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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.