The poor can bleed while the rich do feed, upon the wars and that they hang around there necks. skulks of the fallen collected never buried but trophy’s of the greed that fed the blood soaked bills that passed from hand to hand. Like bullets passing through flesh, only the poor die, while the rich say more to fed the machine of greed that is never fulfilled until the last drop is cleaved with a bomb or bullet. And the poor due alone and hungry not able to buy a bullet to end there suffering, but enough to end another in a war that all had forgotten.

Like a work horse,
My body feels worn.
I can’t turn the soil
Of life everyday..

I think I need to be euthanised..
Or at least hibernate
for the weekend.

Painkillers eaten like skittles..

Four varieties of woes..
My body the water,
The pills skimming
Across my Pain threshold..

Hidden disabilities,
a hide an seek of explanations.
You ill today.. sighs..
I’m Forever Sighing,
At the ignorance of others

family loves you most
family cares for you most
family knows about you most
family feels for you most
family annoys you most

Actually
white at the knees

the place where
you used to cut them off

and let them
live a second life

as shorts

I see ibicies on alpine slopes,
large curved horns coming almost
full circle. I descry mountain
hawks on the wing that descry
more than I. Bears I do not
see, for they are lost in their
own sleep, not on slopes, but
in slumber;  the number of deer
is in actuality many, but I
have not earned the right to
discern more than few.
Vision is a funny thing:  we
tend to infer from the many
we can see reality, but this
is illusory. Our sight we feel
can be enhanced by glasses
microscopic or telescopic,
but sight is not insight;  seeing
is not knowing. The intellect
sees that all are different,
wisdom that all are one. The
ibex knows the mountain is
deeper than it is high.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS