nowhere north of north texas

4:19 a.m.
nowhere north of North Texas.
leaky roof,
summertime blues that wont shake away.
good rain wont wash away bad memories and all I can think about
are the size of the green and yellow grasshoppers.

bad poems can't cure bad nights,
but a sense of falling into the word can.

I want to hold onto what I can no longer have,
a love gone like a typical love song.

but hell, it hurts,
it hurts when I don't know why or how.
it hurts when rogue thoughts come tearing up my brain.
it hurts and it's been hurting for 8 years
and there's no help for people like me.

just more summertime blues.
winter blues, fall blues, spring blues, summer blues,
blues all year long, blues for decades,
blues for a lifetime.
blues for everyone.

the hurt becomes a part of who you are
and then it is ok to be hurt,
it is ok to be damaged,
to be imperfect, with character,
but cursed
by the most irreversible of things.

the disease of the brain.

one of which one can never be free.

you will die with it alone,
forgotten,
like the end of this mediocre sappy trash

blue bonnet nights in texas

I am the creator and I am here,
in Texas among green fields and
the blooming blue bonnets of spring.
I could smell the gunpowder when firing a shotgun,
but I miss the palm tree's and concrete jungles of home.
one becomes accustomed to the smog, the sirens,
the police and homeless
on the streets- asking for change.
my words are dry and my heart is blue,
I'm lost but somehow found by the love of a woman but
I'll take another drink, remind myself of home,
of billowing smoke in front of this machine
typing the impossible words
arriving in the impossible way.
one struggles but somehow arrives,
wherever we're headed we'll never know.
cowboy boots and hats were not my destiny,
the storefront churches are what I understand not what I know,
but they are there and more welcoming
then the green fields of cattle and tractors and
the mexican hands tilling the fields, plowing, picking,
maintaining.
no matter where I arrive,
I will arrive here.
online
and in front of the
eternal
page.
a million blogs and poets
may thrive,
but none like myself
none like the poems
of my own.
in 2007 when
they began,
or 2013 where they continue
and
are,
my own.
the poems will always arrive,
and as my new
texas love
sleeps,
twirls,
and sighs
as I type,
I will end,
and remain with my soul,
my own,
just as before
and just as now.

forevermore.
but not,

like,

edgar allen poe.

blue v-day

I spent many nights on the long winding roads after work
still thinking of you for some reason, 2 years, 3 years, 4 years later.
5 years didn't make a difference and on the 7th I still remembered.
you came into in my mind at moments in my life when I had new friends
and I knew that I was supposed to be having fun.
you're different now I'm sure and over the years something inside of me
may of idealized you and what you were supposed to be.
I understand I have no control of that, of you and who you are,
I just wish- sometimes..
when I'm in inside of a Denny's or I'm simply alone
somewhere I wouldn't stop for a moment and think of you.

you were like coming home to me.

elvish smile, brown-eyes.
you'll always be gone but I can't cut
you out of me. you're a looming gray cloud that is always there.

I escape in between the light.

the sky is a purple velvet, almost blue like the shades pulled down low by the creator. white lights glow in the sky near a pearlescent moon- orange, full of mood just for you. there may be more then one universe but this one is yours, momentarily alone yet absolute.

the nights are usually blue, in color and in name, in song and in feeling. there is no time for red thoughts, they are sealed away and forgiven. green, green, green. mornings are green, then yellow afternoons.

I remember sunshine days, bright glowing days. I like days that shine like the sun, days with purpose and meaning. It could mean holding hands with nothing, or talking to glowing faces. some faces glow, but none always last. they are not supposed to, they move on in the spirit of things and I am grateful for their momentary presence. blue birds carry their songs, blue birds die.

I don't know where this blue comes from, but I accept it. I can't take it away, believe me I've been working on it. I understand too much.

I miss him

I lost my father.

the universe

a night bright like the sun from green beer and grass.
I think of the pinwheel galaxy 20,870,000 light years from earth.
I take another drink,
there's not much happening here.
there is an exploding star at the end of every word,
a black hole at the center of every galaxy.
in our galaxy like in theirs,
their must be life somewhere inside.
but as the universe expands and the galaxies move further and further apart,
eventually, all stars will die and their remnants will speckle the interstellar sky
of surviving earths like dark glowing embers.
but then they too will die and the universe will be cold and dark and icy
and jesus will be dead and so will jazz(still), and heineken beer
but at least I'll finish mine before that happens and maybe then
I could stop thinking about such stupid shit.

january two-thousand and thirteen
sometime in early january.
what comes clawing inside of you is drawn
as persistently as air.