Birdman

If I die build me a monument

That people will love,

And birds will shit on.

Because the triumphs my hands have felt

Are no greater than the old man who breaks their bread.

But the world does not see his work.

They do not believe

the sparrows in the spring

sing his songs.

Instead, the mosquito bites they never scratched

Came from chemicals in a bottle, on a shelf, in a convenience store.

But he has inspired without speaking.

Moved without moving.

And these men don’t need statues or buildings.

because they sleep knowing their stories are a part

of those for which we build monuments.

Immortal, for all the world to forget.

Headphones

I like to think headphones get tangled because they’ve been dancing.

Right and left

Amore.

A bond of more than plastic.

lovers in rhythm

wired to one another forever.

And when they sing their songs

They’re whispering through my head

Calling out to each other

Pouring love through my veins.

Those serenades are sweeter than the seven-train home.

They make me glow.

Goodbye 2012

When the ball drops.

The year dies.

We remain.

All staring at the start.

10.  Ready.

9.    set.

8.    remember.

7.    reflect.

6.    breathe.

5.    look.

4.    hold.

3.    grin.

2.    live.

1.    go.

boom.  It’s a new year.

In that instant of innocence we all stand silently among the screaming crowds. Eyes up, smile out. We hold our drinks and suspend ourselves in a momentary peace.  A fleeting millisecond of unavoidable joy.  A flash of pure beginning. The freshest breath of the winter.

Nobody ever mourns the passing year.

New ones are just too bright.

Too beautiful.

Too big. 

Right?

Writing is my art.  It’s my design.  It’s my carpentry.  It’s my song. 

It’s what I am on paper.

Like a mirror for my mind

My dreams stare me in the eye,

My thoughts look through me

They know me

They are me.

I can’t hide who comes out of my fingers

I can’t deny the feelings that fall on the keys

I can’t be more honest than when im here,

In my own head

Where no one can see me.

Some of the things I find here are beautiful.

They don’t deserve dusty demises

They too should taste light,

I owe them that much.

That’s why I write.

To give life to what makes mine sweet.

A Storm in July.

It was a humid 100 today and then it poured. The ominous dark weight of the entire sky collapsed and the heavens came rolling out in droves of wind and war.  Chaos. 

Empty concrete streets lay helpless as they drowned in rivers of insanity. The marbled hail crashing through the foggy currents breaking their heavy-handed flows as they rolls past crowded drains.  The steady pour beat down on the earth as wind swept waves of rain stumbled down avenues, leaving their mess and never looking back. Bowling ball claps of thunder, strobe like lightning, everybody stopped.

The office windows stretching to a clouded infinity filled with spectators. I could see their silent silhouettes whispering their pities to one another.  They saw our shaken souls standing soaked under the dry side of a awning waiting for the waterfall to loose its liquid legs.  We were trapped.

But not trapped in the damp cloak of sorrow or worry, but surrounded by the surprised faces of misplaces strangers, humbled by the power of the world New Yorkers often ignore.  We stood four deep under that awing, each with a different destination and but the same wet story.  We laughed, we smiled we shared a front row seat to the only show in town.

The rain came so fast it didn’t even sound like rain.  Instead white noise fell over the endless grey sidewalks. In that moment the world changed channel, flipped frequencies and I found a breath of peace. I found a comfortable feeling of serenity as my heels hugged that dry bodegas wall. The cold cotton of my shirt clung to my spine and I felt freed.  Somewhere out there lost in this madness someone is falling in love.  Someone like me is hiding under an awning like this and he’s met the girl of his dreams.

The squalls of the season were lined with fate.  I could taste it on my tongue.  There are a million corners in this empty city, a million dry places, but they found one and they found each other.  And even in the relentless dark of the storm they found light.  They found the heat of a beating heart outpacing the song of the beating rain. 

They were out there staring into each other’s certain eyes, their minds as clear as the far side of the sky.  The storm roared in applause and poured with praise. 

Fate falls like summer hail, magically swift and beautifully unexpected.  Today the clouds brought more than rain.

Montana

When I go west I feel smaller. Out there they got big skies, big mountains and breezes all in different colors and tones. It’s humbling to be wrapped in arms that big. It seriously takes you into its heart, shakes your hand and lets you rest. Big breathes. A autumn’s cold makes my nose struggle to take it all in. I pull through the middle of my face and feel the pine roll down my lungs. Tastes like mint. But even in this land of big there aren’t big buildings. It’s a different size of people, more figuratively than literally. You see these personalities take up entire valleys. Their laughs can be heard for miles before they are forgotten in the emptiness of open roads and big bright stars. It’s a rich dark blue at night and the clouds look like silver ribbons playing with the big snow topped ridges. They dance; and they dance in boots. Their songs smell of whiskey. They’re happy to meet you and they mean it. It’s just quiet out there. You can literally hear what a deaf man hears. Borrowed ears make for borrowed feelings that somehow feel real. I could drift to sleep to that sound in the middle of a crowded subway. I’d put it on iTunes and charge a dollar and a half. Call it big lullabies. I know all the words to that song. I’ll sing it to you when we meet again.

Optimism

Optimism is a dying art
They kill hope with a cloak of cool
Afraid of vulnerability
they drown in a glass half full of cynicism.
Romance lives!
Possibility walks all over this fucking city.
Its on every corner, waiting for every light,
impatiently ignored,
it dims like the stars in the morning.
Burning invisibly but indisputably.