Red dirt ***** dogs
mawing mouthfuls of matted fur
with far more fervence
than the sunset behind them.
Here at the end of the road ...
"Watch this mom!"
I watch.
The trees, the falling sun,
this little boy, my youngest son
and these rust red, mud red mutts
who do not see the sunset slipping
dimming.
They don't see my eyes attempt to hold all of it, infinite.
Mar 7, 2020
Mar 7, 2020 at 1:23 PM UTC
My mouth is a monster,
howling down houses.
Rotting roofs are no match
for my madness.
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 5:07 PM UTC
Eat you up and drink you in.
I want you
The way I both fear and love the sunrise
The way that mo(u)rning is work
The way illumination
Is painful
And full of hope.
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 5:22 PM UTC
Biting back bile like
When I believed I could be born again and the bible was a buoy
Floating on whiskey breath.
I never could "be good" then.
The only absolution
Is slow execution
Dying the same way baseboards turn brown
The way cobwebs climb corners
Forgotten
Until they're ***** enough
To need attention.
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 5:12 PM UTC
with the leftover rig of someone’s unhappy decisions
and the smell of animals left too long without attention
I curled up for a few days in the cold on hide-a-bed mattress
like the ******* ****** I never was
only thought about being.
“What was I thinking?”
Fifteen and wishing
I was ****** chic
a “beautiful disaster”
a ******* model painted dead for TV..
~that~ was my aspiration.
Fast-forward to the bottle of whiskey
and the smell of old dog ****
and a lingering need to hear that man’s voice.
I was so angry.
“She ****** me off so much.”
There’s little cessation
from the stream of ******** they spew.
“How could I love and hate someone so much?”
“That’s what abuse does....”
Products...
results...
that’s what we are...
from a mass social experiment gone right.
“They want you fat, lazy, and addicted to something.”
“Well, they have me.”
I hear some people have a handle on things...
got **** together.
I hear that man’s got a job and is pretending to be someone
for someone’s family.
If I had enough room, I’d weep for them.
My tears are all tied up though
in fear of the future and a lack of control.
What the **** do we do?
Where the **** do we go?
That trailer
I thought I could save it.
Cleaned the walks and the carpets.
Drank myself to sleep,
freezing,
thinking
I was so righteous,
so destined for ...
something.
anything
except
that trailer.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 1:55 AM UTC
The problem with being a well rounded individual is
there are less corners, less lines...
and it’s sort of a question of what came first:
the fruit or the color?
How the wind does ravage the mountains
to stones and boulders!
I have wondered
often
about those things...
nature versus nurture,
and who or what there is to blame
for human behavior.....
both the crux and salvation of experience is experience itself...
The journey is the lesson is the reward.
There is no way but through.
“I’m strong enough already.”
The seed
is the tree
is the fruit.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
Remember before this
when faith,
synonymous with bliss,
caught you on the down side,
gave you heart to fly?
The hero isn't the fable,
the circled hands at the kitchen table.
Change isn't just a constant
without it we are haunted
There's more space out here to breathe
the budding branches after fall
that big orange ball
alone, after all,
since there is no more than one.
And, coming over the hill,
I feel free to revel in the sun,
in purple, indigo, pink blazing horizon,
and I choose to smile.
"What's a few more miles?"
Because right now, I am the Soldier
feeling heart and bones get older
ordered by this Sergeant Brain.
But soon, I will be the Farmer,
trading weapon and armor
for soil and grain.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
Accolades.
Titles.
Never did a very good job at running them down.
Just as entitled, in that aspect:
wanting a crown, but no real respect
for the hard work necessary.
Forgive me.
Maybe it's feigned humility that makes me wary.
Maybe I know Liars.
Now that's a label I carried
until honesty
emboldened me.
I preferred when "Good Woman" was said
to "Cool Chick,"
but those and "Different Than I've Ever Known"
didn't do any tricks.
You know what did?
I'm a fool for not having checked before we left.
Not gauges or pressures
or tires' tread,
and less than half way
the latter slipped from the tire
leaving exposed wire
but enough air it might get us where
it could get fixed.
A fool twice. I didn't listen.
I was told how to fix it
...weeks ago
before the snow.
What can be said
is that I kept a level head
and safely kept my commitment.
What I was told
as I scolded myself on the road?
"You are amazing. Thank you."
For what?
"For getting us through that. You could have done worse-"
which could have meant hearse.
I'm not always slow to toot my own horn.
I can wear the Pirate and the Priest
though, the second, not as well.
And for that title, I made its hell
as real as love is when it is possession.
In my life, two men, and one friend
called me that name: Cool Chick.
One was being slick
and I didn't believe the other two, until today.
If, of the three,
the liar had been
in the passenger seat,
how the words would have flown
like shrapnel.
Curses or praises,
they'd tear me to pieces.
When at last today
I saw your face,
you looked good,
but not honest.
It was awkward but nice
standing there knowing
whatever the price we are paying
it's worth it
to know what it's like
to feel worth it.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
I still wonder if it's me who was the dys-
in our dys.functional family.
I sit atop guilt
as though it were a fine bed.
And bed is where I stay, most days.
I am the same.
Could the future be the past--
since time's not linear?
Escher struck me
not because of his geometric impossibilities...
incredible symmetries...
but my wandering mind was drawn
to the pattern, repeating...
sinking together pieces in a puzzle...
you know the feeling.
I know it may not seem clear
but there is some stability
in fear.
You should always know what can or is killing you.
We can argue if fear is a choice,
and maybe the usage is wrong,
but death's voice isn't truly welcome
until you've seen it's face more than once.
And what do I know of facing death?
Nothing.
Standing at the razor's edge
and a stick-up and Eye-Mart Express are as close as I've come.
So,
it's fair to say
that fear, for me,
sometimes isn't a decided election.
It's a place.
The sleep-with-one-eye-open,
pray-for-omens,
waiting-for-that-other-shoe
place.
The optimist says,
"I will be prepared... A beast of battle."
The pessimist says,
"A meeting with the creator is best."
The realist says,
"Get over it."
When I watched that fly
on MTV
buzz about that ****** chic
Deftones video...
when I heard the stories
of money and glory...
and power...
and of the sour...
I knew I was done for...
It's so 'Romeo and Juliet'
except
no one will sing about my love affair
with the warring houses
of drugs
and self-worship.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
And there
tied at my feet
that ****** weight
held fast to the stone.
Though not tied
tethered
to both rope
and statue.
"Anchored"
should be a welcome feeling.
My mooring is a heavy yoke
and the future is itching,
stabbing,
tearing
through my shoulder blades.
Who could have thought
that thought
would begin this battle
and win it
with wings?
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC