Watching Thought Pass

They complain about their
pedigree, I say, “Good day.”

They say to me, “I shouldn’t’ve
come.” And yet
I’m here all the same.

They talk, and chat, and spew, and pout,
I watch it unfold
in my living room,
through my window,
into the world outside
on the news;

and here it comes to pass
that I agree
yet disagree with what
they always talk of doing,
or what they insinuate
with words unfolding
like arrest warrants
and clams breaking
from tiny aquatic walls—
excavators dislodging
steamed bodies out
from their death beds.

I say, “Add it with the rest,
good sir.”
Finish the soup, and stir,
then serve.

Summer’s Swift Portrayal

Cut the cords

we’ve no more room today

no more rooms
they’re gone, I say

Goodbye, push back
your hello—pull a thread
on the word farewell
tightly along your lips

let that sink in
like the ship at sea
now one with the swell
now alive and well
against rocks, against fish

sand and salt spray
like that in our skin
the ship settles in
to a home of washed light

and I, its captain,
have gone and made
some tea from seaweed.

And within our shells
we toast with the water
we breathe, and dance
as the tide would do.

Bees at the Orchard

I watch them
pick the fruit from the trees.

Some pick the fruit
gently at the stem.

Some rip the ripe meat
from the branch.

Some saw the branch down.

And there was one
small boy, who brought
with him an axe.
He spent all day
sweating, with eyes
nearly closed from the pain—
his hands blistered, swelling.

The tree fell,
and the young boy
gorged on the fallen fruit
and slept—

leaving the next day
with his axe and his
full belly, leaving
the rotting meat behind.

There are halos in the wind,
the air we breathe in are wings
for both angels and demons
and our luck,

and reformation, and renaissance,
clings to thoughts we think,
the ones expelled,
the ones brought in
like an anchor holding on

heaven on earth
and we mix it with
our hell—
we get the grey,
the brackish water

we’ll have something
at the very least to drink,

and we’ll drink to ourselves -
glasses raised even as
hearts stay heavy

like a stone lifted, though,
day in and day out
the muscle grows strong

don’t let go—
not until you
can throw the weight
far enough outside
of the blast zone.

Around it goes.

I took down
the merry-go-round
because it made
me dizzier than
the third shot of whiskey
I let settle against my stomach.

The children laughed
at me—scornful and malicious
smiles bubbling about
their darting eyes and
youthful faces—
and said, “You couldn’t take it.”

I sat against a tree
as the young ones
decided to play
hide and seek
and I was wishing
to be evaporated
like the best of them.

But I was among
the best of them, since
I would still
be hidden in plain sight
as they became ready
to take on the world.

I took another drink,
as the sun set
and the children fled
and scurried back
to their homes of holes,

and I was alone
without their shrill screams
once more—
tired and dizzy,
uncertain if I should
give the whirling mechanism
one last go
just to prove and show
that I can take on the world
as it spins on, yet again
from young to old.

Adrift, Our Poor Souls Are

The Future came calling for a single drop
of dry, aged whiskey—from an age lost
because it hid against the tide that time
tried to never let unleashed—and so
the Future sat with a filled glass
swishing it against his cup then mouth
contemplating terribly why it was
the earth still took in harsh water
when land was right below the waves.

Such great wanderers wondered
that same thought, for several present’s
now long gone—and every noble
and wise man has had an answer
that they’ve written then spoken then
died breathing out—and the Future still
has similar men, just not the ears
so desperately needed.  With his one eye
singling out the last drop of liquor
in his cup, the Future directed his band
of wise blind men, and deaf widows
and lame orphans, to set sail, and as king
recieved his voucher of time
spent, that was to be repaid.

The Last Of Ours

These days of ours flow
like fire across open water—
seas of lightning keeping us
apart from our souls
in spite of ourselves.

These days of ours melt fast,
boiling over in the cosmic globe
we seek to define for our own,
as if giving definition to our everything
means we could be its owners now.

Our days enjoy the feeling
of slipping slowly by,
until they hit the slope of change
that drags them so swiftly
to our deep entrenched unknowns.

My days are less than
what I could count on a single hand
in this home that I found
myself growing in—and so
I’m quickly approaching unfamiliar ground.

These days of ours happen
to no longer be ours.
Mine are no longer under
my own control, so soul searching
will be what keeps me company.

Making and Breaking

Pools, rivers, oceans, rain.
The breeze, the clouds, each breath we take.
Every tear cried, every smile faked.
And then there’s home
sitting amongst our self-made fog
waiting idly for a new time to come.

There are reminders among us
that tell us where we are—
even when our eyes become blind
and our soul cries out
and we lose sight
of the chorus of echoes
traveling back to our stricken ears.

I keep the strings along my knuckles.

I break the bread along each trail taken.

And though I may forget—
my strings lost,
my bread buried—
I can always wander my way
into salvation by the hand
of a gentle storm.

Niceties #1

My tone’s been changed
since chaining myself
to a new sunrise.
I like to remember
that I’m not secured
to the ground below
but given a better view
of the sky, as I’m brought
up to the air
by the beautiful cord
secured at my side.

A Thousand Words

Rest your head
so that I can rest
my eyes.
It’s hard to let
my gaze falter
when all it’s after
is another glimpse
into a future
prospect—and into
a better life.


Wandering amongst the city lights
I give up to my mind and wonder.
I wonder for how long
the sky has to stare
into the night life below
before it realizes
that we try to imitate
what we find so beautiful.

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