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Sometimes words blow away
      like leaves in the wind

I'm a mess of unspecified feelings
       doing a chaotic dance
             on my organs.
 Oct 2011 Allison Miles
Christine
I do not want to rise to my feet.
But there’s no snooze button on a child.
Rise. Shine. Sleep. Repeat.

This place is a ******* mess.
I tidy up while she watches Dora explore;
I do not like being on my feet.

I brew four cups of Maxwell House
and check the mirror to make sure I look alive.
Rise. Shine? Sleep. Repeat.

Into the car and off to the sitter’s.
She and I dance to pop songs on the radio.
Upon the car’s pedals, I tap my feet.

I drop her off and drive to work where
I drop off hot plates to hungry guests.
Rise. Shine. Sleep. Repeat.

I pick her up, go home, and cook dinner;
then bath time, bed time, homework.
Will I ever feel stable on my feet?
Rise. Shine. Sleep. Repeat.
The cactus ate the moon;
a cosmic starflower;
a cyanide razorblade.

You ate your way through the mouse droppings
in the cereal bowl
and look at me through lens-less everythings.

The sun took the moon
to his midnight hideaway
and she was absent that night.

Beneath the artificial breeze
blowing noisily, raucous;
birds in a tree eating acorns like squirrels do.

I never gave you hope;
I never gave you nothing;
I never gave you what you deserved.

Senseless, mindless, wandering wanderlust
wonderlust
you're keeping yourself company tonight.

Ha! playing with yourself again, I see.
Picking your nose and rubbing your toes
in the sandy sandy dandy boy beaches.

Friendly, never ceasing.

Repeating repeating repeating lines
repeating repeating repeating signs
repeating repeating relocating lies

Nice to just let go
no reality
no gravity.

But I'm not defying, no
nor scrying, oh
but lying, go.

She gave me her hand
and expected me to restitch the fibres
as if I were ever so good a tailor.

Surgeon.

Nevermind.
Nice to just forget that anything is supposed to make sense.
Heather Butler; 2011
i love your voice.

your words sing
my heart

they fly up,
connect with my soul

you are the ink
to my pen


--bruised orange
such inspiration i draw from the words written. i always seem to find just the message i need. mysterious connections, these
and it was gone just like that

like a weight off my shoulders,
like escape from certain death,
like running away without a
worry

it was gone just like that

with a handshake,
a smile,
and five steps
out the
door

I was a new man

fresh,
reborn,
free

unknowing of what
had happened in the
mean time

it is impossible to come
back from death without
collateral

what hallow husk
am I trying to bring back
now?
Liz had hers on a Wednesday afternoon
in her car. She tells me about it over lunch;
a backseat full of groceries and halfway home,
she felt something breaking inside her,
so she drove to the lake and sat very still, waiting.

Then it happened, she says, I broke right open.
I wept, then sobbed, then wailed. There was no bottom.


She says she may have even fallen asleep, she doesn't know;
she does know that she eventually stopped crying,
that inside she felt like the fields must feel after a hard rain.

Here, she says, moving her hand to her chest, I just felt brand new again.
I'm a better wife now, she says, a better person.

Good, Liz, good, I say.

I don't tell her about that morning in the shower,
when the water warmed me but could not console me,
or how I'm no better for it.
An addict still has sense,
And if he’s wise,
Still, wisdom -

It is his will
That stands in question.
© 2011 Elephants & Coyotes
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