Happy thanksgiving
Waiting for the two ten hour shifts
And two nine hour shifts
And the paycheck which means rent
And I'm sitting in this black cloth chair
Playing a game about survival
And feeling like I can't wait to survive
The next two months
And then the next year
Praying to any God that might listen
That I might live for the next ten, maybe even twenty years,
And learn all the things I've patiently been waiting
To learn.

So happy thanksgiving,
I am thankful to be alive,
But **** it,
No where vast is there true peace,
As our nation briefly rejoices in one another,
Before waking up yet again to
Chaos
And collapse.

Karma rolls around
You probably have not slaughtered any indengionous people with your own born hands
But your genetics probably have,
In some fashion,
Along the way.
This turkey day,
I urge you to rebel,
And celebrate now,
While remembering the warning screaming
Loud
We have only this,
The stewardship of nature and human empathy,
Don't let them take it away.

What's the difference,
between sunshine and rain...

Is it feelings of joy,
or is it feelings of pain...

Like the clouds in the sky,
or the coral in the sea....

Can I find that life,
with you and me....

Is it trials and tribulations,
or is the verdict already taken...

Can god show forgiveness,
or has satan only been faking...

Nothing remains,
not  one  rhizome,
stem, or hairy root

travels, shoots, or buries
itself during barren  fall;
only  impending winter

resides in my garden
this unpredictable season,
and it is waiting for spring.

Two  and one half flights up a home built
in 1899, and eight steps on a pull down
staircase,  enter an attic, upon the pine
floor are carved the words,
I hate mommy.

After  many years in the basement,
behind a green tattersall shirt,
next to a plum colored robe,
is my gray tweed sports jacket;
sadly hanging like an old man’s *******,

inside the left breast pocket rests
the funeral  program of a man
I have learned not to hate,
or to become a semblance,
and god ******, I have not;
I still have time remaining.

I left my heart in Belgium
I left it on her bed
I thought it’d fade like autumn
Wither like leaves until dead
She said she’d hold it close
Keep it warm throughout winter
She’d treat it like a rose
And bring it back as warm as fire

I sit in the park
With nothing
But a coffee and the paper
Around me are platano trees
It's fall.
And the colors glow in the sun.

Yellow, and orange, but abscent is red.
What a wonderful oddity.

I finish the paper and the coffee
Still I sit.
The bench grips my wool shirt,
Each fiber tangled in pine
The smell of the grass
Fills my lungs and makes me whole

The sun shines down on me
And promises warmth.
A fountain whispers sweetly
And I feel complete.

However.
I know the sun will go down.
The fountain turns off at nine
I've been down this road
Ten different times
And my humble aboad
Just might be better.

I sit uneasy.
But which will best?
The wooden bench and it's sweet caress?
Or my stable home where I am alone?

As a matter of fact
How did I get here?
How did I end up on this bench?
How did...

A woman in red approaches me.
"Hello" she says.

Scarlet shapes have found their resting place
among brunette , dew shined parcels
Golden rays speckle broomsage runways
through White Pine sentries
Country homes are entertaining with family
and chimney fires , wine and memories
Spice and sweet tea , pecan pie and dressing
Babes patter wooden floors , hearths crackle
Seasoned oak gently fills a candlelit banquet
A moment to gather and be thankful* ...

I am not obsessed, alright?
Obsession is an *understatement