Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Work of Art

Art is never finished.
Only abandoned.
So are we.

Shutters get nailed shut.
I see you tap the nails into the walls.
We can display
what has taken hours on end.
Hang it up.
Let's say that we are proud
although something is missing.

The years will go by
and I alienate
the glow in this room.
I couldn't stand
to see my memories on the wall.
Will you remember
when I slowly painted on my face?
I felt so uninspired.
Struggling to pose....
trying to create a structural presence.

After years of being left alone
bricks will crumble
and all of the paintings peel.
Remember when you had a smile before  it was done.
Hello hope.
Art is a work of life.
Some of it is spilled and smeared.
We had creative ideas of rare informality.
Study or sing:
I'll remember this without blatant disregard any day.
I only hold value when I am gone.

I will find this
in a cardboard box
down in the basement.

Art is never finished.
Only abandoned.
We walked away
when we saw it was too difficult
to love something imperfect to ourselves.
Bring out a fresh canvas.
Let me draw you
a loving, obeying
picture so I know you look at
my faith hanging
from time to time.
Won't you love what I've done?

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Number Sentence

If number were letters,
and I added them up to an equation
that sums up my past and your's equally:
Shall I see a value
in a vagrant richness
that's expensive,
and worth everything I've ever had.
100% heartache
with zero down payment.
Maybe you use cheap words.

I'll reach deep into my pockets
for change to count this out.
You jingle when you walk,
and I can't wait to hear the sound.
Like wind chimes in an Autumn wind.
I barely two cents
to rub together
like lips and a face that had 5 o'clock shadow.
There and gone.
Continuing to be a bit worthless.

I calculate these words.
What's left should be an account
of a broke heart.
A definition of sacred titled texts
and people you call upon late at night.
Zero is a number
celebrants waiver
in my empty wallet of mind.
One is in a heart
without any want
or need
of monetary value
for the other.
I never keep spare,
loose change in my mind.

I hold my coin purse;
a thesaurus,
as he knows this will cost me.
We wait in the sallow cold.
I counted the smiling wrinkles
next to his eye
belonging to a wondering
banker who empties
satirical thought.
I must cost a pretty penny.
May I have a rate again
in a town full of trash and stupidity.
These affections are costing a fortune
not in dollar bills,
but in hands and feet.
I will ask of nothing,
but still look at the value
of the hours I stay awake.
The numbers on the clock.
My thoughts on who has worth.
This sums up a word problem.
You can say "I love you" but what's the percentage interest these days?
I am your figure
paid in paragraphs
in contiguous claim.
One of these days
the mean will be nothing at all.
I hope you think about savings.
It's all but a description
of who's always in your mind.




Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Legacy Matches and Wasted Time

As I explained all questions
we headed for the basement;
a place of dust and rust
excusable for dirty habits.

Brought out matches
saved from a missed Mother.
He said, "Darling, do you know why we smoke so much?"
We have processed a thought
dragging us down...
tethering my careful woe.
He took out a match.
We inhale a drawl.
The stupid stick unfocused all
heavy internal thought.
When I quake and roll..
stammer and pace...
there's a conscience effort
to turn off reflection.

We always burn with thoughts:
Memories of his Mother
throwing an ashtray,
and myself
wishing I had better news.

Smoke and a shoulder
as I kill myself slowly
with legacy matches and the stupid sticks.
We already have the cancer
of an intellectual mind that would rather
be barreling through our greater work.
These days come and go like the smoke
stinking up the truth.
I'm just procrastinating what needs to be dealt with.

Let this burn for a moment.
There's a certain peace found
in legacy matches and the stupid sticks
when we stop talking
and decide to enjoy each other's company instead.
Silence isn't a waste of time
but addictions to fragments of zen
take time off my life.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Second Best

I am only second best.
This is the firm handshake
only seen behind the back.
No one is proud enough to hold you perfectly,
and everywhere you look something is held above you.

We were only second best.
The silver under a tounge
who's owner flaunts gold.
It will begin to kill you inside
when knowing everyone you hold dear
only has seen you as an option.
Your sister, your mother, your ex lover
Your friends, your neighbors...
all talk of something far better
and we were misunderstood.

Nothing really compares to what true love can offer
but in visual comparison
we are too bold.
That silver shines too much light
so we tend to blind the hopeless
until they cannot see.

They all fumble
with squinting eyes
tailgating shadows
of golden ghost faced heirophants
whispering words to the masses
who tend to nod their heads
as if they never had any other choice.
But behind the drama,
and the curtains of solidarity
a time for the ones who have tried their best still remains.
Push us forward when you realize
all who have everything never appreciate
and those who work the hardest seem to always have nothing at all.

Throw out your golden crown.
The biggest prize is my beating chest
of muddled earth and unattractive truth.
Tarnished and forgotten about.
Spoken of
only to prove a time that I actually did exist.
It's not pretty.
Gold won't always shine either.

This is reality
and first prize is just a glamorous show to hide behind when you know something deep down.
After the picketed white fences and trophy wives.....
After the beauty of young faces wrinkle...
When no one shows up when you're dieing,
and all that's fantastic presently dulls to an indifferent cycle...
I am still a polished second place holding what you had never won.
You should be jealous.



Thursday, November 12, 2015

Lynn

That woman embodied everything I wanted to be...

She had rings on her fingers
and bells on her toes.
A shoulder for when I had been thinking
while dancing in funky pantyhose.
When I saw she loved life
like so many true souls do
losses were forgotten
and I could never be blue.

We dance like interpreters
of courageous star light
when darkness exists
long after the night.
Blessed is dear Lynn
that keeps myself standing tall.
A friend forever
telling me to stand instead of fall.
Despite when I shouldn't be proud:
acting of nuisance and crying aloud.
That's the woman I wanted to be,
when these swollen eyes can barely see.
She's my best friend
always
when all nonsense is ever present there.
Thank my Celtic wisdom heir.
When mothers and sisters turned out to be none,
thank god for Lynn,
A love I finally won.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Pillow

Pull in the pillow tighter.
It hasn't a name but you can give it one.
Comforting asylums you build yourself will hold you over until the morning.
I will pull you in tight.
I kept on dreaming with eyes wide open.
We are all loving and destitution these days, and my resolution says that this pain is inflicted on its own.
It never seems to make a stop.
Estranged and when calling:
Renowned for the idle days we cherish.
Lay your head down in infinity on the bed forbidden on a rivalry
tingling through a vehicle that our hearts made.
It's stored in my mind.
I'm floating on a boat Hypnos made.
Tightening throats.
I am so undone.
Pining has another name.
It's known as guilt.
It's been a long time since I could fall asleep easily.
If I could stop repeating your name and have it reverse verses to a better opulent faith.....
We are adrift on a cloud.
Time is so precious.
The bits and memories are all I have to relax.
I prayed like a child
knees bent
beside the bed
for another day to become my everlasting dream.
Pull in the pillow tighter.
I wished it was you
as I whisper
darling,
goodnight.



Monday, October 26, 2015

The Eclipse

I was called to the graveyard
during the eclipse of the moon.
For I was alone during the darkness of consideration.
Diminished of precious light.
Sometimes the only way to sort out life is to look at the names of the dead.
We talk in the same way.
Hoping that the living love
recognizes
parts of us
are intentionally still with them.

Sky as cloudy as my mind
hung like curtain
red and grayish blue.
Then the moon came out.
Not many had the chance to see it
that night,
but I witnessed this
in a stricken moment
when the veil
was going to show a surprise
since they know
I am always listening.

Surrounded by bodies layered in cold earth and stone I heard a bell.
All of us in the parameter
see if knowing hearts listen.

When "I miss you" is not enough,
and you realize you're not always tough come be with me.
I too
am the mist in the shadows.
A candle without a flame.
I can speak your name a thousand times today and know what it's worth.
Carry me on your left shoulder
as I stare at the ground.
I am not yet in the oak or pine.
All of the flowers,
and sorrow at funerals
only show what's left undone.
If you dig me a hole I'll sit there waiting.
I know why ghosts try to haunt.
There are words yet to say,
and we cannot rest until our mistakes are justified.

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

The Stale Wine

Stale wine
touching lips he never will again.
Creaks and raindrops.
Air heavy with a noxious smell.
I layered a blanket barely useful and wished there was hope to dream. Frightened and mourning.
Un-rested and malnourished.
I lay alone.
The stale wine that sat on the cluttered dirty counter enticed without any sanity.
I will regret tomorrow,
but I still reach for the glass rinsed;
not washed.
I am already ashamed of myself.
Maybe there's just a little bit of what's keeping me awake left but,
it's just stale wine.
The most sour grapes on the vine.
Blurring a truth that cannot be undone.
Remembering when it was fresh and crisp only trickles in the concern that I was foolish once again.
Like this drink
he barely wanted me to think.
To know.
To stand without leaning on another.
I was strong and independent.
I should have never spent any time with stale wine.
Blame it on desperation to see joy in my misfortunate life.
I only filled the glass wanting to forget how I loved another.
The entire time I spent with stale wine all I did was think of my grail of a drink.
Allowing confusion.
Crying in showers.
Trying to deny who I want the most.
By the time I was done with stale wine I saw the chance of true,
but inappropriate love was already down the drain.
It should have been the old bitter viscosity.
All I have is a hangover truth:
better to love what you cannot have than to force down disgusting, eager, con-artist delusion.
Snap out of it.
I only prolonged the pain.
Fuck you stale wine.
You were never were good for anything at all other than making me hate myself.

3 Doors

Homestead, love-loss, disparity.
Plunder.
Hell is not beneath my walls,
but the street that burns with larceny. They will wave at you
wided grinned as respect holds a solemn face.
We stand in the row.
l noticed without any parade.
These doors open,
and they can sometimes be locked tight despite any circumstance.
Double bolt the welcome of some.
Hold open others with arms willing to share pain.
3 doors.
As I sat on the stoop of one
love loss came.
Bewildered, disdained,
remembering what barely remained.
I begged for entrance and now I'm stuck in the street
Desperation emanates.
The padlock cracks...
short-lived... goodbye.
2 doors remain.
One empty but comforting
the other filled with dread.
How is it that one saw your worth as the other push you under the doormat?
I knocked on all three.
Some said it wasn't my place to determine whether I was a stranger.
Ironic entrance awaits as I stood looking at each direction.
The gatekeeper nods and I look willingly and an entrance I've already been through.
3 doors, 3 ways to manipulate how I should feel.
Take a small sympathetic invite while you can because the other portals are both literally and metaphorically empty.

Sunday, October 11, 2015

She Knows

She knows the denial and truths.
She knows the unfortunate place you stand.
 In all this beauty
 cross your arms.
 Don't take a word past misjudgment.
She knows.
Her audience feels an ocean in the pits of their stomachs.
He gave a tale that should have shown she was frail
yet stands as if still steel stakes
were hammered into her kneecaps.
 She believes a liar
 hell-bent on desire
just to finally have something she can call her own.
The devil comes promising everything she could ever want.
She knows, and she asked him to not let her regret this.
There's no home.
There's no common place,
but her hell swept survival depends on torment and destruction.
It burns as ravaging faces sneer at her blow.
It's a wind of unconsideration.
A breeze stirring malice.
The unkind.
The immoral.
The uneducated.
The ones who arrived just in time.
I know.
I heard everyone's words but wish for them to all be wrong.
When you believe in the devil,
he will taunt your very name.
You're already his own,
and all the pacts,
and blessings fall away into ash stoking the fire.
I knew.
Somehow I believed him anyway.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

For

For when you try to forget:
For it is a regret,
and the bare mind captures the thoughts behind you.
For it has been said
unspoken words can be misread, misjudged,
or silently processed.
Forethought, foreseen, unpleasantly forgiven.
For I forced myself to stay away from you.
I thought it was for the better.
In desperate times I see now it was for the worst.
I was so much happier then.
If I come running back
will I be forsaken?
Here I am
forlorn in a lonely predicament
I put myself in for you.
I was not selfish.
You have some formidable cost that I considered for a long time.
For this sadness is a spirit
that is somehow lost.
Foreshadowing is a fortune teller.
After all this is said and done
without you it's hard to move forward.
Please come back.
For my fortune is an empty handed demon that left me looking for yours.

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Two Faced.

Half of face.
Half of a truth.
If you heard the jouska
louder through expression
you see I am in every awareness.
Half in.
Half out.
Now I understand what is meant by two-faced.
One is the truth.
The other side always lies.
Show the one profile
at discretion.

Saturday, September 5, 2015

Sudden

The whisper on breath
tingling on air
heavy with smoke,
and the rattling of a ceiling fan.
Should you lie awake
in knowing what should
hold blessed value?
Equal to payback
of what you now owe.
He was silent.
I was blissful.
The tender silence will never bore.
We're on a staff of judgement,
but I can't say it disturbs future.
Bright eyes and my laughter
are made of steel
Good night love.
We rest on everything that made us finally calm.
Sleep came suddenly.

Saturday, August 15, 2015

Father

Tell me why
I shouldn't leave.
Fathers told me I was far better than that.
I should run away
carefree this day
but a significant debate told me to
make a commitment.
I'm not good at promises anymore.
If I didn't love you
trust that I would be gone.
A repetitive song
that's lyrics tell me every morning
there's a mistake.
What can liars do but lie
as I served my heart
he spoke my justice
as I dried my eye,
and for the truth
well
I guess that's the menace.
I loved these parents.
Their all I ever have.
All greedy, selfish monsters
I know
will continue to take all I have.
Whispers in fairness:
Can you promise not to care again?
No.
I let you down.
Father pray for my hope.


Wednesday, August 12, 2015

The Insects

The clicking chirp
on so many summer nights.
This one echoed
off the hilltop,
and rows of bricks
layered with a time gone by,
but not forgotten.
Here I am
in the same town again,
but this perspective
was a question
answered by
insects.

Contemplation emerged.
The insects were louder.
Behind the trees,
and a planted garden
of vestigial peaceful solitude
I was told a secret.
A reminder from the insects
when I didn't necessarily
need to be told again.
They always play the same tune.

She is painted with butterflies,
but the species of
legged crawlers
is not the type
that sets this respite bound.
What floats in the air
or buzzes profoundly in our ears
annoys or helps to carry on.
The bees create.
The wasps have the same qualities,
but aim to sting you.
I always stopped to look at the insects.
Inching along a path seemingly impossible.

In the corner
of a lonesome stoop
to rest my head
there was a flash.
Another.
Blink that borrowed night.
Do you remember
the last time
simplicity and complexity
shared the same romance?
I stare off again.
My eyes wide open,
but this conversation is blind and shut.
Firefly.
In all of this darkness
hiding myself
you daunt and arrive
as I too
should be sealed into a jar.
Tap your fingers on the glass to observe.
We had seen our first fireflies
of that summer together.
She's painted with butterflies,
but it's on a broken wing,
and an sad prayer
that every time I've witnessed
a firefly
I reached out my hand
to hope it would stay
glowing there for a moment.
It's just that simple
to inspire awe
while thinking of odds.
These fireflies
signaled each other
from far away.
In a world larger,
and less tolerable than my own.
Aren't we the same?

Saturday, August 8, 2015

The Ghost With A Red Hat

A sleepwalking discrepancy:
During the day
we were kept down.
Tucked in.
Tightly restricted.
Under a thumb.
The spector shook my slumber,
and the ghastly dialogue
tried to cause harm.
My child spoke in pure innocence.
There is a ghost,
and she wears a red hat
in the ballroom where we danced.
Son, imagine all of the people
who have danced here too.
He knew
although later
I saw the real terror
caused in this ironic creation.
Let him be my only connection
between a demon who violates,
and a spirit who is always free.



Monday, July 27, 2015

The Letter

The Letter, The Letter
in attempt to make life better
or maybe it's just a curse.
As prayer and hope
left me scrounging for
empty promises,
and words muttered
by those
almost unconscious.

The Letter.
What do I say...
I see you're also gray.
Dragging yourself through everyday.
I too, understand this uneasy feeling.
Dear Sorrow,
It's not much to offer,
but I am here.
This time has remained the same.
Fighting without passion is like putting
the already deceased out
to defend a battle.
I wish life could be more of
what you want
not what we are forced to be.
Let it be recorded in history
that I believe in your dream
more than
any other sediments beside you.
This letter,
from the rebelliously worded
trendsetter
goes to someone
I cannot name.
You won't find a header,
but I wrote this letter,
and I tucked under my bedsheets.
I sleep on the paragraphs,
and I am sure they wake me
just to contemplate sending it again.
I think how romance is gone,
and what kind of fools
still write to men who
might see you as insane?
Perhaps a little profane....

Denouement will likely discourage
the crisp harbinger,
or will the latent deluge of a word spill
be crinkled inside of a desk
silver with dust.
An empty pen of your lust.
Read on occasion
when they begin to feel
tortured by the meaningless
shuffle of life again.

The Letter has a life of it's own.
I meant to tell him he was not alone,
but it ended up being
an alphabetical listing
of wordings I couldn't find a perfect meaning to.

Dear reader
of this open letter,
Nostalgia is alive and well.
This one is for you.

The Fairy Between The Walls.

If I could tell you a story,
one that had all of your attention...
not tiring or blahser;
perpetually engaging
through irrational
and fair weathered...
That grabs the wrists
about to turn away....
Step closer,
but only for a moment.
There's a song
sung now.
Respited and squeezed
like a fairy
that pushed herself
between the cracks
of the wall:

She's going to tell you not to let them get too close.
Because when the world gets under her skin,
and when you find it bouncing in your skull
there isn't any medicating pairing of words
that forces it out.
Stay far across the room.
Quarantine any potential loss
derived in pessimism
sitting along side of loving dysfunction.  
Inhibited reverence is her worst enemy.
Remembering all of those times
her arms stretched out
to the utilization  of her heart
buries her deeper in the recesses 
few eyes can see.
That's a hidden niche.
She advises sequestering comfortably in your own nest.
Although constricting a valuable nature,
no one else can be invited in.
There's only enough room for her in the bubble.
As it floats out
it is chased by all who want to pop it.
Isn't it unfortunate that they failed to see
the reflection in the pearly film
of themselves.
There she remains.
Up high,
and out of reach.
Let yourself resonate with this lonesome story
of the concerned being
that knows you should never let anyone get too close.
   


Friday, July 17, 2015

Combustion

Every time I hear that train
I think of loves past.
It had gone away,
but the sad romance
still stays.
Echoing in the distance
scheduling a return
wait alone at the station.
I place my head on the track
as the vibration signals
a pending arrival.
I smelled the air
nervously welcomed combustion,
and worried what else the
heavy freights of temptation
will bring.
Tie me to the tracks.
It's too late to divert
this path
I've already laid down. 

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Stained

Blot the spilt emotion.
Dry, empty,
but lasting from pasts.
It is still there
permeating the fabric of your soul.
A stain of play
in a closet of ruin.
Darkening threads
of gilded clothes
worn in layers.
I'll hide the each one
over a body
that is the most damaged
in flooded rich colors.
These decorations swoon
in the beauty
of moonlight.
All you see is a silhouette
and never care
if there is a blemish fluidity
in this linen and lace
that hides
so much more.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

The Weather

In hilarity
came illumined sun.
We are the weather.
Don't invite any clouds
to block your light.
It's miserable for me
when it has to rain.
Though I see it's vital
for you to continue your life.
Roaring halcyon horizon,
we are the only lives
I tend to dream about.
A rested head is one relying on an empyrean day to look forward to.
Strive for sunshine.
Everytime you see me look
towards the sky
It is caused by hoping
for clear day
where I could see you.

Monday, July 6, 2015

Visious

Holding back the viciousness
in times of doubt
rumbling in pits of plain appearance.
A wild rage to stifle.
Pounce and turn
Feel what needs to be.
Across the line of drawing power
out of control
the polar affect leaves you in need of mercy.
Lodestone is naturally occurring
in all matters of
perversion and deviance.
You can try to keep forces separated.
Viciousness will stare back in longing.  

Drowning

Kill me slowly in the drowning of empty words.
They float above your head;
Light and simple.
When I don't return
find my lips are royal blue.
 Fluid suffocation.
 I tied rocks to my feet
to end it quickly.
As I gasp for air
hold me down without hesitation.
In all the ways you could have slaughtered you chose
unresponsive liquidation.
Show me how to stay alive
when these floods of travail
weigh heavily.
You seem to walk on water
while I  am foggoten
at the bottom of this sea.


Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Forever Thinking

As read Thursday, July 23rd, at 40 Story Radio Tower.  http://40storyradiotower.com

Processing, collaborating, meditating.
Digressing, hesitating,
wondering on a whim facing.
What's the decision?
In what kind of provision?
I will on an alliance
in magnitude
or miniscule.
I am forever thinking.
Anxiousness in the falter.
There's no balance in a regret.
The right choice,
the wrong evidence.
A stressful situation.
A careless response.
Thought processes:
You die alone.
You care too much.
Loving, despairing,
in destitute baring.
Reflecting, directing,
nonchalantly affecting.
Conditioning, repositioning,
wondering who's listening...
Did you hear what I said?
Because I can't get out of my head.
Dawdling, modeling,
corresponding.
Waiting, hating,
jealousy berating.
Growing, knowing,
hold on
I'm gloating.
Saddening, maddening,
seeing....
It's what I read that shakes my well-being.
This is how I'll deal
Give myself a pep talk spiel. 
What's on my mind
I can't leave behind.
Tiring, admiring,
sleep loss conspiring.
The time is notoriously
stuck in consideration.
Looking for elation.
Inspire my rest.
I've done my best
to figure out everything in exhaustion. 

Sunday, June 28, 2015

Arsonist

There's fire inside these flesh walls.
Monumental....
god help us all.
The flicker,
and smoke in my breath
that follows after the tiny tinder
went up like a ribbon of gauze.
This life needs an exhaust.

Burn to live...
Live, to fan the awesome burn.
It's not satisfactory
when we are safe.
A dangerous silence only shows
soon there will be a wreck.

If you stand with a
handful of unlit matches,
be careful around my heart fire,
and as you see me lose the battle,
of this inextinguishable inferno
promise to save my ashes.
Hold it with certainty that I was
highly flammable.
There was little warning.
Some things in this world
are destined to catch fire.
Namely when you swell 
with an arsonist.





Friday, June 26, 2015

Supernatural

Every time I turned that corner,
I swore I saw someone there.
There never was.

An apparition in a shadowy disguise
must play tricks on daytime eyes.
In the night time hours
we rush the hallucination.
Quell your response time.
The epic thrust of the supernatural
twists the faint of heart
of what is real, and what is true
those durable geniuses might see right through.
We are not ghosts.
Only restless souls
tethered on comfort.
Sometimes there,
but not always.
Wishing things would change
but not ready to go to the otherside.
This spirit waits.

When you push the confines
past the veil,
how the petrified quake.
They view trancendental
alter egos
in a dim light,
struggling in disbelief.
Thank circumference there comes a darkness.
We can be
without the spotlight of the sun.
It's just begun.
Escape to that side.
Drop down a pride 
It's too much to see any other time.
That can't possibly be real.
You didn't see anything.

Not everyone enjoys a ghost story,
and I don't mean to scare you,
but sometimes you may also
see the living dead.
Part of us clings to the past
while the other wants something more.
Its an euphoric response to noticing we are still alive.

The supernatural
comes out of just finding
that you are human.
A speciality that drifts the unlikely
or disbelief with a snap of the finger.
Notice how I look at you
as if you're paranormal
supernatural, a figment of my imagination....
I can't seem to see
that you are actually there,
then for days frighten myself.
You're just that amazing.








Friday, June 19, 2015

Wear and Tear

"Hey kid, the key to happiness is simplicity."  The tread is so worn on his tires, and he tells me I should get a bike. 

Wear and tear
my fingertips are bare.
No more identity.

You divulge a karma.
It wears me down.
The hideous sound
of the exhausted
lingers in condolence.

She said, "You are so damn strong."
I can't fathom letting any more grueling sacrifices in.
Don't beat a dead horse.
I have traveled
too far
and yet are in the same insipid place.
Let me dream.
All of this work
ages and corrodes.
I shed my skin.
Look for it in old photography.
It appears I've had some deprieciation
although we can agree
I was not of ordinary use.
The grinding stone
came to a halt.
When I crawled away
the wear and tear
removed my frame.
I am left in such a way
that I had hoped
for some words to lift my structure up.
You are tiresome too.

That day nagged in fog.
Fade into the background.
No one will know you.
It will be a bright new atmosphere.
I begin again.
Who you are
and what you want to be
asphyxiates that cause....
or does it bring it forward?
I want to leave now,
but all of this wear and tear
broke me down.
There has to be something
that finally drags
all of this despondency away.
If you ever find
you've had enough rest
and I glowed in serenity
fresh and new
let's get the hell out of here...
take me with you.



Wednesday, June 17, 2015

Sway

Not too boring.
We run away.
Please come back.
Late one night
the crickets sang loudly.
I thought I heard a guitar.
He left in a hurry.
I said nothing.
That's not good enough.
Where do you stand?
I know who left the note on the door.
It was who said the halo was handed in the depths of loveless hell.
I studied my palm.
Gave notice to the flash on the side of my vision.
If you want to direct my path straight,
bring a blindfold.
I'd rather not open the book than to pull out a disposition
yet to be seen.
Those eyes said something different.
I read everything in a considered passage.
Sway me.
I never have time to go back and forth on this notion
but it takes up a lot of my life.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Fenced

Perimeter confines.
Where you wander is not by mere curiosity.
The deck is worn,
and the concrete is cracked.
What is left to borrow
cements seldom ends.
I don't have boundaries.
Houses radiate value.
The domain aches in saint features.
I yelled over the fence
and no one heard.

Expose My Flaws

You may say it's a flaw.
I say I remembered how to live.
Over the talks she said
she was cold and damp.
By October she couldn't tolerate this anymore.
That's a hardy repetition.

Meanwhile I had wallowed
never finding the flash of light...
Although it danced in shadows.
One day I saw illuminance in the mirror.
I was blinded.
Thank you for being you.

Ukelele

Relax on this strum.
A thought always tuned
on a small instrument.
Short songs worked on the same melody
over the free flowing.
Caring for the musical talents
that play the same object simple and plain
have caused side steps.
Turned corners.
Hiding in egos.
Take care in your enjoyment.
We prime the case with a dollar.
Cash fairly integrated notice and distraction.
Memories like these are worth a thousand words.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Tear Me Away

There's a reason...

my dress stays folded.
This pencil doesn't leave the paper.
No lines and loose
without binding.
That's just so you can't tear me away.
I was afraid it might all fall apart.
Helplessly bound.
There's going to be trouble.

When you tear me away
I'm not creased or gently cut out.
I allowed you to rip me from reality.
Neatness is some courtesy
like offering a seat on a parkbench.
Catching scorn from a paper cut is more the style.
Feel that moment,
and hear a violent disconnect.
A stitching breaks free,
and hands loosen grip.
Cascade to the floor.
Look away.
You have a shred...
half if your lucky,
but you tore me away....
What have I done?
Folded and tucked somewhere
you carry an unraveling piece of me.
Tear me away:
I never want to face the truth today.
Tear me away:
Interwoven in layers of dolor,
and tailored to an unequivocal lure.

I've been staring down the palpability
which is the most polite thing left to do.
Tear me away:
I want the rude scholar
turning everything upsidedown.
Why should I care if the truth follows.
It's time to be that bold.
Tear me away:
Grab hold tightly.
It's too late.
Tear me to shreds.

Sunday, June 7, 2015

Killing Time

Killing time..
If your mouth is the gun,
and I stand bewildered
at sanity.
I watched lips speak,
and sorrow fade.
Slay the regret.
Bury my guilt.
Put to rest the living dead.
It was an opportunity well spent even if I follow you to hell.
It was worth the sacrifice
to be serving a minute
as longed for in hours
during the weeks I have wasted
dreaming of a face.
The hour glass empties
and nothing is done.
But as you are with me
a moment can stand still,
and the rest can drift by slowly.
Let the seconds fortify everyday
that we remember
what it is like
to lose track of time.
To reach for a hand in slow motion
and to rewind the favorite parts
during my dull days where
I just kill time
until my lips meet your's again.


Thursday, June 4, 2015

Accidental Thoughts

Accidently on purpose
of what shouldn't be....
I woke up in a panic to write
as I tossed my head back
in violent denial.
We can't persieve any daydream
law bound defiance
or love song
hovering in ideology.
Silence it's name.
Close your eyes.
This is what keeps poets awake at night.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

A Natural Thief

Green blanket:
If I could lift you
these tufts of trees
could hide me from the sun,
and everything else that
seems to leave with plunderage.
These days have left me with nothing else to spare.

The pleasant skies,
and flights of birds
improvise
a bedroom of earthen
torment.
Windows of spider webbing...
Clover underpass..
I raced onto the bridges
of the moss hailed kingdom
sliding on the soft brushed fingertips
that bare my compunctious face.
If a greater demand was on the other side,
gesture a motion to bring me closer.
Then, you can't steal what is ready to be given up.
Inquest the fertile labyrinth.
It breathes on intoxication
blowing in cool winds of musical invitations.
I listened half-knowingly
to a second nature song
and wished it would have never ended.






Monday, May 25, 2015

Worn Shoes


I remember when she threw her shoes into the fire.
They burned as she watched while laughing.
It never made sense at the time, but now I see.
They had no value, and they could have gone in the garbage, but it was about the detachment.
She carried those worn soles through a series of life changing events.
She learned what was forced upon her and now wanted to forget the pain.
The next morning she asked me, "Now what the hell do I wear?".  We did find other shoes, but the ashes of those sad days stayed on the terrace in the back yard. We moved out of that house over a year ago. I bet a garden grows there now.


Strutting in worn leather
bound to aching feet.
It cracks..
hardly gives
in any way
as I try to change my stride.
Walking in confidence
blisters.
Running away from sorrow
hardens.
Crawl toward
if there's uncertainty in my trust.
These shoes are too tight.
I've grown out of this bad habit..
still hoarding a favorite look.
A sad day for oppression..
tightly wrapped inside
a buckle with threads,
then hardly stepping outside of my head..
You will find me barefoot
at the clarity
of new days.





The Speaker

Gold teeth and war letters.
Rats in ribbon.
This is a repetitive nation.
It's not a surprise that
we came back to look at
the antiquities of our lives again.

Rusted in a sandbox.
Clear away sanctions.
An agreement was made,
and the speaker has a metal diaphragm.
He wishes it was made of mahogany.

The release came strained
out of lace and casual conversation.
It's an exercised plight.
I wrote this speech in short paragraphs.
Tin cans and rope
drag away with this speaker.
A bit more tension gave extra pull.

Galvanized in deep rolling tunnels.
Amplify the vibration of energy
that once carried a strong argument.

They feel like ancient words
so we give them the
brown shoe polish treatment.

Place it on a tall building.
There's recollection worth seeing,
and once you hear the speaker
emanating through what is always timeless
age did not serve a purpose.
All is fair in love and war.
Clearing the static
words heard once more
resonant to give specifics.
Listen carefully.





Monday, May 18, 2015

Déjà vu

Again, a novelty lesson.

Repetition is sly.
The sun and moon.
Seasons.
The expected holidays
done before and again.
Once more they compile
greeting on a doorstep
as existential rhythmic quandary.
It's there in memory.
Or is it?

Where we were:
9 strings of gossomer
gestating a life of
scenes well played
and never learned from.
Look backward to see
the dawn of yesterday.
Eyes swallow with blinking.
Phenomena in hours.
Duplication of days.
What was said before
in espieglerie
is what we meant
in a deficit of intuition.
I walked up the crooked steps
to talk to father
like so many times before.
We both sang
in response to my déjà vu,
and perseverance in the times before.
Regression matches the parenting.
I am only going through the motions,
and seem tired of my own dreams.


Saturday, May 16, 2015

Aria

In all this background noise
I can pull you out of
the busy scenery
of noise pollution.

Some sounds clamor and wonder
causing disturbance.
I hear you among
issued meaningless chatter,
in the ever rumble of semblance,
and echoing unspoken trust.

In ends of a frequency
roll off the tongue as
a memoir of great musicians.
They have been singing our song.
Drown everything in self-effecing dalliance.
I picked one tune
to listen to this day.
In equality there is a personal silence.
With a chorus falling on deaf ears,
I found the aria.





Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Bottom of the Barrel

All that is left
is the bottom of the barrel.
Where unwanted sediments
gather together
as a reminder
of a genuine creation
that was once rare.
It was never appreciated slowly
or reflected upon how much emotional bruising
was caused by the weight.
Love bled dry.
It was taken for granted.
Now, my connoisseur looks at the empty glass
tinged in essence
wondering where it all went.
They have to take what they can get.
There might be a slight taste of what once was,
but you'll never be offered
this particular full body
again.

Monday, May 11, 2015

Nave

Love has gone astray.
Apostles stumbling down
a holy pathway.
Go towards the alter
which is a flower covered street.
It's been
fallen on
danced down
skipped down
kissed upon..
Made into a choir.
Swept...as we were brushed off.
We'll be okay.
I've been fasting.

All these petals
landed on a considered hike.
This is what you learn on a pilgrimage:
disciples get confused when it snows in May.
Maybe hell froze over,
but it still looks beautiful.

Sins and graces.
Prayers and memories.
All my favorite founderies
bellow echoes of times before.
Of course, all gems
lasted timeless
on angels,
and not on failed sainthood.
Trail behind them
towards heaven or hell.
We won't live forever.
Lean on the sign post
as they slip away.
Confessional forgiveness
is asked from all I held too high.
I can holler up towards the one
shut down and out
from the same precious lane,
but he's gone,
and I'm following a Buddhist friend.
I never claimed to be a
holy roller...
and that is why
we found ourselves
spouting out the damnation
in our lives...
Hug me tight,
for the next day
we will walk past again.
The bells ring
at the same scheduled time.

Ritualize a cathedral built with
church steeple hands
of guilt and triumph.
Here are the people.
Remember when we showed humanity?
We will be judged.
I've have been schooled
on a busy street
of tourists and trash,
and they turned me away
from the frequent scene
that stares you down.
It is not all sacred.
I lost my shoes
then all hope.
Bring out my robe.
Where there's a heartfelt guilt trip
I bury a slight liking
to those who came along
smiling and laughing
in belligerence and silliness.
Drunken monks.
The heart beats with every foot step.
Patron guide,
lost soul fellow,
thanks for seeing me homeward.
It's time to close the doors
to let us pray.



Thursday, May 7, 2015

Daydreams at Night

The daydreams
that plague the night.
When you toss and turn
on a notion-
since all these thoughts about devotion
are seldom lost during the day.
I didn't spare enough time to
think about it.
In between responsible constituencies
this lasting synopsis
shoves my face into the pillow.
I can't wonder in slumber
nearing a daydream
where one instance was perfect,
and a turn for the better
is not a fantasy in my head.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Tangled Vine

Betrayal blood bound.
If it's thicker than water
there's no way I can float.
Bygones be bygones.....
careless sinners sail away.
Regiment a character
perfect and pure
to meet all of their expectations.
To implore my genealogy-
a twisting gnarled root
for family tree comfort
isn't something of second nature.
They can't see how hard it's been to survive.
Always among weeds,
and under a heavy foot.
Not all relations will constantly remain.
If very few saplings make it
the same species can be proud enough.
I'm the invasive tangled vine.
Bring out the machete.
Cut me down.
When the dead wood drifts...
only then will the garden seem pleasing again.

Mirrors at the Bar

"Eat. Drink. Be merry."
on a sign in front of me.
We're just drinking
wondering why there are so many mirrors in bars.
Maybe so we can see the apathy on our faces.
Maybe to see the ghosts behind you.
They are one in the same.
Fellowship in dimensions
boring and lethargic.
In another, I was not the one sitting lonely at the bar.
In another, you were a ghost I can depend on.
It doesn't take any energy to haunt.
Drunken curse.
I stare in the mirror
reflecting on the others...
Because these layers live on
among sprints and fizz
among self righteous,
and self loathing.
If I could just remove
a few of these hazy places,
and put my head around the corner of one...
The rivalry escapes
and the feasts and merriment begin.

Saturday, May 2, 2015

Epigraph Map


The pages and days
have seemingly passed
through epigraphs
and paradoxical
logics.
Maps upon maps
that confuse direction
will be creased,
and folded....
all in the wrong ways.
Spread it out.
Condense it again.
Light it on fire.
Spin the globe..
reach out your finger..
I am now logistically vacant.
Where I am going
is uncharitable.
Cipher the topographic moto.

The time I've been crossing
 was journaled
out of a true heart,
but it's all about a stubborn
foolish crowd
of half witted
geniuses that barely
can find themselves.
This is their demographic.
I have to draw new territories.
That place is gone.
There has to be
somewhere else to go.
Stick a flag in the claim....
a poem about atlas
can carry such weight upon his shoulders
so it seems the dreamworld is gone,
and now I wait for the next to come along.





Friday, April 24, 2015

Made Up Words

Spy's words...
Find it without a doubt.
No foot in your mouth
or cat that has your tongue-
just a spoken melody-
that's well understood.
Finally what you had to say-
matched what appeared in our eyes.
Reading and eyesight-
always has plagued this definition.
So, maybe we should make up
some new words.
To pronounce a dictation that-
showed I was happy...
or something without utter nonsense-
to point and provide direction
to a concrete sign.
There would be an accurate response
for what I somehow
never seem to convey.
More of the specifics
for comprehension of a confounder.
I might be able to draw to a close-
A paragraph written sideways late at night.
Everything would always be on the other side of the page.
I could be literary perfection.

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Late Night Writers

I don't think I'll be writing anything any time soon....
he replied, "Nobody ever,.... was ready to".
So I giggle and follow with pen in hand.

Fellowship of the explanatory:
The world's writers have aching hands.
There's no penmanship available-
to enhance the description of our lives.
Let us shout it all out in bold face-
as I grasp my raspy throat.
I engrave these subtle announcements,
and carry them to a world stage.
Yet there's no rapport-
no lavish restitution-
in dull pen and ink.
As if it was ever wanted monetarily.
If only it was idealistically-
the digestion of truthful words.
Writers could carry all the world-
in understanding and humility-
of solitude and mourning-
unjust love and brethren welfare.
I would write it in blood 
if there could ever be a guarantee.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

It Must Have Been The Rain

It must have been the rain....
A mild hum,
when you romanticize over the atmosphere.
Calmly washing,
or viscously stirring
everything you wished to be.
Arms would have me asleep,
but instead I wonder-
if during the thunder-
you here me call out,
and as the lightning strikes-
understand that I crash-
into an opposite in strength.
It never happens on it's own.
I needed something.
Plus and minus.
The sky holds you in a cloud-
ripped away from ideas-
blowing and catching-
wild winds-
of stardust formed into bone,
and sacred flesh-
with hair raised static.
Finger lace the storm.
Connect lightening-
as a power directed by our existence.
I carry a kite and key....
A beautiful yearned faith.
Tap away and electrify-
all celebrations of you.

Monday, April 20, 2015

The Unfurl



The unfurl...
Catching the sun in dark places.
Mirrors shine light too blinding to see-
as I loosen and grow-
long for the great unravel.

Explode and release.
All day long we wait for worth.
Reaching to surroundings-
I hope you graze your fingertips-
on all I can be.

A crozier burgeon-
spreads out within an expansion.
Wedge days to be dreamed of at night,
and I rise-
spring salvation...
The fern knew some grace-
in creating a beauty-
errupting out of cold rain.

Remembrance

There were ants congregating
around a drop of ice cream
on the sidewalk.
It reminded me of the masses of people
who seem to want to take pieces of me away,
but the majority of my sweetness
is held in one person's hands.
Since I've been so hard to handle,
sometimes words and expressions spill out.

There were cars idling on an unstable bridge.
They waited, somewhat impatiently-
while the new one was being built.
It reminded me of how help can be burned away-
as we grasp for something better.
I could have a chain link of hands,
but sometimes there's only one-
you really want to hold.

There were dead roses
gathering dust in a dollar store vase.
It reminded me of dry leaves under my feet,
and the walk that used to make my heart pound
even though it had little worth to you.
Nevertheless, I still hang around.

There was a leak at the sink.
Constantly dripping and filling
the background noise.
It reminded me of how upsetting it is
to repeat myself when no one listens
and I feel like a nuisance.
Sorry, there are parts of me that need to be repaired.

There were tiny drawings
haphazardly on every page
of my writing.
It reminded me of the ridiculous way
I thought you might remember
some things about me.
Because you are the artist,
and I am the writer.
Most of these words are about you.
Draw upon that.

There was a lady similar to the
likes of me except for her coldness
in character.
It reminded me of the mirror
that frosted over in my own home
during the winter when I lost heat,
and all the people I thought highly of
looked away.

There was an imbecile man
lingering vagrantly-
staring maliciously-
while all other friends and strangers
seemed to get along just fine.
It reminded me of how in fields of wild flowers
nodding in the wind
there can still be thorny seeds
that attach and follow you.

There are frequent daily thoughts
and they collaborate as a reminder.
Joy, sorrow..
Pain, loss...
Love, indifference...
They all seem to strike the balance.
Dragging me down, or whisking me away.
There's quite a lot of thinking.
The synchronicity of life plays tricks
and the universe shares knowledge
I try to stifle with
mindless dribble.
For all other seconds
that I cannot tame my mind
I have remembrance.

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

My Child, Summer Will Be Here Soon


As read on 40 Story Radio Tower 
May 21st, 2015
http://40storyradiotower.com


My child, summer will be here soon.
The cold tore us apart.
It used to love us-
when we were all cozy reading piles of books,
and eating popcorn until we thought
we'd explode.
I kept you from the chill,
although I endured a constant storm.
There's a little more sunshine peering out now,
and how I long to watch your hair turn blond again.
We'll be flying kites,
and digging up rocks in no time,
and I'll be proud to see all that dirt under your nails,
and sand castle pails-
patted down at the lakeside beach.
Let's build it so high-
that the sun will always keep us warm,
and safe-
from everything that brought on frosts.
I can't guarantee it won't return,
but for now-
let's dance in the sun-
like the rays
between the leaves.
Shining and hiding-
between the trees.
Reach your arms up-
just like them.
I am going to hold on tight.

Monday, April 13, 2015

The Foul

Nausea rises in the pit of your stomach.
The Foul slithered in turning the smiles into frowns.
A presence that gave humans a regretful name.
Sickening with their proud disturbance,
they are the catalysis in cold hearted triumphs,
and parade them all announcing their efforts.
It is the spoiled fruit of their labor.
See how The Foul hastens the decay of joy...

Flaunting the turmoil,
and turning mournful compassion
into fiction-
you will begin to notice the arrival.
As if they secretly spawn,
and suddenly the atmosphere becomes dark.
They have you surrounded.
You cannon escape
the fork tounged vulgarity
of The Foul.

Friday, April 10, 2015

Cup Runneth Over

Tea leaves
Coffee grounds
Two pleasant things brought to life with hot water.
Despite all the things that make my blood boil
I will be a luxury.
Steam and steep...
here's something warm to hold on to.
Cheers my friend.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

SOB




Absent minded....
That's what you claimed to be,
But you were the only one I cared to see.
I made great effort to make our friendship so rich,
But you plundered it away...
You son of a bitch!

Don't get me wrong,
I am not bitter
But I'm not here to be your babysitter.
Codal me...ohh I'm so upset
And express that you would rather experience regret.
You caused me to love you,
Then threw me in the ditch...
I can't stand you anymore,
You son of a bitch!!!

Ahhh but isn't there a fine line between love and hate?
Even now since you have a stale old mate.
I really resent this frequent heartache.
Wish you'd disappear off the planet for Christ's sake!
Maybe your relationship will suffer from a 5 month itch...
What the hell am I saying?!
You son of a bitch!!

Let me explain friends, I am not dumb.
But I find myself caring for a loser,
And then drinking a fifth of rum!
Then I sit I'll witted,
And type romantic texts...
Wondering what the hell is going to happen next.
As I lay awake at night, my eyeballs twitch.
Well good morning to me, you son of a bitch!!

Now emotional due to a lack of sleep,
I planted seeds I so desperately wanted to reap.
You stomped them out before I had a chance...
So I deal with the pain by doing a drunken dance.
I could still offer you an enticing pitch...
What's the use, you son of a bitch!!

Let's pretend we can just be friends.
Tie up the gossip, and mend these frayed hurtful ends...
Wait, I'll show up at your door not wearing a stitch!!
Shit! You're not home!
You son of a bitch!!

I can't do this anymore-
OK, you win!
Even though caring about you is my horrible sin.
I suppose as long as you're happy,
I'll force myself to walk away...
Being extremely careful and keeping my emotions at bay.
Still, I'm sure if you called me I'd return without a hitch.
Wasting away here in insanity,
You son of a bitch!

The Travesty

If self destruction
ever had a path
it was the one travesty walked on.
Within his blurred vision
and flip-flopping
stood everything
he knew in his conscious,
but deliberate explosions,
and misfired cannons
layed him still.
Staring at the sky-
he asked me why
the night can be so dark
in some places.

Oh My Breath

Oh my breath...
There's never as yawn that completely releases me.
The heart pounds at night.
As merciless as the two faced companion.
Dare I indulge?
There's never a compromise.

You make the heart so undeniably heavy.
I want to rest but I carry a heart of stone.
It does not beat on...
It pounds on.
This requires pronounced excursion.
Inhale, exhale...
You're in my damn veins,
intertwining and vibrating
every spare second,
and every inch of skin
until tears begin to fill
and I scream
STOP!

I just realized again
that you are not here.
All day long I try to remove you
with a series of sighs
as I repeat a prayer in your name.

It's a sacred moment-
already on my knees
and feeling like a a martyr.
Here is the mantra:

Oh my breath.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Memory Charter

Memory is a charter.
Thoughts of you send me so far
beyond logical thought.
I try to go though this process quickly.
Pick me up at the corner of
satire and appetence.
I'll be waiting.

Will we be the same
if I hitch hike with
nominees of reckless
gusto?...
Ravaged insurgents?
Unworthy wardens?
The ground could open up
and swallow me whole.
I'd like to drive this storm.
Let the rain gently kiss your face.

If I focus now
so intently
in motion of
these emotions
perchance there will be..
a prompt change of scenery.
I think I am out of fuel.
I don't seem to be going anywhere.

Drop off the demeanor
and lift this dress.
It's been a long tour in this dialogue..
but if words cajole your departure
grab hold of something and
hold on tight.
You're in for one hell of a ride.


Monday, April 6, 2015

Theodicy

Tell me your destination
in cracked rubble,
and sulfuric ash.
Platonic theodicy
is a seat
thorned and corrosive
spewing out dust,
and variantly lopsided of musings.
Past and present.
Send me staggering:
As we fumble-
As we scramble-
As we doddle-
through uncertainty.
I lay my head upon your chest,
and ask you...
why?
Will it ever be undone...
as eager caresses
have been shunned,
but my heart
held an image.
I'll close my eyes,
and wish to see something new.

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Hammock in The Attic

Let me sway.
Flight feature:
as gravity releases
a gentle tug.
Among rafters and beams
my slumber swing
flew in a tiny attic
graced with steamer trunks
and bad paintings of fishermen
who seemed to stare
as darkness began to fall.
At this moment
everything in the world
slipped away.
Winds outside were
felt right above my head,
as the train less than a mile away
drummed onward
sounding like a rising rollercoaster.
Don't let me fall,
as the waves of tension
to be visited
felt like
heretics and holy men
behind a tightly shut door.
In the state I'm in
falling from grace
took only the slightest push.
I wisely sigh,
try to smile,
and grab a rafter.
Shove off the rooftop-
two boards thick.
The vibration of rain
tapped slowly above my head.
The hammock in the attic:
my grungy romantic seance
of this bohemian thought to be dead,
in the attic:
a bit slanted
and obtrusively incoherent
even when all of the houses on this street were built the same.
One holds a playwright,
one has only junk,
but this one has someone looking for home.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Splinter

Old structures can be rough:
You may want to change your mind about running your hand across that surface.
It was built with weathered wood and I loved it's history.
For a while, I thought about how nice it would be to hold some without grasping it.
Just a little sliver.
A fragment despite sweat and tears.
If there was such a thing as a good hurt
I planned it.

A palm reader asked me, "How long have you carried this splinter?".
I figured as long as it takes for me to see there's an infection.

A swollen infraction was always cramming nonsense in wounds.
The hand rises
puffy and red...
Lines expand and create caverns..
A certain splinter destined in a path of a thousand wooden particles.
Push it out.
That can't be there.
It felt like a dagger
that wouldn't kill me already.
So deep and irritating.
Annoyance on any decent day.
Where a vague, dull pointed fitting
jammed into pale skin.

With time, it all heals over
and when it does
all the discomfort
all the vexation 
clears.

Maybe my head was filled with sawdust,
but from now on I will carry sandpaper.
Because for disturbances to be lodged so deeply
in a body that frequently feels pain
reminds me that in order to build a happy life
we shouldn't be so careless
during construction.



Monday, March 30, 2015

Diamond in the Junkyard

I don't own a love.
Who am I...and that's too expensive anyway.
But if riches are your thing,
find me in a catacomb of gold-
since you're the gem in the junkyard.
Floating in stagnant rainwater
in some old tires.....
Because just like you,
they used to go somewhere with their life.
All the disregarded prized possessions
roting away.
No longer of use.
Hurry up and show your weight in precious metals
when someone else waves some cash.
Tin man still doesn't have a heart.

Nobody wants to buy any scraps
and the little bit of value was kept in the chest of this fool.
The only part I ever tried to keep.
Why make that investment for a
diamond in the rough
when it's not ready to shine?
I still understand what it could be.
It's covenant, but only as a prize to admire.

I don't love an owner.
Who are you anyway?
You apparently don't even know.
No one buys my attention.
I just freely give it,
but only to those who truly deserve it.
I'm tired of giving up my valuable pity.
There's never anything in return.
My feelings were always pennies on the dollar.
There's my 2 cents.
I can afford that much
even when everything I've said to you
appears to be worthless.

Saturday, March 28, 2015

10 Chapters


There's no story
quite like the fiction
written on your face.

If you are happy
well then I guess it holds true
that we shouldn't judge
ourselves by outside covers.

Still, I am here to tell this story
because when I am gone
my proclamations will still remain.

A chronicle came and went
between dialogs, and hiding in mysteries
that I paged through
while in decision...
One that said everything about us.


What chapters will you remember?

Chapter One, The beautiful feeling:
Even the illustrations don't refect your past glory, but I really don't like this foreshadowing. I was watching some feathers on a shelf and paint brushes in old pickle jars.  It reminded me of the hair around your ear. A bit messy.  Not straight or organized. Kind of funny because I started to get my life together. Maybe I can write this as a comedy.

Chapter Two, Turn me away:
The plot makes no sense.  If you're the hero at least type up some honesty. It appears this is some kind of romance novel...but one that belongs with the bargain books. What a suspenseful letdown.

Chapter Three, Half fasted forgiveness:
The next chapter you should make some changes.  I believe in your edition even when you don't. I guess I won't close this book just yet.

Chapter Four, In love with you again:
I was going on a feeling that things would change.  Plot twist. You're still the same. Just harder to read.  How many more pages will be written about you? This is becoming a terrible tale.

Chapter Five, I must be an idiot:
Blank page stares.  Confusing storylines. Sometimes you're too hard to follow. These leaves unfold and unravel as soon as I have them bound.  Stitching this spine means the literature won't leave my head.  All random loose writings hold more weight emotionally, but a best seller should be more professional.

Chapter Six, Time to stay away:
Sometimes I wake up with a pen in my hand.  You see, I was trying to poetically rid myself of you before you follow me to my dreams. It never worked, you know.

Chapter Seven, I wanted to see you:
If you ran a finger down the brail raised on my arms you would see I wasn't joking last time.  When I started at the line beside your eye I couldn't tell if you were squinting at your lie or that you couldn't bare to look at me.

Chapter Eight, Thanks for the heartbreak:
Can't find time to look at this right now.  Right now.  Read this later.  All the words I wrote seemed to run right off into bottles of whiskey and cheap beer.  I now understood why the best writers drank so much.  It's the only way to numb yourself to deal with such painful thoughts.  Pass on the liquor, this is the only way you are tolerable.

Chapter Nine, Just as usual:
The kids left a book on the coffee table.  "Things That Go Bump in the Night"
I kept glancing at it every time I remembered something that scares me. I think I'll just turn this over. I worried that you were a villain.  Maybe I should choose an alternate ending.

Chapter Ten, Don't forget to write:
You said you'd care for me despite all these scribbled rantings.  Those words were barely understandable late at night when there wasn't going be any sleep and blurred visions were fading away.  You always have the same answer when I ask you what I should do.  Keep writing.  One day, just as the story is about to be forgotten pick up your own pen.



Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Forgive Us Our Trespasses

Posted: Do Not Enter
We were sad, and lonely,
and it seemed our friends didn't know our name-
we didn't mourn in silence,
and spoke of how we felt insane.

Days of unjustified losses bent the signs of our needy.
Barbed wire doesn't keep everything out.

Forgive us lord, of our trespasses-
there tended do be an illusion
of belonging somewhere.
Of all the whiskey in all the world...
it seemed our loves did not care.
The genocide of sound
blasted heartache 
in these chests,
and the black sheep held each other
because our pain....
it never rests.



Saturday, March 21, 2015

Cut Strings

See what kind of heart strings you can pull....
Rigidly swaying hands and feet
moved this puppet
without manipulating
any frame.
The world is a stage,
and this drama will end.
Snip, snip-
Watch me walk away.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Moving Day

This is the junk
moved back and forth
from door to door...
except it wasn't the old stereo,
or the cardboard box of old China.
It was a pile of pain.
What a broken bag of bones.

This past garbage
floats in like an impending storm.
Hanging on chandeliers,
and hiding where the corners
meet the walls.
It should have been left behind.
Like the dusty old decorations
and the rusty dust pans...
It was packed in between
my happy memories
and a mirror that nags.
There's that same person
walking through the door.
As pensive and disgusting
as the unforgivable bastards
lingering in undesirable history.
So here we are again.
Old habits impairing new faith.
The key to bright futures
can't be hid under this doormat.
All windows were opened to avoid the suffocation....
and I tossed out so many belongings
into the dumpster.
I'd rather carry nothing to hold these 
charlatans that remain.
When there isn't anything left,
except the nails in the walls,
and variant breakdowns....
step aside bête noire.
You will no longer live to attack me
in my happy home.

Friday, March 13, 2015

The Afraid Dance

Can't I just be poetry in motion?
We'll call it "The afraid dance".
Tensed up,
and only watch on the ground...
as I begin to realize I'm losing balance.
Too much pull in your direction.
Oh, to love the felicity,
then crash
I'm hurt again
because you didn't break the fall.

Hiding/Parallel

Find me next to you.
I was still hiding .
Nobody knows
where I am.
I like it that way.
Even when you're silent.
Even when you seem to not want to be my sanctuary.
It's still better than all this chaos-
all the other pain.

Won't you let me......
just hide.

A spider under the rug.
A drawing between rough pages.
When someone asks, tell them I'm not here.

Hide me between soft sheets,
and pillows over my head.
I'd rather dream
far away from here
anywhere else
as long as you're parallel.

I'd whisper behind a curtain
look out the window,
and observe the world from here.
Curl in your lap
and try to do nothing but exist.
A silent rhapsody
in a masquerade
of false hope
and defamation.
Nobody should know the words I'm about to say to you.
Don't worry, I'll just stay muted.
I'd rather bite my lips
until they bleed
than be asked to leave.

Let's be parallel.
Straight and narrow,
but still by your side.
A quiet symphony
barely existing
because neither of us
can promise stability.

I guess I'll run if I can't survive.
Those bright blue horizons sure look nice.
The tiny bit of security is fleeting
and morally not so...

There was that one,
a bit crooked
even when I saw them as parallel.
Apart on the lines 
of experiences.
Separated by a distance that I wish wasn't so far,
and that's when I went into hiding.
A hermit's repose.
Not so uncommon for our kind,
but my refuge is gone.
No retreat.
I guess we no longer know each other.

The stance angled when you assumed you were being used.
The parallel is that I'd always be there for you.
We should still go into hiding.
Alone in reclusive arms.
The vanquishment was about both of us healing.
Sheltering within the twin flame.
Just let me hide with you.