#written considerations

watches me from the doorway

she is untamed and wanting

she has sharp edges

a mouth full of wild hunger

i do not tell her

that i miss her

that some nights

i dream of slipping back into her skin

but when my daughter calls for me

with a voice like first light

i step into the soft glow of morning

and let the woman i was

become the woman i am meant to be

In a town where tornadoes always seem happen -

I find a road, With a house at the end, But I cannot call it, “home.”

It has a bed, a once dirty bed, Where two very clean people now dream, But I cannot allow an hour to sleep.

Where one whispers sin, the other can’t hear, The other, one hymn, and unrequited - Yet I cannot know, I cannot answer;

For they live in a town where tornadoes Always seem to happen. And from this town, the winds have stolen.

Me.

And only me.

Honey, that guy doesn't have to be disrespectful to prove he cares for you.

Beloved, that man doesn't have to be toxic to prove he loves you.

04.22 (original acrylic on 24x30 cotton canvas) "Summer Breeze"

Where are you right now?

Not your location.

Not your 10 toes planted.

Not your weary bones resting.

Do you know where you are?

I do.

As long as I'm with you.

* travelers, we are, seemingly; trekking through sands of time, granularly;

gaining as we go counting steps & coin hoping to retain our childish glow - intrinsically.

through wage runs in stages & many reams of pages, stasis staved as we pray - sporadically;

hearts held tightly in our hands awaiting the cupidic calling wondering where to place any excess - wisely.

costs of doing business cost our dreams of pondering the isness of the thrall, playing daily, nightly;

once it’s felt  we have seen and heard it all & finally become our soulish boss - uprightly.

then we'll find a time when we focus on how best to limit any loss,

so i'll press my palms above my lids,

and through the holes swear not to peek, 

tap my shoes the shiny shade of red enough times, 

til it's the hundredth candid of us,

imprinting our skin onto the grass-strewn field,

smiling with our sets of leftover baby teeth,

our "problems" in endless games of houses as heard from adults 

things had no choice but to be right,

and we'd embody the colors of the setting sun,

grabbing at it quickly and hungrily our grubby little fingers.

-exiles of playground kingdom

Poetry is dead and so am I my pen had a stroke, my well ran dry, poetry is dead and so am I.

Jesus H Christ. Find me a prescription for whatever is going on before I go comatose, hardly daring to get out of bed, barely hacking up a couplet into the nearest tissue.

My new sick is backwards-sick; love, pain, sex - terminal, a boring mess on the floor, coaxed into the shape of a poem.

How I long for the old sick, my tongue in your teeth, your God in my throat, hands as syringes, drawing blood from anything you touch.

For me, this was always my way of talking to you, how I love you, how I hate me. But I have nothing left to talk about and I won't pretend that I do.