How long can one hold onto a dream, 
clutched tight in the 
cusp of thier weary hand. 
Cradled for so long in the 
half-mooning of one's heart, 
that the soul melts into realizations 
of all that is left undone. 
While the dream becomes dust motes 
floating chaotically, 
in sunbeams that can 
never be as bright, 
as the gleam in my eyes 
in the summers of my youth.

Life becomes an escalator 
running backwards, 
no matter how fast 
you scramble towards, 
what you expected 
to find waiting above. 
You often wind up tragically 
being drawn in the opposite direction, 
returning back to where it all began. 
Love and fame are prized tickets, 
handed to you quite unexpectedly. 
But it is the stages you alone 
choose to dance across, 
that will bring you 
warm hugs, passion and glory. 
Or simply an alley door exit, 
grasping the torn tatters 
of another chance, 
ripped in half. 
A rain check no longer worthy, 
of the grand everlasting beauty 
each one once promised. 
I am now but a stretched tendril, 
of all that I hoped to be. 
Spanning many years of being 
pulled by fate, into something 
resembling a single guitar string. 
Tightly strung out as the final notes 
wail all of the sorrows of what I was, 
unable to ever truly orchestrate.

/////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

I remember Jimbo, 
his chrome ax glittering 
in the heat of the spots, 
throttling his head back at me, 
as I twisted a Les Paul into tune. 
He had this cheesy grin 
buttering his face, 
as he shouted, 
"This is so unreal man! " 
Yeah, he was caught in 
the high of the moment. 
I barely heard him over 
the massing crowd, 
just past two tons of curtain 
that hid us, but I could feel 
what he meant, cause that night 
was sharp, like a razor 
scraped across the 
blackboard of eternity. 
He died two hours 
after the concert, 
in a twisted, no longer 
stainless steel ball, 
of what used be his MG. 
Half in, half out, 
as if he'd suddenly 
changed his mind, 
like I did when I pulled 
a classic Buddy Holly, 
by catching a ride with the drummer, 
telling Jimbo, "I'm beat man, 
I'll see you at rehearsel." 
They say his radio was still playing, 
the battery wiring juiced 
when he took out a tree broadside, 
and the song blaring away was... 
"I'm On The Highway to Hell" 
by AC/DC. 
They also added that his face 
was pulled back in a grimace 
as if he was already there. 
Sometimes I think 
I died with him that night, 
and the rest is just make believe, 
some kinda hellish dream 
until reality kicks in, 
leaving me warming bar stools 
and chasing cold brews 
with shots of some 
soothing Black Velvet. 

<>

“Nothing stinks like a 
pile of unpublished writing.” 
Pink rejection slips reduced 
to confetti in my shredder.

Yellowing pages 
stacked haphazardly 
in tall towers 
of my dreams.

Words rush over 
fields of white, 
But all that I 
hold dear is 
shot down by 
predator editors. 
in short bullet-tin's, 
going postal on me.

My muse zig-zags 
here and there 
with a target on his back, 
Yet occasionally he comes 
through unscathed.

Some tidbit of my 
tedious tribulations 
reaches the public eye.

Then it's back 
to the leadaches, 
My grains of thought 
returned with the sharp 
pains of disbelief.