The Writer

Smoke drifted lazily in the room, winding up to the ceiling.  He stood in front of the crowd, eyes cast downwards at his paper.  his head was balding, despite his youth.  The room was silent. 
He began to speak, slowly at first, then quickly.  His voice was crisp and clear.
"You all have a misguided opinion of me.  You seem to think that I am some kind of genius, an artist, an intellectual.  I'm not."  He stared at the men in the front row, at their suits and their ties.  He glanced back down at his paper and continued: "I am nothing but a collection, an emporium of all the things I've ever read.  I've never said anything that wasn't a quote from somewhere or other.  I have no opinions but the ones I've read in books and in papers.  I am completely unoriginal- a kaleidoscope image of all the people I've known.  I don't truly exist.  You've said many times that I'd be missed, but I would not be.  You would miss only the convenience of me.  The convenience of having a walking, talking museum of all mankind's lesser traits.  You don't believe me, I see that.  You can't accept that I am merely a plagiarizer of all the things you've said.  That all I am is a menagerie of words and books."  He looked out at their faces, at the murmurs spreading in their throats. "But thank you for your support.  I accept this trophy with pride."
The crowd surged forward, to hug him, to assure him they loved him.  And they did.  They loved him because he was nothing, a reflection of themselves.  They loved him because at his core there was nothing but words.  He was their soundless gong, their broken window.  He was their empty bottle, their blank masterpiece.  He was their tuneless hum and their sorry reflection.  And the writer watched them with sad eyes, he watched their angry-sad mouths and their hurt-hungry arms and he was saddened.  Because in the end, they defined him too.

Well, well, well

So I wonder how it's going ta go
And I wonder how it's going ta be
I'm feeling well, well, well
Today
I wonder who I'm going ta be
Who I'm going ta wish I was
I'm feeling well, well, well
Today
I wonder where I'm going ta go
I dunno where I'm going ta be
But I'm feeling well, well, well
Today
The future- what's it going ta be
What'll life be like for the world
We all say well, well, well
Today
So many questions gotta be
So many answers never found
I hope I be well, well, well
Tomorah

Rain slicker, Star slinger

A rain slicker drips on the hook by the door
She pulls a revolver from a bedside table drawer
She holds the barrel to her ear and thinks no more.
The stars shine naked in the black night sky
Concrete sees the changing day as people pass it by
Another minute wasted, the star slinger starts to cry.
A city washed with rain wakes from its drowsy sleep
We trail down dirty sidewalks finding what we'll keep
Pills are prescribed every day- no questions asked, like sheep.
A rain slicker drips
The star slinger cries
You will keep on taking pills
And so, my friend, will I.

Whispers

Always there
Filling the silence
Between the two
In the spaces
In the gaps between them
'Hold my hand'
She cries
But he can't hear her hidden words.
His hands stay in his pockets.
His mind whispers
'Kiss me
Like you mean it'
'I'm broken'
Is her reply
'I'm scared'
Is his.
'How can we continue?'
She wonders
'Hold me'
'Hold me.'
She turns,
faces him
and he's there in an instant
heading towards her.
His arms embrace
and she smiles,
because somehow
he heard.

Musical Chairs

I stand up
and you slide over
she walks away
and he comes hither
we walk like dancers
we talk like conmen
in this terrible game
of musical chairs.
So where's the love
in our lazy wanderings
what's the what
and who is this now
we smile for the camera
we pass by the pauper
in this horrible game
of musical chairs.
A new mask taken up
for the friend and the lover
the cracked crooked mirror
grins on its own
we laugh when we're hurting
we lie when we're loving
in this deplorable game
of musical chairs.
We're all actors on a stage
and then there were none
the chairs all gone
and we've missed our cue
in this terrible horrible deplorable game
musical chairs.