Bread, avoacado,
bacon, lettuce, tomato.
Turkey, and the bread again.

A song that makes you feel nostalgic is playing in the grocery store
you pick through green apples, mushrooms, & cilantro,
absorbing sadness like a dry sponge in a soap bowl.

You wish to mourn, but not in front of strangers so
you carry this knot in your throat, like grocery bags, all the way home.

You've been so quiet for days and after a drink you feel like spilling,
You tell your brother that the moon smells like gunpowder and
about that thing you did in middle school that still makes you cringe.

your last cigarette has reached the filter.
You panic, you feel this is the only way anyone will listen.

There is a small town in Alaska being swallowed by the sea,
the article reads, “Villagers fight to save drowning city…”

You too fight a futile fight against the ocean;
You know the feeling of flailing toes in search of solid ground.

Whenever you get too scared you think about
hang drying, clean, white sheets in an open field.

You don't know why, but it always calms you.

Elliott reads aloud from some adventure book, I take over when his eyes are tired.
Luna is in the bath again, she’s a mermaid this week.
Jeremy works from home, his eyes dart back and forth, across computer screens.
If you weren’t watching the news, one could mistaken this merely as reverence for the mundane.
I turn off the news, and feel guilty for wanting to look away, I turn it back on again.
I did nothing to deserve the safety of my home, with the people I love.
I am reminded of the day the second Iraq war started,
we watched from our couch.
Black and white images of falling bombs flooding our screens,
our youngest brother weeping in my mother’s chest.
We all held him and assured him that it was happening somewhere far away,
that it was happening in someone else’s house, not our own.
I wanted to cry then, but I thought I was too old,
Sometimes I want to cry now, but I’m even older.
The neighbor’s dog howls all day long.
The kids run, laughing maniacally, from living-room,
to bedroom, and back again.
They are unencumbered by the chaos that remains unseen/unfelt in our home
I am grateful for that.

Grabbing on to the thin cigarette trees
we’d take the steep path down to the creek,
sat on that freckled stone while catching our breath,
we could hear trains in the distance,
you’d imitate them, the whistles, and hisses.
I’d throw my head back in laughter, and wait for an echo.
As a teen, you would imagine the trains arrived
to pick up the lucky, who found their way out.
I asked you if you ever considered
that maybe those trains brought the broken back home as well.
You didn’t understand then.
Today I imagine you, small suitcase, heavy heart,
on the train to inspect what is left of that beautiful, big, old house,
I see you mentally sorting through what remains;
Maybe the smooth rocks, plucked from the creek,
by a child who wanted nothing but to leave,
and today could not possibly come back home.
California is on fire.
the sky is blood orange,
the sky is Big Stick red,
the sky is end of the world blue.
The woman on the news informs me it’s fire season,
and we’ve yet to reach its peak.
I become increasingly annoyed
as she refers to herself as "on the frontlines"
while standing in the parking lot of a Wendy’s,
in heels, and a short dress,
knowing nothing of what you have lost.

When society is crumbling,
and you start mumbling,
angry ogre type grumbling,
whilst you walk a little stumbling,
let me tell you just one thing
you got a friend in me.

This pandemic has given me free
license to engage in my unabashedly
introverted ways and not feel like
I’m a complete *******.  
In fact, I get to feel really good since
I’m still working, and I can justify
my nonexistent social life
by saying That I’m protecting my friends
by not going out and visiting them.

Pain is all around us.
Everyone wears its
hellish weight.

Some days they may smile
but other days you will see
the tears that stain faces plain,
as figures fall like drops of rain
succumbing to a tragic view.

Society will crumble
come crashing to ground,
and in the years to come
only ashes will be found.

The human doesn’t live here,
Emotions don’t appear clear.
Everything he is feeling,
is off like a robot alien.

Confusion is the normal.
Uncertainty, totally natural.
Calamity may come to me
but what he sees is destiny.

Every day he’s learning,
trying to understand,
why what he is feeling
makes him feel more
machine than man.

They never let you go.
They keep you encumbered
identified and numbered
classified and moving slow,

while a big bad beast barrels fast behind,
terrible trouble hunting to find
the tasty morsel that is you.

Sleep deprived you still try
to run and hide to survive.

But you left deep imprints,
so easy to track and that
was their sick intent.

Set up to be a sacrifice
so, they can stay alive,
you succumb
become cold and numb
then end up being
dinner for the dark thing
that was pursuing you
and every other human being.

He lets it get darker.
As each sin begins
to cave in his skin,
he feels the death
of another friend.
Then the passing
of treasured kin.

The ground collapses
and he descends
to face the final
stage,
and rage against
that awful fate.

Streetlights go dim,
and a warm wind
starts chillin.

The sidewalks cracks,
and after that
the sounds of animal paws
and raven caws
ceases.

People stop speaking,
and he starts seeking
any redemption
to prevent him
from facing
that creepy sleep thing.

Not a bright light
or a dark scythe
cloaked guy
flies by.

It is just a light drip
like a leaking drain
with no pain
that that slows him
down.

The chasm calls,
blackish blue
and glittering pool
of infinite reflection.

The liquid is cool
as he slips and falls in
not quite drowning
but losing the outer edges
of conscious thought.

Foot, then up to his knee,
and he can see
sparkles firing lines
of lightning
sparking then fading,

Up to his but
then pass his gut
as each little light dies.

Lead heavy eyes
still crack red and dry,
as the murky water
gently summons him
to fall in.

One last breath,
then his mouth and nose
goes under as well,
followed by his hazel eyes,
and ***** brown hair.

The he sinks
no more thoughts to think
after he drinks
a little bit of this liquid,
and ceases to respire.
Instead, he expires
and his body
falls slowly disintegrating
in the space of eternity

The space bound
non-painted clown
acts like he is
on fire waiting
to back down
from the fight
he hasn’t found.

He is seduced
by the lies he uses,
for the art he confuses
with truths.

Paints reds and blues,
with pink petal hues
and terrible tints
that don’t compliment
him or any artistic endeavor.

Still, he believes he is as clever
as any other creative.