who'd have the salt to
pour over a wound,
cleansing the edges
and the in between but,
I am thinking tears would
have been more gentle
and still clean these wounds,

but there is that hover,
of a possessive lover,
standing over the para-
lyzed form, docile and with
a mixed bag of contorted
postures, and your phone/
camera takes pictures
and videos just like a drone

from above,

it hovers,
in my worst dreams,
we are lovers and i scream,
not in passion or ******,
but you began twisting
and plucking all
your perfectly placed tacks,

I guess, at this juncture,
that book on acupuncture
was worth the weight,
in flesh,
and still you hover as
I stream consciousness
on my mattress that feels
like a dry rocky creek bed,
and over my four poster bed
a black crow hovers
and the beak resembles
your nose, so please as
I sleep let me wake with
my ugly toes, and my covers
intact and no lover hovering in my
room, and no betrothal to Groom.

Each step a chaotic stride,
takes years of practice,
that rhythm,
Changes as we grow into our frames
takes miles of movement,
that motion,
Walking become faster and to running,
arms pumping, lungs bursting
oh what fun,
To taste the effort, stay the course
getting faster, longer lasting
nuances hidden,
Improvements that only you notice
slowly, until one day, it is plain,
your finesse,

goes beyond running.

tolerance
for the plain
boredom hurts
watching grass grow to become clouds

nagging nerves
poke, poke, poke
never give it a rest in peace
will it hurt the next time, or be gone away

invisible even
under scrutiny
lying in wait
pain that moves like moss gathering

building like thunder
striking like lightening

mercy

The streets aren't empty,
the asphalt bare and broken,
CRACKED,
last night's late night lost,
wandered pushing shopping carts
Always Uphill,
or drove vehicles in an altered state
to spite the spate of heavy handed
darkness, that has fallen,

dripping with tears and fallen stars.

the carts they push
bear their baggage
where
recent and ancient
traditions, of if
you find it is yours,
if it fits in the cart
it is yours,
if no one else
takes it from
you,
it is yours...

it is all yours
the ticks of the clock that talk,
while running silent while running digital,

the cars that drive are
great big bubbles of
inattention, what comes,
goes, arriving as it leaves,
like bad grammar,
everyone notices, but dare not correct,
for the mage of road rage, casts
a spell of ill-temper,
shot by bullets for this temper,
on a hot August afternoon.

Looking forward to see if September Sundays, will be sombre or sobering...