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.