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.