You could find inconsistencies
on street corners like these,
plastered with potential headlines
and people doing their bests
at whatever they think they might
be best at – the people produce
the place around them, they name
everything and feel for everything,
even if what they feel is trifling
nonsenses or impassioned loyalties.


My future focused walking leads me alone
to dwelling here amidst the torn leather books
of an infinite arrangement of unimportant ideas
dedicated to muses, loves, and various losses.

I take a seat on well-worn wing-backed chair
replenishing the dried up and cracked ink well
with new thoughts and feelings inspired-stolen
from all the names who wrote those words before.

At least, I think, with fainting smile and swishing pen,
this time the tools of creation will be my own;
however simply they were stolen and reused,
the pen, place, and purpose – those are mine.


Alone at night
is when the most poetic
ideas arrive.

They gnaw through walls
once carved in granite
granted great powers
by the sanctity
of the mind.

Images coalesce into one
half sun facing portrait
soon to be sung about
but ne’er seen again.

Before long it fades
for fevered dreams
to take its prideful place
amidst the obvious


“A Time and Place”

There’s a time and place
for thoughts like these.
Lonely bartop ramblings
and sudden cynical desires
are never well combined.

There’s a reason all the colours
fade like they never knew the bright,
a reason for beauty like that
to disappear and never be known

Who knows what that is?