Sea today is a blue welcoming
but she is not true;
her icy waters would claim your all;
and wash you up dead on some unknown shore

Live like you
Do when you

Have little even
When you

Don't and you
Never will

self

is what I hold
when holding
that

thought

-

as I await
the cyclical
study
of your

poverty

have this friend
says
he’s still
inside

the dryer
had me

burned

-

I have seen
already
my mother
before

she dies

-

because the thing
is a thing
made of wood
father

as if he’s not held
a crowbar

enters

as if
it’s god’s
dark

the night

-

it is mom
the sound
mom

hears

-

if you could take
one paw

from my dog
and replace it

with a hand

which paw, whose hand…

I cannot swim without water
and I cannot breathe
if you will not let me
I will have said something
when you have been listening
and I will always be
the quiet storm of my own horizon

two moons, but still
the night is dark-
wild dogs bark at a sky
that I don't understand

there's a tent revival
down by the river-
preacher duane says the light
from the reflection
will be good for the soul

I don't want to go, momma
I don't want to go

two moons are confusing
though the sound is soothing
as it shines through my radio

wild dogs are barking-
my head is swimming-
at the river they're gathering-
and the people are singing-
and the preacher is praying-
and the light is reflecting-

I don't want to go, momma
I don't want to go

I see two moons,
momma...

two moons.

r ~ 8/27/14

I've always said that the older
The soul, the fewer times

The three ugly words
"What about me?"

Have been uttered from
The mouth it possesses.

I wish I could oil the gears
Of your self worth with my

Every drop of compassion,
But this sudden flash of coldness

In my gut is that of a factory
Owner worrying ever so slightly

About a new sound in old
Machinery within the bowels

Of the buried bunker where they
Manifacture my every set

Of
Sympathies.

your sadness ran as a midday special on nailgun accidents in my area.

if I stay in one place, my mother will die of sleep.

ideally, it’s the image I have of realism.

Did he know
For one moment
At all
Among flash and bang
And flaring flame
That his soul
Had lost its tenuous
Hold that gripped
Upon the cliffs of life
Or did he just slide
As body falls
Into dark of night?

today all is being washed
and quenched thirst;
by the falling clouds