Little beads of perspiration began to form all over his skin, tanned by the sun's fury.
Jonah stared up at the sky and uttered a sigh of relief when a gentle breeze interrupted the unrelenting heat of the day.
Though the views were nice and he was never at risk of not having something to record or take note of in his water color-stained journal, Jonah knew he was a prisoner on the ship…
Folding Foes, walk yourself down the Georgian line
Sweet savanna wrap around porches in summer sweat
Crushing companies sipping sweet tea on pedestals above me
Anchored at average is that old adage that it attached to the lattice that they try to get past us.
Nailed shoes to our feet and glued to our seat, living in lies and deceit, trying to force our defeat and to break the decree
And by me.
Thee, the only lonely listeners of our own sweet soliloquies
In ripping tides of attention tearing through hate and affection,
Is found a pain never to mention for any chosen direction.
Now our learning gets lost in the lesson.
It started with tension, then moves to intervention, but ends with rejection.
Where now it lends to those friends that tend to your need to mend
Open palms red and sore from ringing
Grandfather clock ticking away down my hopes for tomorrow
I toss and turn all night dreaming black ink bleeding along the edges of my aching, submersed mind
Where were you when my hands were tied?
My mouth sewn shut against their ignorance
Always another ribbon to cut
A line to cross
When you are ready to wake up and see, actually focus
On the here and now
I'll be here to show you that we are ALL born free
One at time with not just the blood of war on our hands
But stars of wonder in our eyes
Maria and Mr. Riner are sitting on my bed
tied up like garlands, against the wall
the words stew inside and I can't seem to
pour them out
but we three fools, sit and scribble regardless
staring blankly at the drooling clock
(persistent, in our memories).
the whitewashed cinderblocks are testament
to the number of walls
the quantity of clocks
this series of chairs
and if we close out eyes we expect to
wake up in heaven
but it's just the same old hell.
she says, keep writing
(if you feel inclined)
and slides her back into mine
but I've got no more letters in these fists
(so I'll lie and think for a bit).
I've never been a 'she' before...
my coat sits in a bundle near the door
I've been trying to find a way to hang it
but I'm having mixed results, in fact
all this month I've been trying to make attachments
to these white,
cinder block walls
with all manner of adhesives.
but these nightly sessions
have been fucking with the humidity
and every morning something new is on the floor.
all I can do is put them back up again.
be a little more constant
with these climate fluctuations.
sleep a little more, sweat a little less.