The lift is a truly marvellous creation
It moves people via elevation.

i am a sheet of white paper
very light and sacred
and you are the pen
full of some untold stories
you know that paper and pen are meant to be together
so i gave you all my body and soul
for you

I twist and turn your wheel like a man possessed.
Stamping on the brake
Stomping on the gas!
Turn that lever
Honk that horn
Get me there quick!
You growl back at me!
But then comes the affection
I maintain you.
I polish you and give air to your tyres.

Keep going we will get to the finish line together!

When I look in the mirror
I close my eyes sometimes
And when I open them...

I'm still here.

I have a hat
Ugly but I treasure it
Given to me by an old friend
It wear it almost everywhere
It means something I truely care
I've been told throw it out
Makes me love it more
It's my hat I wear when I coach
Been through so much together
We grow old together
Like a hermit crab shell
Its a perfect fit
I might wear a new hat
But the old feels like home

Have you ever left a kettle on the stove?

Eventually the water inside will boil.
The steam rises
Triggering a whistle
Subtle at first,
Just to signal your attention.
But sometimes we don’t listen.

The whistle is an alert from the kettle.
It’s only way to communicate.
To say “I’m ready."
“I’ve finished what you started.”
“I’ve made exactly what you wanted.”

Now where are you?
You left me here,
On a black top stove,
Unattended with hot blue flames,
And the heat rising to place I can't take for much longer.

The longer you keep me here
The more I become solidified in my fears.

I will be abandoned.
I am unworthy of your attention.

The message is internalized
Until it becomes the only tape
I hear and play.
I search for the button,
but can't find ERASE.

Some days I feel like a kettle
Left on the stove.

At first I whisper a whistle,
Then wait a little.

When no one comes around,
I whistle just a little louder.

The volume continues to increase,
Until I’m taken off the heat.

All this time I was ready,
The way I was suppose to be

The first time you insisted I make tea.
Or coffee..
Or whatever you need…

I suddenly become handy,
In times you need me.

I am gentle until I reach
A point where I scream.

Then you call me crazy,
Say i’m making a scene.

Overreacting.
Turning a spill into a sea.

What kills me the most is your inconsistency.
The lack of predictably for your return.

Disregarding my time and my feelings.

How much water can a kettle hold, you think?

Your distorted idea
To the amount much patience I carry.

Measure it please:

A bounty?
A hole miles deep??
An infinite washing machine???
Capable of endless cycling????

You only run my energy.

If you didn’t know this already,
The water inside the kettle evaporates eventually.

Steams itself dry
Until nothing is remains
But an empty kettle,
A bottom burned ***,
And a stove left on.

I only have a few ounces left.

I am about to drain out,
I have nothing left to replace myself.

After this happens,
There are no second chances.

You've had all you're tries,
and you've taken you're time.

It will only be a matter of time
Until the last thing you hear, is a faint cry.

fast, sharp and deadly
watch out for its biting jaws
victims cut in half

Box fresh protectors.
How can 2 items take such a pounding day in day out?
My feet are safe in their leather enclosures.
Bound up like 2 Egyptian mummies.

sunlit lamp shade--
cat naps carry on while
politicians roar

Sinking
down on the couch
the next day,
feeling upholstery,
up and down
rubbing the betweens
and insides of the crevices,
the faux leather,
cracked and brown.
The dust bunnies
the old gum
and nickels
are all that I find
left over
after we made love final
between cheap
flower-print throw pillows.

Close it.

I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to get hit by a Mercedes.
I want to get run over by a Porsche.
Something big.
I want to get smeared against the pavement
by a Cadillac Escalade.
I want to get hit by one of those big *******
who drag gasoline across the continent,
but I want the driver to be a manic psychopath.
I want him to stalk me on the sidewalk
and then run me over slowly.
He's not any coward, not like those bald patriarchal
Corvette drivers in polo shirts tucked into khakis.
No, he's a great fat man, a hairy beast with
a crooked stare that slows the pulse on impact.
I want the police to cringe or get scared interrogating him,
and haul his truck somewhere to be inspected.
I want the price of gas in nearby areas to go up
by at least fifteen cents for two weeks.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to roll over the windshield,
and drag under the bottom for about ten yards.
I want to separate at the middle and leave organs on his
left side view mirror and hanging on his hood ornament.
I want to seep blood deep into his car,
and when he turns on his heat,
he'll smell my blood full blast in his face
burning.
I want to wreck the car inside and out.
I want to get hit by a car with a McCain sticker on the bumper.
I don't want to get hit by some middle class Ford or Honda,
or someone's ****-level Chevy or beat up jalopy.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want the driver to make his tires scream like banshees,
and leave four long streaks of rotten burned rubber on the asphalt.
I want him to step out in business attire, and gasp, inwardly.
I want to flip off the sky, because my aim is bad,
and call him a coward for hitting the brakes.
I want him to think,
"What did I do?
Is he Okay?
What am I going to do?
What if I lose my license?
How will I get to work?
How will I pay for this.
Does my insurance cover
vehicular manslaughter?
I'm not alone right?
I'll get through this.
I'll survive.
I'll just be another statistic.
That's all."