Summer field at rest; alive.
We stopped haying twenty-five years past.
Birds and bugs, golden rod and asters and
Worts, spiders, voles make it their home.  We mow
Once a year.

And it breaks my heart.  Good-by flowers for
Honey bees.  Cover for warblers,
Mama turkeys and broods.  Bedroom for deer.
Hidden lunch room for ground hogs
Until Jack Russell breaks their necks,

At least of the little ones.

Old hog mama requires my intervening shovel.
Otherwise she'd shred Jack's face.

                                              9/23/2012

snakes eyes again
    god damm twelve times in row
can't ever lucky me
    get a seven eleven
I had all my rent money
     riding on that
how 'bout
          for what i lost
you give me a room
           to play this silicone
blonde up a bit
              before I give you the title
to my Benz
           Or, I see you a hard *** MF
how 'bout we play
    double for nothing?

She wasn't so special.
She wasn't even that pretty, and her hair was always a mess, she had tired eyes, also her knees were too skinny and her voice was too loud. She was always in her own world never paying attention to anything I had to say, always scribbling in that notebook of hers I never got a chance to read. She laughed pretty much about anything, and had an opinion about everything, seriously.
Okay, she was that pretty. In fact, the world beautiful wouldn't bring her justice in her worst day. Her hair was a mess, that's for sure, it always fell over her face and I used to pull it back gently. And maybe she had tired eyes for staying up until the moon went to sleep waiting for my 'I'm home' text. I got to say I loved the skinniness of her knees, I remember thinking she was secure with me, that nothing wrong would ever happen to her. She was a loud person, which kind of came in handy whenever she had to stand up for herself, watching her speak up always made me proud.
She was a daydreamer, always over analizing everything, picturing different scenarios and each possible outcome. She promised she would show me that notebook, I remember she mentioned once how every thought that crossed her mind she wrote, that always fascinated me. And her laugh, man, that I could never hate, I would have done anything to hear her laugh. She always told me how having an opinion about everything made her interesting, but I knew that already, for I found her fascinating since the moment I met her.

She knew who she was and she knew what she wanted,
I wish I had figured that out before.
It's too late now.

Her hopes were like bubbles
Prancing around
Right before her eyes
Optimistically floating
Into her hands.
But just as she tried to grab onto them
pop
They burst into the reality she lived in
And was left alone
With nothing
But the residue
Of the hope she once had

For a moment
I was distracted

Books always did that to me

I liked the creamy pages
the smell of ink

all the secrets locked inside

I like books,
but do not think they like me.
They give me bad pain in my tummy.
Sometimes in my head.
Makes feel like i would like to be dead.
But I still like books.
And as my mother always says.
Eat a book a day.

No fun being a book worm.