There once was a man with a life very kind
Until he was taken away
Now he's alone with the thoughts in his mind
And he never does like what they say

His memories hurt and his dreams are so good
That it's difficult just to wake up
Because life isn't kind anymore to the man
It's easier just to give up

His days are a hole so his brain fills the time
By telling him tales of the past
It showed him the things he had done to survive
The journey to failure was fast

He'd be here forever, alone in this place
A prisoner in his own mind
He'd run far away, change his name and his face
But his captors would chase him in kind

All he had was a mind now tormented with grief
That it gave him depression and tears
He needed an out, to turn a new leaf
In order to live out the years

He scrounged up a pencil and paper as well
And then he began to write
Things of no consequence, letters and poems
In an effort to emulate flight

When the words started coming, he first couldn't tell
That he no longer felt so alone
His thoughts were too focused on what to write next
That the writing itself was his home

He wrote on the page for a day and a night
Then he folded and put it aside
In a package of paper, stuffed tight in a box
That was red with a slot in the side

A man came to get them, the pages he wrote
To see what the people would say
But nobody knew what to do with the words
So they laughed and they threw them away

He never escaped, there isn't a smile
And the end of this woe riddled tale
Just a message to leave in the hopes you'll receive
A discarded man's thoughts in the mail.

The crisp cold air
The dark night skies
The black clouds
The moon, gone
The stars, unseen
Dark
Dreary
Destitute
And yet it doesn't phase me
Because that's how it will always be
In my own world
A world without you

when you crack an egg
you could be baking
-maybe a cake, or cookies
blueberry muffins.

have you ever watched the egg when its cracked

first hit on the big glass bowl.
--a little may ooze out, the white of the egg. it gets on your hands
its annoying. but it washes off.
survivable.

the second hit maybe harder this time.
---more comes out, the shell may break off a little. that **** shell is nesting on your beautifully mixed pile of flour, sugar, and vanilla extract.
******. this time, you fish it out with a fork
disturbing what you've created.

the third hit
----the egg shell, crafted so well to protect inside,
is cracked.
everything. comes. out.
like a river the broken yolk, flows and
twists around the bowl.

and by whisking it under the surface of the all purpose flour,
you only make it more turbulent.


and you get your ******* muffins.

No matter the fondness
that distance does bring the heart,
it does not compare
to the wrath of these
not-so-frequent close encounters.

1
Susan visits May
and May gasps,
looking out the window:
Hey! Oh no –  that’s my husband
walking here with my lover!

Oh my God, exclaims Susan
that’s exactly what I’m thinking!



2
Little Tommy is outside
crying in the street
and Old Margie walks by
and she says to the crying boy:
Hey, why the tears?
And little Tommy says:
My parents are inside the house
and they are fighting.

Old Margie scratches her head
looks close
and asks: Who’s your Dad?

Oh, says Little Tommy,
*that’s what they are fighting about

If only you could see yourself the way I see you;

the air would taste bitter, every motion that

didn’t emanate a passion for you would feel

forced and every moment would be spent

on unfulfilled wishes for your attention.

The way you walk intoxicates me,

your feet moving as if you were

oblivious to your own beauty.

There’s an innocence to you

that I want to burn away;

I want to kiss that smile

until it has meaning, to

hold that body until it

realizes what it can

do. Your curves

are equations

that I plot

in my

mind, your

eyes are dreams

I’ve held on to for

years. Your touch is

locked away under the

oldest memory I have,

a vault that I visit

when I need to

remember that

there is good

in this world;

that you are still

here, not for

me, but here

nonetheless.

He is thunder.
His laughter booming. You hear him laugh and you want to know the joke. He is hi-fives and gum and lucky pennies and songs and light and stars and dreams.

She is lighting.
She extraordinarily radiating. Lose her and you'll miss her. But catch her and you will never regret waiting to take that picture. She is pinky promises and chocolate and rain and sunsets and kisses and sand.

They are the definition of imperfectly amazing.  They are reason for Friday. They are old photographs with memories brimming at the edge. They are bonfires and hands fitting together like two long lost puzzle pieces finally reunited.

They are often mistaken

They are usually  forgotten

They are moments, they are time.

They are you, they are me

They are **us.