Brave

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The thrill lasts

half an hour.

You weave through

your apartment

like a mouse

in a maze.

If the phone rings,

you won’t answer it.

No way.

What if it’s your mom?

The TV is an oracle,

one hundred voices

of wisdom,

opinion,

information,

things you need to know,

from baseball to war,

from hurricanes

to cartoon fistfights.

You cross the street

to the store.

You feel brave.

You have a mission.

You’re way too high

to be in public but

the store is a safe place.

You select Cool Ranch Doritos

and a fruit punch Gatorade.

The guy behind the counter asks,

How’s it going?

You say:

I’m so high.

He smiles and says:

Me too.

Copyright Tim D.

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One Hundred Hours

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I heard the stars exploding as

I watched the door close behind you.

Things would be different now.

Again.

Still.

We were in love for

one hundred hours.

and then you,

pragmatic and careful,

tearfully disappeared.

You thought about all the bad things

that might happen.

I thought about all the good.

You may have been smart

to exercise caution and logic.

But me?

I’m a believer.

One hundred hours later,

I picked up a pen and a guitar and

started to write.

My heart is not a toy.

Suddenly (Finally)

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(Verse 1)

Spent half my life in convenience stores

I’m not sure what I was looking for

I never learned any of the answers

Stealing kisses from exotic dancers

Let’s light a candle

Let’s make a scene

The past and future

You and me in between

(Chorus)

Suddenly, finally

Suddenly, finally, cloudy turns clear

Suddenly, finally

Suddenly, finally, let’s disappear

(Verse 2)

Don’t like how I feel driving away from you

It breaks my heart, gives me the blues

Got lost inside, thank God you found me

My home is your arms around me

You’re like a drug

You’re making me high

Here comes the sun

Shining in your eyes

(Repeat Chorus)

http://www.reverbnation.com/99moods/songs

Copyright Tim D.

Sailing

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I remember my fearless, young self

high on a bicycle, fourteen years old, thinking,

“this is what it’s all about,”

 

my life, your life, everything.

and when passion, faith and true love

disappear into the darkness

 

I think of you, me and slow dances.

I breathe the warm, sweet, spring wind and

I go sailing through night and time.

 

Copyright Tim D.

Dirty Job

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Dirty Job

It’s a strange position

Being a poet means you have to pay attention

You have to drink a lot and

Do a little bit of drugs

But then you have to quit

You have to forgive everybody

You have to stop spitting at

Yourself in the mirror.

You have to read books

You can never give up.

The poems are out there.

Watch the families leave the church.

Their lives are epic

Their lives are cinema.

Watch this old wrinkled man

Shut the door to the bathroom stall.

He has a small brown paper bag and

He is smiling.

Watch the traffic go by

They are sheep who learned to drive

Its up to you to save them.

Feel it

Take it

Smother little explosions in your heart and

Write them down later in a notebook

You finally admit that you miss your dad

You should have done things differently

You want to call your mom.

The wind comes in flavors

The music plays between your ears

At all times

It wont stop

Its your life’s soundtrack.

The most beautiful girl in the world

Makes you some coffee and

You’re so sad you’re happy

You cry until you feel good

You drive down the street you grew up on and

You feel the sun in your stomach.

You’re on a mission

You’re Charles Bukowski’s bastard child

You’re a warrior from the ancient plains.

Go ahead

Jump off this building

You will fly

You can’t kill a poet.

Copyright Tim D.

Silver City

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Driving through

the silver city,

I’m serenaded by Jeremy M and

10 new songs.

 

Jeremy came up here, blossomed

from the grass and dirt,

this school, that lake,

these ancient streets.

 

(We all grew up here,

long ago,

on hot dish, comic books and

beer we stole from our dads.)

 

Today there are zombies outside HCMC.

Some of them just got out.

The rest are still trying to get in.

They ache for blood and medicine.

 

On 37th Street

two African women shovel and struggle

to free their minivan

from the season’s fierce, white paws.

 

I roll past taquerias, convenience stores,

Vietnamese restaurants, a pool hall,

another Target,

Bobby and Steve’s.

 

Suddenly Jeremy is singing Paul W’s song

about the skyway and now

look at this poor bastard

crying in the mirror.

 

I’m heading home.

I will burn incense.

I will offer tulips.

I will go on.