Searching for the Wasteland

I tire of this cliche cinema

This silver screen has tarnished

This manufactured tension

Is nothing but shadow puppets

Give me a moment of golden silence

Let me savor that sweet afternoon


Where the sun melts

And touches me like velvet

I want your hand on my knee

As we drive

With the open window breeze

I need to find a sublime wasteland

In the dark

Where the word alone

Is a prayer

Mark me with purity

Color me with ash

Give me serenity

So I may touch my lips

And kiss

The sweet dawning of the stillness

That let’s me listen

To my voice

Over the din of this trite

And hollow

Lamenting of this world


No Title Necessary 

Ever since seven years old the words began to call

In an instant I felt them

And my pen was in their thrall

They showed me there was release

From the rat’s nest where I slept on dirty sheets

Back then it was a matter of survival

Every time I faded the words were my revival

And now years later I’m a hit man

With ink

And when my head hits that pillow I dream

There’s a devil on my shoulder saying

These words are weapons when you spit

And the angel on my shoulder

Says go ahead you’re killing it

I never put much stock in fortune or fame

I was never lost in the you know my name game

Because the words will call

Till I end up in the grave

They’ll outlive this body and this name

So call me what you will

But call my lines unforgettable 

I don’t need a title to know

I am intangible

Drilling into your mind till you can’t forget

I have worked every second to get this legit

So forget my face forget me entirely

These words are my god

They are my immortality 

Doomed Patterns

These doomed patterns

Viscous swirls

That rip and tear

Like a disease

Preached like gospel

Sung from a choir

Taught like lessons

From the admired

Scrawled like knowledge

On the screen before me

Calling like

A warning siren


In it’s devotion

I wish sometimes that I had 

Never heard

And could never listen

But these doomed patterns

Speak my language

Silver tongued

So I trace the spirals

And descend

Taking each step

In an agonizing


It is the last 

Show of my will

That I do not run

To the nowhere

That I seek 


And peaceful

In these doomed patterns