this is the last time you'll drag your dagger through my mind
im silencing the thoughts
readjusting the locks
just to keep you out.
don't try and break in,
theft is in your blood and im not yours to steal.
your mask won't trick me the next time
your face is engrained in my mind
and i'll never forget
i could never forget
i'm just out of things to give
so please stay out this time.

If life’s minutes
were kept in a vault
I would transfer each of mine
to you.
So that you had time
for a cure to be found

trained
to be homesick
the animals
disappeared.  dad advised

we get out
the way
of frost, let it get

to what it’s got
to chew.

we stayed inside mostly and hollered
loud enough
for mailmen
to hear

nicknames
like little
baby
bathwater
my favorite

from the year
god’s voice
changed.

It's 5am and she is awake
Something woke her from her fitful sleep
She wanders the halls
          each step getting colder
Taking in the photographs on the walls
She sees a smiling beautiful couple
She wonders if they're  not just the doppelganger, their double
           she sees movement out of the                       corner of her eye
She stops to stare at one in particular
Back then, her hair fuller, nails thicker  
          a soft, cool breeze upon her neck
Then he fell into the water, never to come up for breath    
Since then, she too has wished for death
            she believes she hears his voice whispering in her ear
Today though death will not come
              "I am here waiting for you to come to me"
The sun is up, death is again gone 
                *she turns her head, nothing to see

the CIA will never make the money off ******
it made off *******
******* is for parties
dance clubs
good times in social settings
******, not so much
dark alleys with ***** dealers
selling black tar
to hopeless souls
Mexican mules with **** cavities
brimming
carrying kilos into Nogales
or maybe Calexico
bow legged and sweating
just 35 more trips and sweet little Consuela
can be an American
until Trump gets his wall –
article after article relaying tragedy
the poor, lost in addiction
desperately seeking a coping mechanism
something to stem the tide of despair
and general malaise
dead in their prime
over a twenty sack
and low self-worth….
many friends and family this same tale…
some folks heritage is in ranching,
thousands of head of cattle
driven across the open plains
grandfather to grandson,
uncle and cousin….
others,
political dynasty
papa congressman
and auntie judge
but not mine –
the crest of my tree looks like the biohazard symbol
as generations of drug addicts litter the undergrowth
their weight attempting to hold me
lock me into familial history
unfortunately or fortunately
my will, and recognition of god’s power
flowing within me, as it..
I am my own master
and free to fashion my branches
to whatever my liking desires –
undercover government agents line street corners
whispering illusionary tales of release
stories of becoming void of pain
parables relating a free mind
to personal freedom
through chemical alterations
I whisper back
“I bet my **** is delicious,
wanna taste?” –