We exchanged a look
as she troddled up the incline
of the top floor
of a parking garage
in some suburban neighborhood,
no different from the rest of 'em
she had jet black hair,
and plump white cheeks.
Her name was Helen,
I assumed so at least, as she looked
as all helens do, I figured
with piercing blue eyes
in which I could only see my own reflection
and pale milky skin
which was smoother than sandpaper, at the very least
Although we only exchanged but that one brief moment
between shock and awe;
that another human soul was here,
sitting on the ledge
on the seventh floor of a parking garage
overlooking the entire city
on a friday night
sculpting words
into expressions
the trademark of a poet
But this moment had to end,
as all moments do, I suppose
as she quietly creeked
to the other end of that lot
sat atop her throne, and lit a cigarette
or two
and our words danced,
although we never exchanged a word
As the city clock struck twelve
and the pidgens startled into the midnight sky
I think we both shared something
like ordered chaos
or beautiful sorrow
in my dance with destiny,
I tasted fate.
there is no hell like
writers block
the impossibility of
expressing the thoughts
that linger within
that hold each moment hostage
that torture - is like no other
Perhaps this is the quiet
before the storm
the last breath before destruction
or perhaps I just need to breath
...or fart
what is a knight without armor
or a souljer without a gun
or a doctor without a stethascope
or a businessman without a business
or a poet without a thought
about what to say
or how to say it
I wish I forgot my pen,
... at least then I'd have an excuse
Today, I am useless.
Is this really how it was meant to be? "
