It was real this time

Sun had set
on summer
for farewells
to old friends
and hound dogs
alike.
This time
I did it for real,
then stood outside
the gas station
staring blankly
at people passing.
I wanted
to go to hell.

Like The Old Years

I had to rest
and bury myself in time.
It’s summer again,
still loveless
as it was in the old years,
before the nights
were laced
with drunken half-sleep
and cryptic dreams
that remind me
of my countless
shortcomings.

Riding the Chariot

He rides in
on his fine white chariot,
expressing glamour,
class,
all of us invited
to join him.
I climbed up
as he took the reigns,
how I wish my will was strong!
We cover vast distance
in what seems
like moments,
and I step down
from his chariot.
Turning back,
I take a final glimpse.
A breeze blows,
and his fine white chariot,
now stained black,
turns to dust
and is gone.

Musings

I saw you in my dreams last night.
I want to be ethereal.
I've seen you in wakeful hours;
where you breathe,
where you sleep.
How I'd love to be there!

I'll transcend reality
and taste of April,
hiding in the shadows
of timeless spring days.
Forgotten,
like a grain of sand
as it falls to the bottom
of the hourglass.

The Prophet

"I want to be a prophet,"
he said.
"I am not a man of faith,"
I said.
Paging through books,
black coffee
on Tuesday morning,
and I can't stop thinking
about things
that don't really matter.

He wants to be a prophet,
I want to sail the seas,
paging through days
of calloused labor
and clandestine longing,
dreaming of your arms.

He'll stand among the prophets
on the altar,
as I drink red wine
with the captain
and great kings
salt the earth.