You couldn't shut me up if you tried.

As any good poem will do, I was moved to another place. Taken back to a day long ago when I was twelve, no maybe eleven, and had spent a good portion of the afternoon alone foraging around in the yard. Aside from some awkward social issues, I was content (even the social issues contented me because it gave me the excuse to be alone). So that particular day, standing in my yard, breathing in the warm fresh air of spring, I recall being rained upon by helicopters. I collected them all in a box, or perhaps it was a bucket, and climbed my favorite tree as high as I could and re-released them to the ground. It was my intention to allow them a second flight, to once again be aloft.

It is amazing how similar we are, humans. Inhale (I’m), exhale (here). At the very core we exist, our attempts to make our lives enjoyable or in some instances passable should be worthy. Take it in, the amazing, the simple, the meaningful and give it away, just the same.

As I have said (and as some have speculated) I am privileged to have a few places to spout off (last count...Three, “oh lucky me.”). Of course, some of my words were never intended to be read by anyone other than the one I wrote them for and in some cases no one at all. These places have never intersected, until now. I have been reminded to rip myself open. So, I have gathered up these words for a second flight.


Her fingers weave through my hair
And her breath is a reminder (that I breathe)
In and out, slow and almost silent

I'm

h e r e

I'm

h e r e

I'm

h e r e

Her evening promise
brings me rest.
When I wake, whenever that may be
I can tell her anything
and she believes
And I understand
the weight of trust.
She begs me for more,
more anything, more everything
and I oblige, within reason
I can give endlessly
and she will return the favor.
She is at once present
and future entwined
For years in the making
and each moment a step
closer to letting go.



p.s. but once I am dead, Dis.



The written word, in any form, is a powerful gift. But, it can also destroy.

Stand.

There are so many things missing, last night
Last week, and now quieted by irreverence
Two feet deep and thick with sickness
We are lost and no longer linger. Still
I can reason your denial in difference
Came upon you for thought, and mine
I must say thrust upon me in shame.
I shut my book to save your eyes.
Who is lost in plain sight can speak
As you have always claimed, in truth.




p.s. with an uncompromised view for any other is...well, it is compromised.

An obscene waste.

Honorable Mention.

I am the clown.
Because you asked me to
and I am colorful enough, so
I quickly make the change.
It’s an easy switch in contrast.
Then, you are off and running.
Up and down the row
I am chasing you and I am out of breath.
You are elusive, but you see
I am the clown.
And I will use a trick to catch you.
I must catch you, because I have to tell you
I am not a fool. But, I have failed.

The pulsing lights drawing on
Death and destruction flash above
And beyond you. The images are mostly grave
Punched in and out in perfect time.
They were too many and too long, but
I had to remain until the end.
I knew they would tell the story.
Then, the images stop.
I achieve execution in a flash of bright white
Then perception returns to me, the clown,
Looking at you down the row.
I can’t move but to say the end.
But, I forgot the most important part.

Then, you are gone.
For a moment, I am frantic to find you.
But, I also don’t want to lose my character.
It is of every color and
Can give me up a reckless fool.
While I pretend to know the rest,
I search for my friend.
His name is random, and
He was sitting next to me.
Before you came along…
And as I am just about to take my leave
You appear again, but now
You are the clown.

And you want to tell me that
I am just a fool.



p.s. strung out on pointless prevarication and cardboard collusion.



(...fucking nightmare)

Investment.

Upon arrival, there isn’t nearly enough air to fill my lungs, so in desperation, I scream. Pulling in all that I can because suddenly I feel empty. The comfortable heavy warmth in my chest has been displaced by vacuum. I have no control over where I am. My arms and legs, unbound, find freedom a challenge. And, although I feel hands pulling and fingers pressing, I have no idea why. It is cold. So, I reach for warmth and I find it in purity. I know where I came from; I did not want to leave and with grief comes depth and in the deep I find surrender. It was warm and I swam in it before I knew you. I would go back, but that was before I saw your eyes, before I was pulled into this world and onto your lap a sloppy mess. I need you and without you I am sure I would not thrive.







p.s. i can only imagine.

Tort Law, reversed.

I Think I'll Call Him Walter.

I conjure up images in my head
for no reason at all. I think
they arrive to scare off the vagrants,
or perhaps to offer welcome. All they do is sleep,
and take up space ("the images or the vagrants?").
There are far more legitimate opponents
to overcome than those fucking demons. But they continue
to pick, pick, pick at every thought. And I am bored.
Lately they have been searching around
in the attic, pushing through the pink
fibrous fluff insulating the electric tangle.
It isn’t too dangerous to let them rummage, last I heard
most of that material is useless anyway.
Rarely do they find anything of value
(but that doesn’t stop them from trying to sell that shit on ebay).
Sometimes they trick me into joining them
in the mutilation (discount, decay, delete).
What the villains don’t realize is that
pilfering my reflections fuels my anger
and encourages my breath. They have been
diligent fuckers (pick, pick, pick).
So tonight, I should maintain
my creative endeavor well into bliss. (A bad habit?),
perhaps…It does keep me warm though and tells me when to eat.
So back to the images of vagrants, last night
I pushed a few of them out into the room,
in hopes that they would accompany me, at least
for a little while. There is one stubborn fucker
…that refuses to relent. It pokes me
and pushes my fingers to tap a line. Advice
is meaningless but the words sure are pretty.



p.s. what a shame another party dress ruined at the outing.


("Brought to you today by the letters: TINC and the number 0.")