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