The Creative Act

How can you leave me standing,
alone in the world and so bold,
Maybe I’m just to demanding,
Maybe I learned from my father, all told,
Maybe I’m just like my mother,
She could always see through my guise,
She always did know better,
Always that look in her eyes.

Dream if you can of a future,
affected by nought except you,
Possible things are pearls upon strings,
for the taking according to what you choose,
Imagine a world without influence,
where decisions you make are all yours,
and destiny forms, so curiously,
into exactly the shape that you choose.

You know, I would cry.

The lions and
Tigers of our youth,
stalk the sordid alleys
concrete jungle that a city is
in search of prey
of play
of any word on what the point
of living is.

They leave their unintrusive selves
in black-lit pasts and background social scenes
only bring the sharpest knife
to the fight
the conflict waged in brutal words
and apathetic stares
that preen and start
in the alcoves of physical commerce.

Leaving cares and manners alike
(so alike) in the basement apartments and rundown condominium highrises,
the beat up bungalows on the borders of the burbs and the metropolis,
where society stirs in self incriminating circles
only in practice, it is just practice
for the play of words and fists,
guns and knives,
but also hugs and kisses,
on the streets of the city
in the passionate grip
of those sickly-sweet summer nights.

Breakfast seemed

Not quite a meal but more a waking dream
With bits of food that drifted through my teeth
Slowly passing
From plate to me
While my mind did so proceed
That all I thought
Was mere imaginings

My mind a fictive horse with wings
To ply the airy, surreal heights of what’s not yet
and what can’t be

In search of what amuses me

I often find myself thus lost
Before I find the muse accosting me

Sometimes with a wink
other times
With a playful pinch on the cheek