In the distance I can hear the preacher man scream Gospel verses to the patrons with ears tried enough to listen.

On this table I meet one hundred ants who didn't know the end would come sooner than expected
Some survivors mourn the table cloth body count.
Others trample on without worry.

Forgive them Father, they know not what they do

Forgive them Mother, they lost fathers and mothers too

The struggle comes not from death but the belief that your fate is greater than the fallen before you.

I watch this congregation.
Hear the prayers of those still struggling to find the most peaceful way to apologize.

And it all stops.
At this time I wonder if heaven can be folded up and shaken out this easily.
If angels ever feel their wings begin to fall this fast.

I'm writing off short poems

how much joy can be contained in 10 words
what kind of grief accepts a Chrysanthemum

the day pain graces this flesh and is reprimanded in 5 concise words, I will tweet my autobiography

Oh how the Mockingjays will echo

i'll pluck poetry
from the flowerbeds to read.
you are not alone.

We seem to think that being hurt is an option
That we can close people out and take the weapons from them
But being human means that we must love easily
Without worry of those who may not see
The weakness evident in trying to beat
The humanity
Out of those who stand
For in a land of hate, love is strength
And in the midst of uncaring
It is those who know they will be hurt
Yet still weep with those who are weeping
And stand for those who are kneeling
They are the ones who will be strong enough
To still be caring when the tides come
Who will maintain their humanity when it seems hope is gone
For those are the ones who know the price of love.

I wish the traveling circus were still around to run away to. It's not about being afraid to leave as much as it is needing a place to go. But my father was a mountain and my mother was a hole. And we're caves, mouths open and full of the cold. Been sitting so long myths have been made about the things that live inside us. The children come on dares to look in there. And yell in fear, at first only to have those sounds echo back. Then they laugh. There was never anything to be afraid of. Our bodies are full of that noise. Mostly the laughter. It lasts longer. It feels better. But is easier to forget because no one ever learned anything by laughing as much as being brave. You have to be scared to be brave. And moving from this place takes the strength of an earthquake sometimes. But you should know, your hands will never be big enough to hold all the rubble when the mountain crumbles. I remember when the cancer hit. The chest x rays from when they removed the portocath. Backlit, your chest resembles a busted cemetery gate from some ghost scene in a Sherlock Holmes movie. Broken. From letting all your ghosts go. And don't focus on all the things your hands can't hold. Your head fits just fine. Your hand. Cupped over your mouth to catch all your sighs. Can hold a cup of coffee to give to someone. Flowers. A poem. Tonight. Tonight you realize you're a mountain twice removed. A marble statue. So strong and so beautiful people will come a long ways just to see you.