abandoned garage over on River road.
In a left alone box…I keep the sacred thoughts.
In an upholstered chair from 1972, all velour and static, covered in snow.
That is where make-believe takes a seat.
It is where poetry goes.
Around about, midday, most days, when the sun quenches the sky.
I take time out to visit a graveyard Sage made of stone and bone.
To amend the playful wrongs…make them…right.
Everyday…a fortunate spirit on an infinite flight.
I ran to the door.
As though, I were a guest in my own home.
There had been a line up of years.
There had been much discernment.
A vast exhibition of word from dog-eared tears.
From space and time.
From a science undefined.
Nothing could abate my thirst.
No slang or vetted vista…
The stained sentence had been the first.
The newborn in my century old feet came rushing toward the porch.
A past portfolio of used books…read, heard…not always learned.
Still I smiled inside and out.
Smirked and thanked a bewildered stranger.
Who offered only expressions that were blank.
Thus, amid sentences, no one cannot truly confide.
I now sit…
No longer perplexed.
No longer ignorant to that I have not seen yet.
Awaiting chapters, used not broken.
Holding on by tooth and nail to a fictional sentence.
And, other words that will not be spoken.
Tighter than the bark on creativity’s tree.
Oh, woe-some, creativity!
I would assume…
the same can be said, for tranquility.
The worse of times.
The best of times.
All windows looking out…from my mind.
And, for myself, along with the same of similar skin…
No access to an outside door.
Black and white.
Pen upon paper.
Ambiguity sets in.
Alas, these are the moments I should cherish most.
Being in the house, as a ghost, with no need for a host.
I am certain of no uniqueness in this endeavor.
Just as certain that I am of…
Magic found in poems, prose and love letters.
No different from a plague.
Catastrophic with no source.
Words, assorted and maligned.
If my mind, a wiper?
I would scrub it free of charismatic, debris.
But that is not how the written is.
For mercenaries, such as, you and me.
Our phrases, a canvas, in which we set forth.
To poke, prod and perturb.
Such as, metal to an open nerve.
With poverty in every sentence, retained.
Words, words, and more words, forever, remain.