War crimes

In times of war you should conserve your "thank you's".
Don't let them wash up on the shore like drift wood.
In times of war be aware of Halloween and the costumes at the drugstore that come apart at the seams.
In times of war all things should be considered and forgiven. It is good to acknowledge every missed sentence overshadowed by trips to the battlefield, every interruption made by the haphazard gun fire of a mouth out of the trenches.
The soldier-self rat-ta-tatting off words like it has more to offer than what the ego says, and more to tell than you... with ears, a brain, a heart... and you....with your own words firing back, shell shocked, like lovers do.
In times of war, people feel apologetic and sketchy like the first-time gambler.
In times of war, we walk with pregnant bundles of limbs that dangle for anothers reach.

number 70

This town, place of my rebirth.
I ride swiftly with swollen skies of mystery.
Painted clouds, worn out shingles of the awning below the heavenly stars.
Clouded nights prevail, stars emerge again like my poetic blanket soothing MINE OWN ACHE, from my freed fingers I wake.
I hurry on with night standing behind, he drifts slowly in. I search with a peerless eye-the back of my eyelids. the future is beheld there. with crisp thoughts, I enter the fragments of me. In between wrinkles I had once fell. I look toward the remembrance. Night shakes my hand. I am alone again. Sweet kisses to my pillow. My smile tastes the past, I do not mourn this season.
It is its will to outlast.

I wish upon a falling me

I saw a falling wish tonight.
I mean, I fell upon a wish tonight.
I mean, a star fell for me tonight.

What do my seeds taste like? Are they galaxies? Suns dying in the night?
Sometimes I feel like the author of A Million Little Pieces.
His aftermath, a heart piece he wore out too long. It eventually lost its way.

I trapped my heart in a shark's cage.
The steel kept it from feeling the razor sharp teeth. Now its been kept away so long, soft fingers barely pry it close.
Maybe I should bring it out once in awhile, leave it on my sleeve and keep it moist?

Feeling the head within

My monster, my mood, my voice that wanes....
You are my cancer. That festering canker that comes to a head.
The faceless malformity of my insecurities pops out of my chest, moseying past my rib cage, protruding like a green puss filled boil about to erupt on my cleanest dirty shirt.
This volcanic creation stemmed from the inability to communicate needs and wants...

Perhaps it isn't faceless after all...
Maybe half of it is squinting like eyes closed by the sun, or someone about to sneeze, or a receiver of a punch. But certainly half of it is suffering with paralysis and living a scabby, backwards blistered existence. Its face is the color of refrigerated olive oil. The kindred color of a soulless booger.

It also resembles a deformed erection of a misled penis... an angry eye... a neglected perversion.
Its grotesque soap opera plays on like an overlooked starlet's waiting for her tarnished Emmy.
It hovers. I malnourish it with positive thinking , reassurance and long walks. Its monolith like head falls flaccid when I give precedence to what my red blood pumping heart wants. And in the assembly of my woman heart, insecurities are banished and silenced.

A few new chords

I. Fast car

Acts of desperation, followed by disdain. Bad humor knocks down a wall, and gathers up a friend. Fueled by lines, fiery passion, longing love, hands outstretched. Looking to jagged ears for help. I doodled on all my work today. And I rolled in the grass. Ants are crawling on my skin, and I'm bleeding through my pants fast.



II. Alpha

Old alleyways. Immigrant trail.
It's a morning dripped with thunderstorms and a walk that resembles our drunk driving.
The message I won't send declares, "YES."
I'm tired, stinking. Thinking of dryer sheets.
Horizon cracks like eggs of breakfast.


III. Buzz

My body's sore and bruised from mysteries and blissful rides into the oblivion of future fun.



IV. Reminder to her

A million days a million ways,
I am the person in your corner.
Helping you along, hearing your hurt.
Knowing that your star shines as bright as the others.
A family built on cracks,
Only to live as a being supreme, should we look back.

Faced value

What is a weed?
An idiom?
Something not in need?

Can my pursuit of compassion calm the tension?
I'm full of questions, marks, bruises and pain.
I want a bed warmed by souls reminiscent of summer rain.
I want the cover of night to kiss my eyelids and bring sweet.
In between every breath I can feel your peace.

There is a garden where I fill my cup. Favorite flowers grow there. In the eyes of their petaled faces, I see the friendliness of childlike curiosity.
I smell lavender, jasmine and spicy fragrances, dancing across the buds, and the extension of my tongue.

Prickly feelings of atrophy are going away slowly.
Blood starts to rush to the places that were numb.
I wish I could grab the head of the oppressed and press it into the dirt, in anger, in jest. Breath deep. Emerge with dried grass in your cuffs, and bugs in your hair. Don't forget to wipe your feet and leave your senses there.

We fight, because we are the faded sides of the same coin....
All of us, abused, spent, rubbed, gambled, tossed in the gutter, spat out by the vending machine of society.
When the collector comes along, we are reinvented and remembered.
Our plain metal selves are anxiously awaiting to be molten down and made anew again by the cosmic coin maker.
Flipped, fashioned, pressed in "trust", anyone's the taker.

Whisky tango foxtrot

Sweat etched into my neck the time line I waited.
Frustration built.
My shoulder and back made of stone, asanas won't touch this week or next. I wish to set forth my prayer in motion, a ride I await, my vessel my freedom. I'm enslaved waiting for the ride.
I get home, a small prayer answered. A cold quenching cure for thirst quickly dies. The undercap reads "To the wheels on the bus." I scoff and go downstairs.

Some..thoughts..bound..together.

Your sad grin at mornings wake. A light I don't turn off.
I watch you gather your things to leave. I swept up today, please bring more of your soil.
My nail beds, still colored with Sunday's paint.
Rough edges, getting smoother with every unplanned night.
The abrasion is good for tattered souls that got frayed by lords of lust and freckled fantasies flailing into emotional waves. The sea bottom is littered with vessels who crashed.
I stay afloat.
I see shoreline.
My craft secure.

Hot August stuck to my flesh. I smell tomorrow on your breath.

Fleshly shaved pillows imprinted on my mind.
I'm writing with wrapped up unmentionables soft as a watermelon's insides, protected by that deep, dark green rind of me.
Crack the hard shell between your teeth.
Let my seeds fall.
Liquid muse waters are shed between.
I pass out from the epiphany.