Remember when you told me you forgot your middle name.
And that you didn't remember if you even had one.
That your parents weren't particularly religious; that they forgot God.
And that you've been forgetful lately.
You couldn't
remember
the last time you picked flowers.
Or a president.
Or shot a gun.
Or put a flower in a gun.
And that Vietnam was like Iraq.
And France would bring WWIII.
"What's my middle name?"
You asked.
"Where's the Middle East?"

"Didn't the nukes dropped in the Nevada desert sand create glass?"

"How many windows does this room have? Can you see?"

"The eyes are the windows to the soul."

My eyes feel old
Is what my grandmother would say
when she was tired.
She would play solitaire.
After each game she would
shuffle the deck three ways.
I would always mix them up
scattered on the tabletop.
That's what I remember
from the sixties.

The firewood kept beside the fence post was soggy, surly was the evening weather, and Mother Nature was redefining the word torrential

A drop to the eye, rendering it senseless. On one side of the spectrum, a crystal or a rock comes from dirt. Although that other side, the side of the spectrum that enlightens by color. A yellow or a blue or a red are useful.

So by that exploitation will become the
puzzle pieces of which the artist creates. Imagine having a thought cross and be ignored. Saying that, maybe the Earth isn't flat, and maybe a Christmas card is not as commercial as it is ceremonial.

Perception is one side to say, but the gentleman pouring gasoline on a fire is far from the man asking for a drink shaken, not stirred.

When the fire becomes everlasting, water will not quench a thirst for destruction, and that is because there has never been an accident that could ever be everlasting.

The man that knows that does not exit the house with a helmet. He simply raises the proverbial glass and swallows what is in front of him. At times the end brings a sweetness.

The only other times are consumed with a bitterness. One that an artist knows as he takes his shot of whiskey, but not of the man that is readily available to set himself on fire.

That is a drop of rain on your tongue. At the beginning it is too fragile to become a warning, but at the end it is what separates lands and lives. That is why saltwater and tears aren't that much different.

December
The month of
nameless living.
Darkness so thick
it blinds your eyes
and fills your mouth
like a pillow smothering
your face;
like a swollen tongue
so large,
you can no longer breathe.

The month of
Pain so deep
it became it’s own
brand,
seared deep into
faded, grey flesh.