portrait of judas on the eve of his faked suicide

grey skies until i can’t breathe

anymore and maybe rain or maybe just

the inevitability of it

small pieces of

christ to feed to the crows

a book of leonard’s poems

sounded depressed & lost the

last time he wrote and

then five months later he was dead and

if we have no boats and if we

build no bridges then this

desert island becomes our home

picasso abandoned by his lovers is

transformed into just another

tired old man deserving of scorn and

listen –

we have to keep

rewriting the past until the

present looks good by comparison

i need to believe in sunlight

need to be the golden blade that

hangs above your neck

a quick clean cut as you

throw back your head to laugh

just to prove i’m not afraid

just good poems