
Hyde Park
in a tornado
Places
Faces
Each corner a movie
waiting to be made
A hundred starlets
lined up
dying to look like Kate

It's purple hair and
underground labyrinths
of steel and sound
The polite sound of rain
on the Thames
An overpriced taxi
for a cheap glass of wine
Horesmen and bobbies
luxury ferris wheels
cobblestones
courtyards
cameras

Home

6/23/07

Some day I'm gonna make something nice.
Pick up and move over to the West End.
I'll stop living on this diet of caffeine and rice
and push my ego in ways I can't even comprehend.
"Nothing's Impossible," I think someone said.
But they were living on another man's dime.
Doing and being's just stuck in my head,
doesn't matter if you can't always make things rhyme.
So tomorrow I'm gonna pack up all my bags,
tip my waitress, and board a train.
Lord, please give strength to my legs
and if you could, don't let it rain.
I'm gonna try my luck in London town
and hope when I fall I don't make a sound.

At The Ikon For The Last Time

Alone at the Ikon
for the very last time,
staring at a young red head.
Eyes like chocolate.
Lips like fire.
Chatting politely with her parents.

The kitchens a buzz
as freshly washed plates
slide across the table
calmly waiting for their turn,
much like kids in line at
Six Flags, just without all the noise.

My mocha's nearly empty
as the back party room.
Ocuppied only by two lovers
hands entwined under the table.

The flowers on the table
remind me of Brenham at Easter,
laying among the Bluebonnets
on long holiday weekends.

This isn't how goodbye is
supposed to go.
All the lonely times and
semi-hot coffee.
A place to call home for
an hour every couple nights.
Safety from all the bars
and occasional rain storm.

I'm caught between dreams
and a foreign country.
A white walled lover
who's name I won't forget.

Broad St.

The stars shine on Broad Street.
Women vying for attention.
High heels.
Full wallets.
Men waiting with condoms in their back pockets.
A silly game where no one wins,
except the taxi driver,
lying in wait for Reflex to empty.

Covered by buildings
and light summer rain
as they dance through the streets
like gazelles wearing blindfolds.
Timidly looking for some place
to call home for the night
that doesnt come with guilt
and pills the next day.
Each step a fallacy.
Each word a regret.
The stars shine bright on Broad Street..
If only they could see them.

On Caffeine, Leaving, and U2

Someday when we meet again,
hopefully I'll find the words to say.

No longer bothered by hot drinks
and unpredictable weather,
maybe I can manage to eek
out some simblance of dignity.
It's funny really.
I'm normally a pretty composed
person.
Hiding behind thick brown
aviators, trying desperately
to do my best Bono impersonation.
But for some reason I'm just
crap around you.
All my thoughts turn to rubbish
and my words fall even worse.

Someday when we meet again,
maybe I won't have to say goodbye.

Knowing the Difference Between the Truth and a Lie

Sara never told me it would be like this.
Late nights.
Tired feet.
Coffee alone.

She failed to mention that I would have to stretch out.
Don't strain a muscle.
Read your Bible.
Talk to strangers.

There's no beach in Birmingham to kiss and hold hands.
Rainy afternoons.
Cold mornings.
Silent nights.

A tiny little room with a sink and a bed.
Keep your hands to yourself.
Wake up early.
Don't forget your pass.

Sara never said I would fall in love.
Selly Oak.
Hot mochas.
Her eyes.

It's as if she lied to convince me to come.
Broken guitars.
Porch talks.
Rail tickets.

Sara never said it would be like this.
I listened hard.
Warm under a blanket.
Thank you.

A Wake In A Pub

Night closes.
The band finished hours ago.
Sweat and Carlsberg
mix violently on
the damp streets.
Silence stays the
darkness, cut bluntly
by echoes of
The Kooks from
a flat on
Coronation.

Nothing seems
to slow this
city down.
Buses at midnight.
Late night pubs.
Windows advertising
mobiles and Sheesha.
The steady grumble
of a Vauxhall
in the distance.

Not unlike a funeral
where the guests
don't know each other.
Solemly watching
as the night dies
along with their pints.

Maybe they'll write
songs about her
one day, full of
drunken verses and
a chorus about old Joe.
Someone will even put
a bridge in about Villa
and how they always
fall short.

One by one, passing
in front of the coffin,
looking only slightly,
heads cocked to the right.
Always moving.
One day
it's gonna stop.

Just not tonight.

At The Ikon, Again

Sitting at the Ikon
alone on a Monday night.
Staring at my mocha
as the sugar dissolves
slowly into the cup.

Smoke fills the air
as two ladies argue
over what to do next.
"That sounds dreadfully boring."
"Oh come on, give it a try."

A young man bellows
deep from behind the confines
of his green alumni sweater.
Tables teem with the
comings and goings
of socialites, sippers,
and simple minded
wanna-be's.
An ant farm in a
gallery bar, too proud
to let any one of them out.

She's not here tonight.
It's a shame.
Me in my nice shirt
and gray coat,
trying to look like
I know what I'm doing.

Replaced by a lovely
thirty-something with
hair just longer then mine.
Her slender frame glides
in and out of the tables
like the floor was
covered in ice.

Not so different then last time.
A jolly old man shakes
the ground as he
roars with laughter.
BANG!
She pounds the coffee press,
preparing for yet another
long night at the Ikon.

I really
wish
she
was
here.

Demerara

If only poetry was like love.
Oh the words i would write for you.
The clever rhymes I could
conjure onto a page with
your name attached.
If only poetry was like love.
Maybe my hands wouldnt
tremble so much.

Soul Meets Body (Listening to Death Cab in the Dark)

I always wonder if Hemmingway
left a part of his soul in Spain,
the same way Shakespeare
did in England or Hughes in Harlem.
Bleeding a city dry to make
ink for their papers.
A song that can't be sung
unless you know the native tongue.
Beats and sonnets,
couplets and scat lines.
Does inspiration lie in the
open fields surrounding Warwick
or simply in a grassy patch,
used for football, outside
Asburry House?
Maybe London will come alive
in my head if I can just get
my thoughts out of Harborne.
Those eyes.
Vast as any Nebraska corn field.
Oh how i wish Missouri was
closer to Birmingham.
Then maybe my soul
could finally
meet my body.

6-17-07

We can't go on forever.

A kiss
Lightning
Friends

We can't go on forever.

Ask the child in Darfur
See what Castro says
Look out across Gaza

We can't go on forever.

The Beatles
Kerouac
Warhol

We can't go on forever.

Sleeping in a hammock
Down by the lake
Tucked in my arms

We can't go on forever.

Summer vacations
International projects
University break

We can't go on forever.

Such a shame
I rather love
Looking at your eyes

Secret

It's as if someone didnt tell me.

The earth never stopped moving.
Time didn't stand still.
Little pieces of confetti stayed tucked in their bags.
Yet she still walked into the room.

I've always believed in love at first sight
but normally it's followed by fireworks
or the demolition of an old building.
How can this be so simple?

No opera's, royal ballets, or tired
renditions of classic Aerosmith song's.
A calm smile, cheerful eyes, and
nothing happened.

Two decades of emotion wrapped
up in a little grin and not so much as
a hair raised on the back of my neck.
Either I don't know what love is
or I'm just too blind to notice.

At The Ikon

Alone at the Ikon
late on a Wednesday night.

Sipping on a mocha
staring at a Sauvignon
wishing maybe I
didn't have to leave.

A room of umbrellas
and stripped party hats
teetering on the brink
of chaos and celebration.

Outside, a man in a blue vest,
content with dripping,
looks at his Reisling
intently as the lighted trees
shrink galaxies in between
the buildings.

A young man touches
his wife's hand like
shes leaving for war.
All the while, a lovely
blonde waitress
hurries to clean the
glasses and broken
hearts from the round
table tops.

A piercing smile and
eyes the color
of the canal,
nothing seems to
shake her.
Not even a tall bottle
of Morgan or a
first day cashier.

Confident and young,
kind of like I used to be.
Headstrong in a world
of information
and insanity.

Pushing in a direction
somewhere between
tables and slightly north
of Wolverhampton.
Trying to reach the stars
but finding only tree branches.

The parties leaving now,
moving on to clubs and buses.
A midnight town on
a noon day schedule.

Maybe I'll stay.

Two men hold hands
as the tablenext to them
tries to remember
old dress sizes.
Empty goblets,
loose aprons, and
uncomprehensible art.

Life in a tornado
full of fog.
Just another bloke
at the Ikon
on a Wednesday night.

Somewhere, Someone

It's not this town.
Somewhere
someone
has to be
feeling
like me.

Lost in a city
that was never
meant to be theirs,
hoping for
something,
or someone,
to jump out of
the pavement
and pull them
into their world.

Is it too much to
ask for a little
shot of love
mixed with
anything other
then alcohol.

Perhaps a
sunny day
when the
forecast calls
for rain.

When Annalei
can't stop
staring at you
with those
eight month old
eyes.

Just something
besides mixed
emotions with
Bacardi put in
to add some spice.

A little music
in the morning
to push me down
Bristol and keep
me seperated
from real life.

It's a cellophane
existance in a
wrapping paper
world.

Where's my bow?

Or did I just
come untied.

To and Fro

Things don't always turn out
like you think they should.
A warm summer day can
quickly turn into a rainy June afternoon
without the slightest notice.
Like a ship without a rudder
on a course that we can't
determine. Destined to move
forward into a liquid
nightmare of mornings
and evenings.
Is it all this care free?
Just floating along
with the wind at our
backs until we find
some semblance
of land.

Maybe it's time to
jump out of the
boat and let
our arms loose to
feel the ache as water
pushes fast against
the sinews.
Breathe in the life
and salt as the waves
push you further away
from land.
Don't lose hope but
most of all,
don't lose sight
of land.

Make Up Your Mind

Make up your mind.
People around you are
jumping off buildings,
defacing their bodies
with razors, puncturing
their souls with the
knowledge of fools.

Make up your mind.
Armies are being trampled
by metal casings
and particles.
Strands of viruses
wreak havoc on
impoverished nations
as the price of coffee
keeps the weight
of the dollar up.

Make up your mind.
Turn off your T.V. and
think for yourself.
Jump into a pool
without checking
the depth.
Fly a kite
on a still day.

Make up your mind.
Stop living in a fairy tale
behind closed doors.
Breathe the air,
bloody your knees.
Let someone break your
heart and laugh
about it.

Make up your mind
or someone will
make it up
for
you.

Think. Know. Feel.

How many people would be alive if AIDS never came to Africa?
If Enola Gay had never taken off?
A number unimagineable in the minds of consumer based America.
So far removed from the pitfalls of humanity that we can judge ourselves better then the world.
What about the Kenyan boy, dying for lack of clean water.
Are we better then him?
The Ugandan child unwillingly drafted to take a machete and AK to destroy his own village.
Does Abercrombie make me a better person then him?
Can a book about abortion really make you understand how a young mother felt while she was being raped?
Do we want to know?
Can we take it?
Or does it upset our posh urban life too much?

6/7/07

I'm in love with Jesus
quite like I love chocolate,
Indiana Jones, or
Dashboard Confessional.
I pick them up when I
want to, content to eat chips,
watch Star Wars
(it's still Harrison Ford)
or blast John Mayer instead.
Moving about from girls
and obsessions.
Black hair, blonde curls,
Samuari swords,
'72 Telecasters.
Too scared to commit to
anything temporal, let
alone something big as God.
Wholly created to serve
a Master but with my feet
willingly chained to the sod.

I'm in love with Jesus
but football season just ended
and I bought a brand
new guitar.
Is faith really God-sized
if Beckham doesn't bend
it neatly into the back post
even though I believe he will?
Or is it just a matter of
eating another chocolate
and saying a prayer
hoping one day I can
differentiate the two from
a B-side on a
U2 single.

In Selly Oak

like a car crash in the middle of the night
too dark to see the road ahead
tiny cars bouncing about a concrete park
at a pace only described as frightening

still i walk alongside the
broken streetlights
not afraid of anything

like a child in a buggey looking
at the glorious sights a
market has to offer

so gently the sun rises on bristol
old smokes covering the
bus stop floor

the mornings cold with a hint
of sausage and chips
in the air as the jungle
moves slowly under
my feet

the world is alive with
the cool daylight nipping
at my olive green jacket
not unlike the canal
just lower
with more normal
people milling about
off to work and uni

another day of hope

Birmingham

Stoplights.
Compact cars
careening bacwards
down narrow roads.

Vodafone, Frank & Bennies,
The Soak.
All tucked in between
endless streams of
red brick and
white paint.

Brommies and Muslims.
Side by side.

What a peculiar place.
Pakistani pizza.
Sainsburries.
Villa Park.

English through
and through with
a bit of everything
else thrown in
for good measure.

And the rain.
Intolerant.
Trying to ruin
a sunny walk.
But not succeding.

Now to change
my wet socks.

Thoughts

Well lets start with a light note. Weddings remind me of a circus that is sometimes controlled by the animals. Evey little piece can be set in place and ready to go but one small thing can set an entire place in an uproar. Not that i've seen that happen, just that i really like circuses but I only seem to make it to weddings. I've always wondered why rainfall somehow foreshadows your mood. A short shower when you cant stop thinking about someone. A downpour when everything seems to be spinning out of control. And just like always, it stays away when things look up. Maybe rain is just a way for God to vindicate our feelings and show us He really does know, and care about whats going on. It was a short shower today followed by sunshine and then a downpour. Maybe no one has ever made it to the end of that tunnel with the bright light but I think if they did, all they would find was another tunnel. Maybe the light would be a different color so they would know it was a different path. There's something about coffee that can make everything seem just a bit more distant. Whether it's a mocha or a cappucino, the aroma tends to just push all your worries, cares, and heartaches aside for a short time. I wish goodbye wasn't so hard but I take solace in the fact that if it wasnt then hello wouldn't be as happy as it is. I still hate goodbyes.

Just Outside

Everyone says move on.
Time heals all wounds and certainly this cant be worse then last time.
Does anybody even know exactly what time is?
A unit of measurement?
What makes you late?
An excuse to buy a trendy watch?
Certainly it can't have anything to do with love.
Love is a cardboard box full of happiness, thorns, and pillows.
Destined to bring two people together only to make them want to slash their wrists in the end.
How can time have anything to do with love?
I loved my baseball card collection when I was a kid.
Just because the time has changed doesn't mean I still don't love holding a Ken Griffey Jr. rookie card.
So why all this talk of healing and space and time.
Isn't love just love.
Watered down and broken into categories, isn't it still the same feeling every single time she walks into the room.
Eyes like Broadway.
Lips like New York.
Hair like Jersey at night.
Or is this just the chemicals mixing in my brain telling me that I should travel.
Strange images forced into my skull of long nights and days I wish would never end.
Love is nothing but the opening and closing of your eyes.
Try hard, but you can never erase what's just outside the lid.

May

The summer sun
never sets fast enough
to erase her eyes
from the horizon.
A glaring light
over the tops of trees
and the crests of waves.

I've never been one
to notice nature
until her eyes
pierced my daylight.

Now the sun doesn't
seem to want to
come out
anymore.

Misconceptions (Safety)

I used to think that safety
was in numbers.
Caught up in a whirlwind
of people moving down South Ave.
Pushing forward
with nothing to lose.
A self made mirage hidden
in a mob of followers.

I used to think safety
was in numbers.
Until the day you walked
into that concert.
Hips swivelling
feet shuffling
hair as black as love.
For the first time
I felt vulnerable
swayed by the rock & roll
and the midnight
in your eyes.

I used to think safety
was in numbers.
A tight mathematical haven
for me to discard all my worries.

I used to think safety
was in numbers.
Then there was
you.

iChat

I keep killing myself slowly
on a clean, white keyboard.
Each word a small part of my heart
seeping onto the page
in tiny green bubbles.
Covered over by current news
drowned out by the silence of a stereo.
I keep killing myself slowly
in a different way
every time.

Young America

How strong is the voice of young America?
As we yell at our XBOX, trying to make friends with an alloy heart and artificial fingers.
Softening the blow of a crumbling economy as it falls on our head like Baileys into Guiness, losing it's form and calling itself our government.
Instead of standing up and making our own war, we're content to sit and grumble as others wage it for us.
Treating our lives like a condom, pleasured one night and flushed the next morning with the rest of the vodka.

How strong is the voice of young America?
Have we become a generation of tabloid heroes, living our fantasies through Lindsay and Paris?
Stuck on a ledge, four feet up, too scared to commit to a bruised knee.

How strong is the voice of young America?
How long 'till we yearn to be old?

May 5, 2007

Everything can be broken down
Words, compounds, books, football.
Always say what you want,
but only say what you need.
People don't want to hear how you see life,
they want to know how to live
and living isn't about keeping someone
so close they won't leave.
Its about loving someone so much
they'll never want to.

Auburn ........

Find me, slowly
Running after.......
Chasing after nothing.
Goodbye, moonlight
I got an auburn sunshine.
Losing myself
Here with ............

Back Row

Sip your coffee in silence.
Life on the backrow isnt that bad.
Watching culture change
in small increments.
Girls constantly playing
with their hair.
Perfect, manicured nails
in a sea of auburn strands.
Curiously wondering if her profile
is as alluring as the soft
skin on her neck.
It's breaking up on Valentines Day.
Chocolate covered strawberries
alone in a restaurant.
The safety of a warzone,
a cold hug on a warm day.
So sit quietly,
dont change a thing.
One day my seat will
open up.

Blind

Sometimes I envy the blind.
Never judging by
physical appearance,
fashion faux pa's
or designer deities.
It's like trading a
disorder for a disease.
Curing AIDS only to
contract syphillis.
Its the dawning of America
deaf, dumb, and obese.
Living each day on a diet
of porn and pessimism.
A society of critics
starving for something
to attack.
Life laid out before us,
a buffet of acceptance
waiting to be chosen.
Sometimes I envy the blind.
They cant see how ugly
I am on the inside.

Tuesday

I feel more important on Tuesdays.
Like the way a baby feels
when you say it's name,
or a rose on Valentines Day.
There's just something special about it.
Maybe it's the music.
Does Dylan feel accomplished
when he hears
his own songs?
Did Shakespeare cry
when Romeo
kissed Juliet?

Maybe I was born on a Tuesday.
A perefect mix of sunshine
and coffee right
before a blizzard.
Not Tuesdays child,
just it's biggest fan.
I really wish it
wasnt Monday
today.

Warm Hands

The nights changing so fast.
Warm, like your hands
on the back of my neck
asking me not to go
I do.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
Like Spring turning into Summer.
Trees, leaves,
and dreams made of ice cream.
Kids flying kites and
dogs playing in the the park
Still I sit.
Warm, in a cold apartment.
Clutching to the memory of
your hands on my neck.

Don't Be Afraid

I’m a fire
In a box
Don’t be afraid
To open me up
I’m a king
With a paper crown
Don’t be afraid
I won’t let you down

Cause I’m a lover in a war
And I don’t know who I’m fighting for

I’m a sea
With no waves
Don’t be afraid
I will carry you all day

Cause I’m a country at war
And I don’t know who I’m fighting for

Carry me away, carry me away
Don’t be afraid I know what’s going on
Carry me away, carry me away
Don’t be afraid
I’m gonna save myself


I’m a gun
In your hand
Don’t be afraid
To try and understand
I’m a tear
In your eye
Don’t be afraid
Because everybody dies

Carry me away, carry me away
Don’t be afraid I know what’s going on
Carry me away, carry me away
….
Carry me away, carry me away
Don’t be afraid I know what’s going wrong
Carry me away, carry me away
Don’t be afraid
Don’t be afraid
Don’t be afraid


I will save you.