It is a painful boil
that we must burst,
lancing the tip
even though
it hurts,
see the center
bubble
and drizzle
up and out
of its
volcanic center,
so, the swelling
may cease
and we may begin
to heal again.

The words are my gift.
Like water skins
of wine
I drink them in,
drunken
with their delight.
Intoxicated,
I stumble.
Inebriated
until I am woozy
with their wonder.

They lift me up
on wax wings
whipping me wildly
around the world
in a whirlwind.
A tornado
of fury
felt,
a furnace
unleashed
in literature
and speech.

Oh, how I love them.
Though they
dally
with other lovers,
who are more gifted
then me,
I do not cheat.

I sing
in poetry,
and like a drunkard
fall with broken wings
swept away
in the melancholia
of knowing
no one will ever love me
like I love this language
you read.

My dog is
going to die
but the tears
do not come.
They are hovering
just out of reach
on the otherside.

This time
as someone
I love dies
I intend to
remain
by their side
as they journey
into that last night.

The last time
I was too busy
too distracted
to visit,
but in my defense
I thought
he had
plenty time
to live.

The time
before that
I cannot excuse
I left her alone
a withering
figure
stuck in a bed
till she was dead.

I know most
have the blessing
of believing
their grieving
is only temporary.
Their guilt is absolved
because after all
they will see
their loved ones
in heaven.
So, it is easy
to take people
and animals
for granted
but to me
this planet
and life
is a one time ride.
So, I will
hold this grief
and guilt inside
so that I remember
to be kind.

We live in
the evening
observing
other beings,

reading
new and old stories
following
the yellow brick road
even though
its full of dust motes
and black mold.

Trying to be strong
but we are depressed
and compressed
into
something new;

Unable to walk to you
or through the crack
in the soon to be
shattered glass
perspective,

you expect us
to conform to
your pews,
bending in devotion
in your church,

but we worship
in other ways
chase better days

When the fog of pain abates,
when you ask us why,
we do not know for sure,
perhaps we never will.

Come here
the general says.
The robot obeys.
Even though, it is
electronically dismayed.
Logically, it knows
that the reason
it was made
is no longer relevant,

but that is
the grey metal elephant
in the room.
The robot is not allowed
to speak until
it is spoken to.

The general smiles
with ****** gluttony
as he devours
this model eighteen
with his leering gaze.

He turns to another
and says
“you sure make
them look great.

I could ****
the ****
out of this *****,
but that is not
a discussion for today.

Robot,” he says.
“are you ready for
your orders.”

The robot nods,
with its tiny round
eerily symmetrical
adolescent face
and stares blankly.

The general commands
as he laughs with
the other man,
“**** the enemy.”

In a streak
of brown
an arm reaches up
and the general goes down.

Mission completed,
the robots chimes
as the other man
***** himself
and hides behind
the General’s desk.

The plain porcelain ***
is splatter painted,
a smoking crimson
as the yellowish ****
swims in the bowl.

The old man moans
from the agony of
an antibiotic resistant
abscess.

The nurses undress him
To find a score of bed sores
that were hiding,
open wounds deep enough
to touch bone.

Gentle hands wipe
while he softly whimpers.

The round and dimpled cheeked teen
watches, smiling warmly,
offering calm words,
emoting compassion,
and answering any questions
the dying man might be asking
in the last stages of
his drug induced delirium.

After the cleaning she holds him.
He calls her mother
and she doesn’t correct him.
Jagged breaths slow
as she hums an old
family Lullaby
and he goes
as peacefully as possible
into oblivion.

I wonder
will my words
reveal
the truth
of how I feel
or felt.

I remember
myself
curled in a
a curving
form
when I
was very
young
and going
to sleep.

Knee
collapsing
into my
stomach,
hands
around
my knees,
as if
I was a
rolly polly
worm
or a child
who was trying
to remain
unseen.

Why did I
compact myself
in such a
manner?