Side mirror lament
Blinking back the past again
Red bandana tears

I watched her image
I wondered as she talked on the phone
How old must a woman be
To want to live alone?

Forgotten wander
Thoughts that became some other
Another blank page

There are no buttons to push
I am not someone to read
My emotions are not random
But you will never know my need

Rush inspiration
Ego-infested display
Compromised poem

In the yearning for respect
Creation becomes a means to an end
The irony emerges
In thoughts I cannot defend

Watching my children
Oblivious to discord
Reaching for Daddy

In spite of all the hate
I have become nostalgic
They are happy
Leaving worked its magic

Hard work is a gift
For yourself every day
Slumber not want not*

It’s what I do
It’s not greed
It’s all for them
That is why I bleed

The photo reminded her of bruised fruit. Well first and foremost:fruit.
Her body, curled around itself, sheltering the fibrous crunchy pit of her, her body white and frayed looking, rounded buttock, calf gently sloping, feet modest, willowy toes toenails like shale
face blurred, questionable dark spots where her eyes could have been. they closed as the shudder buckled, her mouth sagged open, lip lolling to one side, brow ancient furrowed like folds of sand nudged by a lazy tide.  None of it concise, only guessing. Her knees brought up, squeezed against small  
crunch-able chest. Full, heavy with pulp (stringy sweet, what snags on the teeth) but what if it were to fall from an appreciable height? Filmy is the flesh. Daring the looker to look closer, see what mite be hidden there.
Ripe:questionable. Sweet like nothing, pouring from the corners of a mouth: what a bite it would be.
That first bite.
The bruising comes in when she thinks of the brain beneath, that open, limitless figure so pale and forefront and brimming with intent, so crush-able with careless fist, so lovable with thirsty mouth. But what of the mind that put her before you, that turned her vulnerable, shameless, open for discussion?
Put her before you. naked.

Walking in place,
each step, an embrace:
my toes, to the floor,
then heel; once more.
Not forward nor back,
extension, contract:
changing position,
persistent, the stiction.
The weight of the floor,
a shiftable platform
below me, it mocks;
consistent, the clock.
Keeping time, keeping beat,
never complete.
Inside me, the race,
quicker than pace.
Inside me, the surge,
more to discourage:
pumping, through, and again
like steps, now and then.
Forward, though same,
it is here i remain.

The smell of tires and overheated air hits us like confetti pieces as if we've just won the Superbowl.

This is how I choose to remember you.

This was the beginning to our "adventures", hours lost aimlessly wandering down aisles. The list mom wrote, neatly tucked away in the bottom of one of our pockets, whoever she deemed more responsible that day.

Our bellied laughs would bellow clear over the bird feeders, past the flannel lined jeans, and beyond the orange slice candies.

We taught ourselves a new language. One when spoken, always accompanied with a flimsy tongue. One when spoken to anyone but you was just babble.

In this place, we found life without a limit. One where dancing among the Harley Davison vests was acceptable. One where testing the army surplus metal helmets only seemed logical.

We found a place where you didn't have to grow up, time stopped.

For us, we found a place that created equals of us.

These memories, like words stored in dictionaries, are stored in the pages of my mind. On lonely days I visit them, flipping pages, finding your voice, your smile and your silly dance. They echo off the walls of my memories.
                                 and when I open my mouth to echo back it sounds like this :


                                                             ­   Fli
                                                          ­                  Flove
                                                                ­                                Flou