there were never pies on the
window counter
or cakes baking in the oven
there was never the smell of
home style type of cooking
in our house
fried chicken came out of a
box; frozen and dropped into
the fry daddy
we’d listen closely to see if
you could hear the chicken’s
soul scream in the greases soup
dessert was apples from the tree,
some day’s you get them before they
hit the ground, others you ate around
the soft spots
conversation was initiated by whatever
news story was airing, commercials
for **** breaks
while the pie was never there,
the cake just a dream,
while home made fried chicken was another
time period
this was still home, this was still where the heart was
in-between drunken fights over finances, despite cold winter
nights on hand cut wood, regardless of
living on the edge of over every
time we began to think it was safe to feel safe.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
my actions are always
fast
sometimes void of thought,
sometimes void of vision
i am my own worst enemy
i always have been the greatest deterrent
to my own determination
a damnation within the
hearts beating, a black
hole in my minds eye
my actions are always
fast
sometimes void of thought,
sometimes void of vision
full of feelings, however fleeting, they may be.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
tomorrows whisper
is never
heard
until it's turned
into
a scream
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 4:10 AM UTC
high definition
camera
details
the image
for better and
worse
now you can see the
dirt under the finger
nail of the poor;
the bone from working
so hard
you can see the vibrant
color of a flower, more
vivid in it’s yellow or red,
than ever before
its the pain, however,
that i see, that breaks
my knees, begging
for polaroid film to release
me from all this
beauty
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
i’m gonna be drunk
before i even get out this house,
kris is sleeping
not feelin’ it today
i’m drinking it
startin’ to feel it
big bass bumping outside
my windown
tall drink of water
sippin’ on her drank
she’s feeling it too
prince fielder looking
mother ****** pointing
his finger at something
across the street
not at me
someone else
maybe there will be a fight
tonight
the storms have passed,
but i can still feel them, too.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
my dad and brother sit around
on sunday afternoons
talking about conspiracies
kennedy
area 51
princess diane
911
all the **** no one really
understands
some of it they say
was planned some if
it not so much
i sit and take it all in,
scratch my sack when needed,
watch outside for the storm that’s
coming waiting for five o’clock when
i can stop thinking and drink a bottle
or two
heat filled sentences shooting
thought process half dead
get me mad
if everything is a conspiracy
then **** this heart of mine
and **** all this time i wasted
waiting
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
honestly, i don’t see myself as
a poet -
i am a historian who
writes
in poetic form
as are you
readers
and writers
our eyes
record
history as
it happens
storing it
in our hearts;
ushering it safely
on passage through
time
trading it with blank paper
in hopes of not
repeating the bad;
and reliving the good
i hate the word poet,
i am a historian
and so are you
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
if only it were that easy
that i was actually just ink
(instead of blood)
it would make you erasing
the beginning of our story
(when we said forever)
so much ******* easier.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
for most of us our first love song
was written in the middle of a first grade day,
between reading and math class
where instead of
1+1=2
it was
you+i=forever
even though forever was an apple sauce after dinner
and a kiss on the forehead of your loving mother
heartbreak was the next day when you realized that
each day at lunch time would be an opportunity the
universe would offer up a chance at a tear or two in front
of an unforgiving school, in front of the first girl you'd
hate forever
even though forever was a game of catch and a
nice long talk about girls with your loving father
forgiveness was so much easier in the days before body
hair and friday night despair, when you could sit on your
wooden chair and carve next to Jody's name her replacement
for most of us our first love song
was written in the middle of a first grade day,
between recess and time to go home,
where instead of
1+1=2
it was
you+i= forever
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
i went to her grave again last night
over eight hours away, i went and laid next
to her ashes
i brought her brand of cigarettes
her brand of beer
i brought her a crossword puzzle
she didn’t have much to say
so i did most of the talking
as usual
like when i was six and Tony Bluto would
pick on me during recess, i’d slam my book
bag into the ground and hide underneath the
kitchen table as she’d peak under her glasses
as she’d peck at the typewriter
“problems, Denny,” she would say
and i’d unload
when i went to her grave again last night,
over eight hours away, her ashes laying there
alone, i unloaded
but nothing happened, nothing was said,
and i ended the evening with a question
“how do i become a better person,”
and that’s when it began to rain
***** made it rain.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC