The Writer Can’t Write Right Now

Palm tree travels and train trips

Zigzag roads and elevation

2 to 3 weeks of existence

Fitting on my back & in my right hand

Back pocket poetry

Or something like that

In it for the long run

Or so I say something like that

Fleeting paths crossed constantly

My eyes find the floor far too often

I could write a Missed Connection post almost every day

When will I learn to take a chance

Because failure can be pretty sometimes

Or something like that


An Hour At Night

The Clouds come. Fog floats above the valleys and hangs low over the mountains. I’m awake again. Mind full of thoughts but realizing it’s not the time nor the place to think them. It’s a mystery to know when is. Lately I’ve been doing the most write worthy things and haven’t wrote one worthy thing. Now Three AM and I can’t stop the downpour. I thought it never rained in Southern California. I guess life has its seasons. Raindrops create a contemplative backdrop. Street streams set the stage for my restless refractions. Disrupting my sleep cycle, but sparking dreams.

Stumble (& Other Losing Balance Verbs)

My heartbeat reverberates through the mattress

Every day is a gift & I’ve got a basket of blessings collecting dust on my nightstand

Helping hand, reach down from heaven

Awoke in the night with no sane strategy

Empty ambitions

Calculated conscience

Completely incomplete – Drifting

So many feint steps

Phantom footprints

Hitting a heart cord hardcore

Struggle to find a place, a passion, a purpose

Do I want peace or an art piece

Are these poems just poor prayers

Currently caught in the current

Bury burdens in the back of my mind

Acting like I’m living life

Standing on the fault line

The fault is all mine

I’m trying to start over

When – Why – Now

Quivering questions creep on up

Gotta focus on something bigger than me

Wearing sweaters in cafe corners

Hitting every extra long red light to get there

What’s my potential

Got no credentials

Shouldn’t even be here

How many years

It takes time though

I’ve got time though

Better end on a high note

For The Life Of Me

Pass by rundown restaurants and resorts 
Power lines cutting through an organic oasis
A single snow cap shows far up the side of the sky 
Destructively dry 
Calm climbs but taking gambles 
Harmful hands cut by boulders 
Writing phone notes that couldn’t fit in a phonebook 
More meters for the millennial 
Exiting and exploring when my broken being permits
My addictive aerial anesthetic
Fascinated by the failure for accurate articulation
Formations with the exquisite artistry of nature’s hands
No narration could encapsulate the endless miles of miracles
Salvation for an entity achieving existence
Vegetation in green plumes push through the desert dirt
Corrupted cactus or twisted tree
Surviving savagely 
Says something about me
Chasing sunsets westwardly
– A.B // 2018

All Dressed Up & Hopefully Going Somewhere

Tripping through the travels

My pathways sprawl like branches of a river

Waterfalls and whitewater

Three tier transformation

Cell level laundering

Farmer’s market fresh

I’ve been on both sides of the furnace

Smell of smoke and coffee beans

Cruising coast-wardly

This is as far as I’ll be, away from the sea

The story arch is looking like a rocket’s flight plan

Long, grueling and aggressive

Ask not the astronaut

Turbulence a common occurrence

Being realistic of futuristic fate

Chasing education with hesitation

But don’t bury broken blueprints

Hands full of dirt and I’m writing

Has art destroyed me

– Fifteenth –

Compiling conscious contemplations. Shed sweaters like withered cocoons. The sunlight might make it through soon. Drastic dramatic disillusions. Leave the station without any movement. Translucently taken back by troubled timelines. The plot-lines perplex the principal producer. Wake-up wondering. Pass-out puzzled & pondering.

There Are Other Pages In The Sea

I’m starting to remember everything I wrote
& it sounds like what I’m writing
Surface level occurrences leave letters untyped
I have no good lines to cement in ink
No real lines
Fictitiously mining, digging for some real reasons
Blame it on the circumstances and the seasons
My justifications haven’t been enough this week
I’ve been chipping away slowly
Trying to get to the core of something bone-deep
Moments left uncapitalized
Polluted thoughts and diverted attention
Holding all the pieces of information in my head
Redundantly recycling recollections and reflections
Looking for the clear path and purpose
Clear to cloudy like windshield wipers on low speed in a rainstorm
I’m an open book with a few pages missing