When night falls, good men fall with it.

With the Lord’s angels by their side, they sleep.

Full of hope, full of life.

But with that same nightfall,

Some men go to war forsaken by God.

And tonight I, the poet,

I ride with those men into battle.

“Good” men, but worse, darkened souls.

And what’s a man but his soul?

The enemy? Well, every “good” man’s enemy

Is his soul, his very own soul.

And the strategy? Every man for himself.

Tonight I ride nightfall with nothing.

A thick darkness swallows my already dark soul.

But I see him, clad in exquisite cotton

Like the “good” in which he rests at sunrise.

The “good” man everyone sees.

But men don’t see souls. Men don’t see truth.

So today I march against nightfall

Armed with nothing but hope

And the man I want to be can only surface

If I win this war against night itself.


I need a place to burry my dirt

But would you stay if maybe,

If maybe I buried it within your heart?

I’m the kind of man that keeps falling

Collecting scars invisible to the eye.

Yet my heart’s still longing and calling.

I’ve done things in the absence of light

Created permanent silhouettes in my soul

So would you stay if my star wasn’t as bright?

Would you stay if I told you my darkest nights?


Smell of fuel

I love old cars

the smell of raw fuel

when you finally hit the gas.

I love the long silent walks

down the far country side

where natures aura blossoms.

And I love the sun

a dying light at dusk

the hope of a new day at dawn.

But you know what I really love the most?

the sensation of touch

a different kind of connection

one from another dimension

my kind of love; All or Nothing.

each and everything or nothing at all.

vulnerable and needy

so needy it becomes a curse

one whose price it hurts to pay

but in the end

I really, really love old cars

that smell of raw fuel

when you finally step on the gas.


life story

It’s always the eyes, always has been.

They write the first few lines of this poem,

And the first few lines of any good story.

Its been written by our ancestors that moments before you die,

Your whole life flashes right before your eyes.

But the ancestors were wrong, for our life stories are written right within our eyes.

It was right there all along, always has been.

Solomon, for Gigi


And the poet stopped.
Took a deep breath and with a a sigh
Started all over again.
Only this time, he lived one day at a time.
Loose from all human attachment.
Loose from all the pain, all the tears
A choice not by desire but necessity.
And on each day he only looked ahead,
Miles away into the fog where a bright light made statement.
The poet looked only at the mysterious lighthouse.