Category: Urban Poetry

I stand by the water, on the scaffolding of a building
not known;
it is air
which touches my skin,
and I taste the salt and sting.
Are those waves or tears 
crashing against stoop
and the bare feet of lonely men
on steps?
My, how this world feels
like sand,
and its days like glass;
watch us
drink our whiskey;
watch us
flip the hour on its head.
The sea becomes our night;
streetlamps flicker, dragonflies,
and us men, quiet from the buzz,
raise our heads over the edge
to drown our dreams in stars.

In the middle of the city, I stand
like a sparrow lost.

I spread my wings,
and discover they are featherless.

I think that perhaps
I am not a soaring bird, and maybe

I’ve been searching for the touch of breeze
in the wrong places.

Afterall, there are countless sparrows around me,
and very few are flying.

Stars alright with flame.

The predawn sky is a sweet song.

The body hurts, but so does the world.

So, what can one do

but keep going?

Shooting stars flare then die,

galaxies erode,

and yeah, I will toil, then die,

but I’ll shine

at least until the morning.

Fuck. I can’t write anything.

This effort, the unending
trying

in this life we’ve designed,
leaves me with

nothing.

I ride the freezing early mornings,
surrounded by
a smothering of coats,

and I swear,
always there is a moment,

just before the bus screeches stops,
that I understand
the vagrant on the street

taking a piss on the world.