sins and satori

why are you running?
what are you running from?
your still looking over your shoulder?
you've been alone for a long time now,
chased by nothing,
but the shadows thrown by the sun on the concrete,
fooled by the echoes of your own footsteps,
there's nobody there,
they gave up a long time ago,
they're all gone,

...you outran them.

4 walls

contained by
fours walls
in a building
in a city
in a country
on a continent
on a planet
in a universe
in a galaxy
within millions of galaxies
imploding into nothingness
exploding into galaxies
creating universes
of planets
of continents
of countries
of cities
of buildings
of walls
containing
us,

contained in our mind,

...limitlessly.

just a grinder

A blogger;
a busted soul,
a simple tune, a window to the spring air,
a blogger sits with his head in his hands and a tries to remember...remember when days were long and the sky was blue,
a blogger; gets his
ideas from a vision or a dream or the sound of the buses' brakes popping
and squealing,
a blogger lies in bed awake, falls asleep at his desk,
a blogger; a type of poet, essayist, lyricist, a sad song, a hearty laugh,
A blogger, a mangy dog in an alley, a king with pomp and power, a tidal wave, an earthquake,
a punch to the face, a bloody car accident,

a blogger sits with his head in his hands and tries to remember...
remember when the water was clean and the streets were safe,
a blogger waits for days for the prison cell to open,
a blogger; smooth jazz, a cold beer, a sleeping baby,
a blogger wakes, types, writes and molds words into meaning,
a blogger...

a hack?

no...

a grinder,
a "Larry Robinson" grinder,
a defenceman,
a back-up guitarist,
a midnight busker,
singing a song for busted souls.

boiling blood

boiling blood sprays from the lips of the twisted,
the fractured,
the disenfranchised,
like an old man reaching out,
into the night,
trying to hold the wind,
he once knew the same goals,
had the same dreams,
as I,
but lost the mystery,
by getting lost in the mystery,
the hard mystery,
with a quivering voice,
a trembling cane,
no longer blinded by vanity,
he knows now like before he ever "knew,"
this hard mystery,
with it's rain on the windows,
with it's blood in the veins,
with it's fire in the sky,
with it's wind in the lungs,
when they tell you,
you don't know anything,
you tell 'em,
"I know enough."
but you say that last line like Deniro.