The foot prints with color.
Stamps across the streets where
cars create a sense of second pace,
passing by the signs now faded green
reads not Route 44
but rather Route 4..something..
Will they ever repaint it green?
What's the point? You wonder
when you're late for work and you may barely
make it, because your gas tank is on E yet again.
What else is new?

New job. New wife. No kids.
Because, can you really afford it?
Price tags are merely fiction
and I know this because of what happened once in second grade.
The library was my favorite place.
It's one of the only places that one is never alone.
I was the only one in class to mix up fiction and non fiction on the test.

And still, I am confused.
For I walk this world with carbon footprints
tears like rain drops-acid even,
and not the kind that spin inner thoughts with color.
Instead, the kind that is not kind at all, but
hurtful-scars the surface of green grass
left to fade like an old photograph.
And the colors fade like roadsigns
that the cities overlook.

Lights can be blinding.
No flash photography in the museum please.
I'm living nonfiction.

I'd like to write a song tonight and i'd love to learn some things before tomorrow. Waking up to the sound of birds who sing in spite of my own silence. However, what it is the birds don't know, out there, in that world beyond the window, is the volumes within this room. I'd like to play the guitar strings in tune with the beat of the instrument within my chest. Such treasure is a song that touches one's own heart. But how is it that mine hurts sometimes without even being touched? I think about the birds out there. It hurts to look into such darkness. Do their hearts contain such multitudes? Who am I kidding? Ridiculousness. Birds do not know the meaning of the word called multitudes. I'll probably never see the same bird twice which amazes me, but then again, I met a woman on the train yesterday and we talked for hours. The world moves and people move. I am moved by the hands of time. And with time, birds fly.

And if i could write one letter
to be, if that, my last,
the beginning would be simple, yet,
To You,
complex.

If my memories could play,
for us,
for the whole of the world
to watch,
you'd maybe see,
like crystal; clear,
so fragile and so rare.
So beautiful
as to hold within the palm of my hand,
your hand
in mine
i hold the pen that write's the words
i've been meaning to say,
so i speak through these machinations.
And here is the disclaimer:
i may confuse my memories with my dreams.

Today it rained,
and i saw us from a distance
in my dreams.

Love, Me

Green Eyes

I heard him talking loud about the girl, like the song.
On repeat in his mind, now plays in mine.
Consistent like a record broken
playlist shattered like a mirror-rearview.
Thinking back to a time where music
Made her laugh when he sang the words.


Music is a funny thing
How stuck it gets inside
the machinations of the brain.
Sticky lyrics,
Stuck to memories.
Like a cruise down Ocean Drive.
With her, it’s quite a sight to see.
She looks out to the vast enigma with Green Eyes,
Sings Orange County
In their song
That plays again.

We are tied to the ocean

As a wise man once said,
Before he sent a wise man to the moon-
sang Sinatra, in a song of course,
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars!
Instead, Spring in Boston, Massachusetts
Surrounded by the trees and ivy league
He walks. Amidst the second day of spring
TIME in ‘63
Each page, like a day in the life of a legend
Becomes wrinkled with time.
The essence of Boston: strong.
A sense of freedom?
Scents of red-cherry wine
In Martha’s Vineyard,
Does drip-like blood
Onto a blank-white sheets of paper.
Folded into tiny paper planes that fly
To the moon,
That is tied, like us, to the ocean-
Blues,
Like waves-
People watch in awe with their right hand upon the heart-in silence
From the shore of Hyannis Port.
Photographs, like memories,
Fade as time transcends.

And when we go back to the sea,
Whether it is to sail or to watch,
We are going back from whence we came.

“A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on”
-JFK

To **** a butterfly is
To see something so small
So small like us in a world where
i
Is a place where love blooms
Like a flower in a dark room
He asks us,
Would we trust it?

To paint a butterfly is
To be made of music colors
lyrics in a song where
i
Is the writer
Of a love letter
i
standing for
Idiosyncrasy

Caterpillar crawls
To cross the line-living life in the margin
No more
Love is not just a verb
i find a cocoon
still
Silent in seclusion
still
Until the release

To watch a butterfly is
To be in a moment...in time
Where the world synchronizes
To the flutter of imagination
And poetic justice
Saves the soul

two drifters

lost in current
the push and pull of present
entanglements constant
at a time of darkness
can not drive out darkness.
if only light can do that,
why does this flame lack liberation
in dire straits?
blinded by no light-
the logic of this
eluded them both
into oblivion

hours pass with counting waves
songs no longer songs
as for the lyrics-faded just like the moon
clouded with a chorus  
repeated melancholy
becomes a dream adrift
dreamt by both

until the rising sun
paints the world melodious
and the drifters
do awake
with eyes of blue
no longer closed
they find a world so green

two drifters

float on
through the hills
they are the music makers

off to see the world