old makeup spilled on my floor
dirty clothes strewn on my floor

I have a new, thousand dollar laptop
less than two hundred ($)  in checking
no groceries, yet plenty of prescriptions

(but they are needed, much and every day)

where did all these bills come from?
suddenly, it costs money to breathe.

Eating? Oh pshaw, that costs money.

I get what I ask for, and it always comes, at a price of over a hundred dollars,
and more bad luck than a couple broken mirrors smashed over a black cat.

Quick! Let's do designer drugs with the paltry change given by our parents!
Wouldn't they feel proud of our feelings of entitlement and adult decisions?

Break open my mother's back,
or my father's checking account
so long as I get to swipe down
that magnetic strip of their love

(that proves that they love me)

and we will buy strawberries
for five dollars and nine cents
and eat like the bourgeoisie (!)

flicking the tips of eyeliner up
like a little tail, the ends of eyes,
black as my tightest velvet pants

and I'll come call, prepaid, with
a voice that is thick and ripped,
bags under eyes, a little anemic,

(I think it adds to the glamour)

I will put on perfume and furs,
silken drawers, fine gold jewelry.

I will gamble with you in Monte Carlo or Las Vegas,
just as long as you pay my rent at $695 per month,
until I die, or something else.

The rain washed a little of the grey away

Away with some of the disappointment and the turgid

Turgid feelings of abandonment and conflict

Conflict and all the other 'ents' washed away today  

Today with most of the negative things I had to say

Say anything to me now, I finally have my dream

Dream discovered, an attempt, recovered

Recovered if all dedication and zeal coalesce

Coalesce into the rebirth of my 'Ice-cream Truck'

Truck of dreams, 'bailey wick,' handing out wishing stars

Stars falling like a gentle soothing sleeping rain

Rain Washed A Little of the Grey Away, no longer insane.

Insane no longer at least not today coping coping

Coping in order not to run rabbit run away

John liked it
Sam liked it
Oscar, philipa and James liked it
Penny she really liked it
Leo loved it but there was no love it button
So he liked it all the same
Which was ok
Surely love
Is made up of all the likes or so Leo thought any how
jasmine hated it
Christine well she couldn't be bothered to read right now so clicked write a poem so she could create her own little masterpiece
That Inturn could be liked by the masses
Grace
She stopped a while
Grace connected
Grace was inspired
Grace left a comment
The comment read
'I really like this'
People rush around to fast
But for the grace of god
Hold tight to the likes
Tomorrow the dislike button May be around
Then we'll all be in trouble

Vindicate the journey.
Justify the placid education.
Give meaning to clamored
misconceptions.


Uncommon are the steps prevalent to  
understanding.  First we trust in logic
~  appending even clever reason, to
enlighten our wisdom.  Teaching us by
grace, tenured and wise is the old man.


Second we must conceive the rebirth
of the soul.
And nurture the rigorous energy
within.


As such is the steady old man,
calm in demeanor, and living as the
wise without regret ~ for the rest
of his years.  In his mind the past
is marinating within,  as a mental
treasure.  In idea profound and
willingly he carry’s us to a fashion
so right.  These are the lentils of
the  presence ~ of the clamored
misconceptions, of the old man.  


Thus with little merit to write, I
celebrate those growing old and gray.


Believe in his destiny.  Only a mention
to mind his presence and grace.  A
thread to celebrate the qualities of this
dumb old man.

I can’t help but utter a curse
Or two, after the strap of my purse
Breaks and my things begin to roll
On the floor. Or my cereal bowl
Decides that it wants to fly
Away from the counter and die.
When my computer shuts down
And my work doesn’t save, I frown
And want my laptop to feel my pain
Cuz I don’t want to type it again.
When I trip over air, but I swear
Up and down that there was something there.
When I stub my toe on something
And hop up and down yelping.

It’s the little things in life
That tend to cause so much strife.

one of those mornings
where I want to lay on the floor with my legs in the air
where I want to smoke cigarettes as skinny as arms
where I want to wear dark sunglasses that spell out

C-O-O-L C-A-T

and these shades would allow me to be callous
and my apathy and I could make snide remarks

about you,
you little fucker

Boy, I hope you can smell my contempt over there.
You deserve it. But I don't really care anymore.

I don't dislike many people, but if I could do it,
I would tell you that I look upon your character
with the same adoration that I would hold for a
parasite-infested rotting mountain of rat feces.

Which is to say not a lot.
Which is to say I dislike you.

It's just one of those mornings,
where I want to stop knowing you, and wish you wouldn't know me.
where I want to do something, but you see, I can't feel a thing, for you.

I have nothing for you, really,
I am fresh out of fucks to give.

I don't regret anything since I learned a great deal.

I wouldn't say I was heartbroken, just exasperated
by your contrived and un-authentic dumbass-ery.

I am better than you.
I laugh when I remember that every morning.

Foolish bird that won't sing.
A rumbling little thunder becomes on the wind.
A worker in full swing.
Clinging gracefully to every flower that he finds there to cling.
Weary bird, anymore not caring for threat.
And those long brown wings weigh heavier yet.
Not looking.
Not singing.
The boy cries, "Just sting him, sting him! Sting him to death!"
Poor bird with poisoned veins lays still in his rest.
His eyes slowly closing he remembers his nest.
And his mother singing proudly deep from her breast.

The absence in the trees
is like a whisper,
and I remember old words that fell
like little leaves.

And tomorrow I hope I will listen
and walk back with you through the
wisdom of your hidden meanings.
Trying to make sense of your leanings
and all I was missing.

Because the absence of you
just leaves me,
and the memories of trees
that we played in as children.
And of parents who always
believed in forgiveness

Do you want to live forever?
said the Gardener to me,
tending to a creeping thought
and watering the sea.

I replied, no, but thanks, you see,
I'd rather be a tree.
And spread my branches out
to
shelter creatures underneath.

A tree? A tree? He whispered tentatively.
Why, I can't remember what it be.
That word. That thought. That memory.
He shook his head and shrugged at me.

(So, I scratched a crude drawing in the dirt
and The Gardener squatted there, pondering at it a while.
His robes lifted up above his bony knees)

But I do that too, said He, jumping up quite suddenly.
Pardon me, but I just don't see the need.
The need to be a tree!
Just beg a princely role of me
and I'll fulfill your fantasy.
I said thanks..but.. well, you see,
I'd rather be a tree.

He paused for quite a while.
Then said okay, a little hesitantly.
Then said, that he would not be that okay
until he sees these silly things called trees,
and until he sees the purpose of the thing it is
that means so wonderfully much to me
to
want to be a tree.

So he turned me to a tree and put me in a park.
Where couples came and families
and cuddling lovers in the dark.
And colored birds were friends to me
and I sheltered all of them beneath.
And spread new life through little seeds
and quenched the world its need to breathe.
And in the autumn dropped my leaves
to feed the insects in the weeds.
I stretched my roots in
luscious ground and saw such beauty all around.
I was
old and happy as only a tree
could ever wish or hope
to be.
And then I saw that a familiar face was watching me.

And He said..

You are quite naturally a tree
and have done so extraordinarily well in green that I will let you be to live your dream.
And as he walked away,
he smiled happily back at me.