strings
play in my heart when our eyes meet
must have been the pasta
or the promise of new love's meat
lumberjacks & thumbtacks
greasy kid's stuff
all hearts and butterbeans
down on the corner of
heartattack & sorry
like Ledbelly in drag
on Christmas eve
in the all night coffee shop
the last piece of Lemon pie
some kids singin'
the lot lizzards
whisper an Amen

I used to be able
with out much struggle
write things
that seemed
touched by some brilliant star.
I never questioned
or even considered
that there would be times
where everything I wrote
would belong on some garbage heap.
But here I am.
Writing things
and it all stinks pretty much.
I'm still me
still on over load
like I was back then
the only difference is
that life became a meat grinder
that I can't escape from.
Now what I have to say
is like sinewy bits of cat guts
that never made the grade
for violin strings
so they just sit
on some rotting heap
drying in the sun.
I read works
from my past
and am amazed
that from the protected cocoon
I was able to shape
the worded clay
into works worth reading
like I had something to say.
All that brilliance
like bits of silver dust
on some quiet morning
in a hall where no one ever goes
settled it's self on me.
Now, however,
the tangablity of reality
with all it's cold hard hands
that slam down and scream
are useless
and in vain
I write.
No liquid words
floating off my tongue
no amber elixers
that cover walls
of a vault that never ends.
Just the blaring of life
and a box of crackers
that crumbled
somewhere after the third day
that's what I'm working with
every time I try to write.
...2 cents...
-------
Poetry is ebb and lull
Fickle is Ariel
Ride the swell
Then take in sail
You've still got it.
-ink-ling
-------
It's still there humming softly, I hear it. Be patient :)