Write On

Wrongs cannot into rightfulness be writ,
nor can even earnest attempts be wrought
without much stale stench of self-righteousness
left where it’s author did recent sit.

Such a trepidated train
of thought leaves soot and such
upon the jacked-up tracks
in Charlie’s rail-yard heart.

Still, he thinks and jots,
caring not not a bit for
right, righteous, wrong,
earnest, stench and all that shit-

“To sing like certain birds
in alert, ascending major thirds
might a happier, healthy habit be
for a measly man of
too-damned-many words-
a simpler self oft lost
in labyrinths tripwired
for boobs like me
who make byzantine pacts
with their(inner)selves
and ennervate the birth
of more plucky, natural acts
at the cost of ad-lib opportunities-
things unsaid for shyness
stay on proverbial shelves
and Time goes down the fuckin’ tubes.”

“Better he whose deep-dredged heart
(an excavation executed for
the pseudo-scientific sake of
exhuming that oft-rumoured, sacred part)
will a happenstance harbor be
for trav’lers bold and meek,
of sleek and leaky, world-worn hulls
with vims and vigors old and young,
either mere adrift or those who
‘neath purposed sail do active seek
some shelter from the lonely rigors
of the sun-scorched, storm-tossed sea.”