The promise of morning and flea market bustle,
rouses tired hands to lay out old friends.

Faces he knows as well as his own
watch with timeless abandon.

He sets each precisely with intimate touch,
soft as forgotten caresses;

gathers their stories, pulling them close
in the bittersweet truth of parting.

Come afternoon, those hands will slow;
kissed cold by the late Autumn air

and a passing whisper in his ear -
somewhere a bell is tolling.

Iron grip holds firm Put up the greatest fight Struggle for years to get free But grip fastens even tighter Through pain, joy, sorrow This grip stands undaunted; Memories of you are few But stronger than a lifetime's. Each memory clip holds Unimaginable volumes of volumes As time grows, Each memory clip grows One scale after another, A Steele resolve after another To steer clear of you To let sleeping dogs lie Is shattered to shreds, For when your heart beats, Squeezes in pain, Mine responds in resonance A hundred strings on my guitar are strung And I awake as from stupor I stand on full alert

“It is not known at what age mankind lost their comprehension of heaven. How easily the masses were blinded and entertained. It is the individual who is to blame for their ignorance. Not even the children can be spared in the war against pure evil. Malice has overcome our world and all shall be judged. It is October, and the chill of winter has began to breeze in, but yet has not settled. Lifted warm air still fills my lungs.

Saturn’s rings came streaming through his window
Like a friend of a friend that’s telling him to let go
The pathways to the future are behind him now
Telling him all the things he’s yet to know

He was arcane
He knew the length of every nail in his coffin
He was to blame
He’ll come again

Saturn’s rings were pilgrims of tobacco
Spirits from his pipe leave it as it’s so
Prophecies in spirals draw the twisting of the knife
And the minutes before midnight as they grow

He knew the name
Of every ring around his planet
They were arcane

Since November

Hate speech scratched
on a flyer, a small crime.
A huge gesture.

His pen became a weapon
of the small-minded
intended to cut
down those
who
are
different.

Mercenaries are no longer
single snipers hidden in
shadows.

More have taken up
inky swords
armies bound together
in hate.

We don’t have enough medics.
A simple bandage can’t
staunch the bleeding.

Come close and simply listen, For the story I'm about to tell Is true. And it is mine.

I wonder what you are doing I was so dumb to take you for granted because of me you are heartbroken and torn I hate myself for the pain I caused you I wish if I could have turn back the hands of time I am sorry for rejecting you I am sorry ignoring your cries I was such a fool Such a fool to allow a good one like you to get away

We folks in Connecticut adhere to good etiquette,
   never covet, philander, or kill.
No one ever comes late to their job in this state
   and we never miss work ’cause we’re ill.

Our vista’s are stunning, and no one’s seen running
   from robber or rapist or bum.
Everyone smiles. None lack domiciles.
   You won’t see a soul looking glum.

Neither slum nor a mansion nor urban expansion
   you’ll find in this fabulous region.
No one’s ever pugnacious; instead, we’re all gracious,

He is a young man But his life has been destroyed by drugs He looks so lost, tender and confused The short high from the drug is not worth it, because it gives you a short life in the end.