Poetry

Bright luminous yellow circles 
line a street on a small Malasaña hill 
and the light reflects off 
uneven puddles in the cracks. 
  
"Life is a painting without us in the way 
finishing another guilt ridden cigarette", 
without the wild laughs at jokes 
that are not funny, 
without the wild laughs at stories 
that are not that interesting, 
without the glasses of red wine 
spinning from the head to the stomach. 
Without the dread of returning to the corner of the bar 
watching with an extra pair of eyes the nonsense 
of self-absorbed stimulus monkeys 
positioning for social status 
sex, or to forget their unintentionally normal lives 
decieved by all too obvious verbs: 
  
I am 
I want 
I need 
I have. 
I dread the spectacled reruns 
of lifeless tortured dependencies 
valuing small reoccuring moments 
marked by headaches and forgotten memories 
that was the night before. 
  
I have been pushed to the edge of sane insanity 
by one too many matter of fact pieces of advice 
into the arms of pure love that I cannot hold fast enough, 
and light heart to the carry the burden on a pair of shoulders 
that needs nothing more than a sturdy pack 
and a good pair of walking shoes 
to carry me from 
acid trips in the mountiains 
to 
the sweat lodges and poetry clubs of St. Louis 
to 
the the streets of Manhattan. 
  
To an old man who refuses to go quietly in this night 
and to 
the the God-like wisdom of a Five-year old.