The Collected Poetry

Joseph's House

I am the missing man,

A dueling match lost,

My sons and daughters dressed in terracotta.

I play a rusted saxophone in my apartment,

Let the blues fray,

Let the edges hum.

I am the king of Crete,

The god of Minos,

Dare not close my Knife-scarred eyes.

Art is dead this season, please respect,

I need a pen and paper,

And no dancing, sir!

There'll be rhythm,

Some soul. Something,

I wanted to say, by the contours of Concepcion.

I'm burning with a reset fuse, I have no peace,

Great game, great wrong,

Great Baltimore, city of

The brown and gray raining,

Of acceptance, Lady Macbeth,

Wiping the blood from her Electronic hands.

Will I? Will I? Don't be so rude, dreaming,

daily of some ending,

Of the fortune tellers,

Well fortune favors,

Didn't you know?

Pay your exit fare for the birds and all.

I understand at once what you mean by,

“My frozen home”

You simply mean,

Aesthetics, and a canvas to through against some half cooked idea that's been running through your head all your life, well you've never had a plan to see it created.