small stones - black fingertips

Happiness
Isn't hard to find.
In vinyl shops, and
black finger tips
in between the method man and tribe called quest.

heady, old smells float up from crates
wafting a scent of timelessness
Ella and Billie
don't age here.

I am in basements and bedrooms
in between memories and daydreams
hip hop nods and
grown up slow dances
to Marvin Gaye and
Kanye samples

lover's lament

I am singing love songs
from the 60's
and 70s.
the ones that people forget exist because they are laden with
synth.
I hate you, for this.

Al wants me to think of good times,
Erma's giving little pieces of my heart away.
You know, it used to make me feel good.

But now, I wake,
tangled in sheets and rage,
and memory that makes me wish
that I could erase
your face.

Scrub it out with rubber slabs till my hands,
were red, and pulsing with
exhaustion,
and then you'd feel the sting of my rage,
which I have been told,
is just as sweet as it is to be loved
by me.

Instead, I wake,
to the tune of Jimmy Ruffin,
for this is what becomes of the broken hearted:

This is my prison of contradictions
where I'm still loving
that you loved me,
hating me, for such crimes,
and wishing someone would pass me
an eraser.

a small stone: trains to anywhere

Look out your window
You've earned the right to sit with yourself
The gods
and beauty.

Green and yellow make common bedfellows in middle england
Sweet and plush,calling
Sleepy eyed folk to wander
And rest
In emerald duvets
With dandilion pillows.