We are in a sad state. The fires never wane and the smoke left to choke us, in our sleep, are out of control, suffocating. She was bleeding, wrestling with karma and the boogie man. Both are human, afterall; you can tell by all their naughty vices.

Letting his virtues go astray,

Bob

when you sing,
you want it to bloom out of the garden
in your bones and out of your heart,
and you want it to be like
you were thirteen again and you had blooming
sunshine in your face

you scaled trees, climbed rocks
skinned your knees
wild and as brazen as the first kiss you
stole from some girl
spattered freckles on her face
you counted with your lips
(you got to 14)

erected a monument
out of your garden but it was bare
your bones,
dried husks

who can pull you out of that water?
i can't...
neither can she...

It takes all types
to consume it
as though you
could sip this cold rage
brimming
does it render me to
rise above the madness
their petty little cuts
or do I gently sit
inside the calm and pray
for pragmitism
it has left
their souls willfully
I know the sound of what
wasp music makes
and it comes painted in
fraudulent gold.