The name that I give you,
it will become you.
It will
embody your spirit
within its syllables.
Echoes
of its shouting
will teach your feet,
the meaning
of quick.

Teach me to make beautiful.
No beauty can I find.
Search me whole.
Tell only what thoughts appear to be mine.
First comings need an exit of least disgrace.
No one wants to be kept waiting.
For then their time might never come.
Trimmed antiques in dusty lace.

Explosions rocketed themselves skyward.
They polka doted the worlds tapestry; purposeful stains.
The sun hadn’t fully set yet.
To the west the sky was warm.
And skeletons could be seen floating,
long after the sparkle and the boom had dissipated.
Like dandelions gone to seed.
The sky celebrates with us

Old man sitting class front
Plucks his twanging banjo
Singing songs about rain
Songs about this kind of day

Imagine the tough skin
Hugging his picking thumb while he strums
The music rewinds and ages
Giving rhythm to his pulls and nods

Lines escaping from a dark wrinkled cave
Hidden behind whites and grays
Growing south like so many do
Just an old man sharing his love with you

Keeping it all the same
Hum drum going nowhere
Questioning progress
Did I go anywhere today?

Or have I just returned?

Children in lust.
Riding rhythms with their stilt limbs
throwing their bodies
in a manner belonging to the young.

Youth clouds the mind
it rains out its brilliance
in the form of something
opposed from both ends.

They attach blinders to their offspring
narrowing the vision.
They pluck dreams
like nourishment from a tree.

Composted into “usefulness”
the children remain,
stubbornly concealed within
hiding  in shadows.

Stalked into listening.
A teacher preaches patience.
Will the message stick?

Looking over the edge of a cliff
is comparable to fat fingers threading a needle.
The voice in my head mocks my fears.
Licking black berries in the fall with my mother
reminds me that all that glitters isn’t gold.
I look to the clouds and jump,
whirring the whole way down.
My audience cries shake it off.
I’m dripping wet.
Tic tac?
No.
Towel.