Luis-Isevil

The calm lake surface mirrors its surroundings, The multitude of hues that the trees turn in the fall Create a pallet stemming from the water's edge. Yellows, reds, greens, and browns, all blended together In a serene portrait under the fading light of day. Beneath the waters gentle face lies a world of Of violent waves and currents pulling with cold slick ease. Unseen eyes darting in and out of sight line the lake's depths. Teeming with life thriving and feeding upon each other, Under the lighted rays that stretch and fade. The body lies naked and bare for nature to sip, And those who dip and mingle below While such a storm is

The Day I die I'll make it rain, Skies will grow dark and thunder my name. Lightening will strike the second i die, The booming clouds like a mother's cry. Rain will fall in empyrean waves On this loathsome, lonely, O' joyous day! The day I die I'll make it rain! Not so the world can know my pain, But to signify the life in death For trees will grow as I decompose. All of those who sit morose Will marvel as the wind will blow, And they will know, yes they will know.

       He could've been a writer, the good kind too, a real thinker and wizard with words. His father was a dictionary and his mother had been a dreamy doe with twinkling stars in her eyes, until she got hit by a truck called life. That smile of his never faded, painted on his face as if his teeth were attacking his lips. He could've been a poet, the good kind too. Always thinking with his pen, philosophizing the world with a troubled brow. He had always hated people, to him they were all a horrible mess of a species. From the gluttons to the cults to the lustful ignorant; never satisfied. He hated it all with the inclusion of himself and his

      A busted bottle of lighter fluid fallen to its side, leaked down old lady's carpet when her cat snowshoe was just walking by. Old lady, who smoked a pack a day, called the cat to her lap knocking over her ashtray. She had lit a cigarette and left it there to burn. It fell down to snowshoe's cat tracks, traced back to the bottle and set lady's house ablaze.

        To me shopping is an impulse often driven by wants. When I walked into Rite-Aid there was no forethought on the matter. I walked up the isles waiting for something to catch my eye, divine intervention if you will. Hot sauce, on sale $.88; a must have. After floating among the shelves of random goods I came upon stop watches. I always liked the idea of knowing how long something takes to do so I grabbed up the shiniest one. Lime green and silver wrist band with a yellow face. Stepping into the crowded line I snapped on the watch and set the time, 7:35. When my turn came to pay for the goods I handed the cashier one dollar. She bagged t

Someday I'll build a house on the shore across the sound           To watch the revelry distanced by fathoms. None know these nights better, Not even the keeper who sits tower bound; For even he has the tower's spinning midnight crown. The crashing waves break into these nights Drowning the merry ship of laughter That rises on their retreat. A star falls down to Earth every night, To the sandy beach across the shore, dancing in my sights. Sometimes I imagine jumping from this green lit dock Into the glittering water, reaching For that piece of heaven. But looking back to that lonely dock, I'd find myself alone and cold with sh

Life is a sentence. Some are long, Others short. Some rely on others For understanding. A few stand out Above the rest, Alone, some are the best. Each held by history, Forming every page and chapter Which in turn is bound by time. No one gets to read the book Or know the entire story, We're lucky if we understand Our own sentence. Once each is done It's a work of art In the longest book ever written. But still, it's just a rough draft.

I hear my watch's tick tick- Ticking, to madness has me run- Walk - tick - trip repetition, To madness has me run running- In my head- a resounding echo hisses The tick tick - ticking, To madness- Slip- slipping- in the barren Hallowed night, to madness I am haled- I see my watch's patronizing smile As the hands dance round- rounder still- Still tick tick- the nymphs' tick- Ticking, to madness has me run running- Crescent moons' beneath my eyes do Grow me weary- two lucid imps darting In the night-two lucid imps and a tick tick- Ticking, To madness have me running-

Does time flow in a straight line, Like a river that spills into an endless ocean? Or, does it spread out in every direction, Weaving over and under and onto itself Making the fabric of space? History runs along a plotted path Chasing its tail in circles. Unlike time history follows a singular trail, And on looking back we see it mirrors itself Down the line, time and time again. Does time know history and her constant stutter? The two can not be one and the same; History moves forward at a constant stumble While time has been around forever and before Yet never grows old, a paradox.

A man buys a new house And moves in all that he owns, Every day he cleans his house For when company comes A woman goes to work, And when work lets out she hits the town. Every day her routine is work, then out, She doesn't spend much time at home. The man stays at his house Eight hours every weekend, Cleaning for when company comes, Never realizing that his house is not a home. The woman is never home, She parties every night. She Stops by to sleep and shower, Never realizing that her home is all alone.