the Destruction of word(s)

The Window Is Gone

Someone referred to me as prolific
My writing being an expression
Of something greater, possibly monumental
It made me squeamish to think about
Obviously I felt too intimidated to write
I often get too nervous too sad too over the top
To compose anything other than mindless dribble.

There are days when I spend more time
Going than coming and those days I can’t write
There are days when I spend more time here alone
Those days the writing does not always come out
There is only a slight opportunity of inspiration
I could not write everyday if I did I could not grab
Choking the life out of communication
Smothering in phrases and purpose.

I could not write to put food on the table
Not there is much money in people that write
Self absorbed squishy abrasive diatribe.


On My Sleeve

the other night the queen of hearts
slapped on my shoulder
my friends laughed at how i wore it,
a heart on my sleeve.

the way I went with the crowd
swaying like a tree ready to be uprooted
at one sign of uncomfortable silence.

i need to live by the river
so i feel i can take a boat and leave at anytime
the constant struggle to want to leave
to leave to be part of something
bigger than you belong to.

on my sleeve remains the sticker
have not brought it to my attention in quite some time
the conversation was scripted.

booze set the course i remained on par all night
as I resolved any sort of dramatic scene,
grabbing her shoulder swallowed by the crowd
she would not even look me in the eye
and yet it remains unmoving unnerved.



The Name Is Sid Hartha

Take root in heart
A sort of seed of spirituality
Set to expand the interior design
A flicker of faith exhausts in the mid-light sky

Years and years seemed to be spent
On a spiritual journey of a novel
Reading about the European traveler

Grizzly display of youth upon the man named known as Bubba
Rub his belly tell him about the door to door sales mission
A subliminal eastern philosophy takes seclusion

As a snake tempts the young beauty stricken lady with brown skin
Her heart shakes in its sheer structure
The beat goes on steady and faithful

Biblical Anglo Saxon overtones
The new age movement needs no fodder
With all the vegan wireless cafés raping the landscape
No ugliness just oneness
Ohm Ohm oops it may be my phone “Can You Hear Me Now, Master?”

Our industry may rape ideals
Our industry may come… please do not wait up
Zen was no paradox just an inconvenience
But I think of myself as progressive
A captain of industry living outside my dreams

The door to door salesman selling used vaccum hoses
A certain humbleness required to sound convincing
Take me to the mountain and lets find the burning bush
Meditation is a spiritual commitment
That requires good shit