Here, and over here -
The fortunate sons

Those who made it home
To fields and hills of native tongue
In the soil their people toiled
- They listen quietly when we come


There, and over there -
Beneath crossed lines too many

Still - they man the trenches
Along the Marne and Somme
Below the woods of Belleau
And the forest of Argonne

No sonnets in a foreign language
Rendered where they languish -
The distant rest far and away
In a cold November grave


We should remember
Here and there
The old lie -

And the young.

r ~ 11/11/14

Here it goes again.
Another poem to describe how useless I am.
How tattered my soul is.
How my brain resembles my hands,
callused, numb, and broken dry skin.
I'm a terrible person.
Self indulgent and full of sin.

And here it goes again.
In the mirror I see nothing.
A big steaming pile of nothing.
Full of wasted dreams, 'what ifs' and 'one days.'
The **** that I write never comes out right.
The **** that I dream is just that:
a big steaming pile of nothing.

Here it goes again.
As if I am something.
But I can't get past how useless I am.
A speck in this cosmic dust cloud.
And here I go again, thinking I am a tornado.
How I will crush your dream home
and leave behind a big steaming pile of debris.

Here I go again,
thinking I am nothing.
When really, I am something.
I am a speck in this cosmic cloud,
without me that tornado wouldn't be.

(the waiting room)

these magazines do nothing to help
as I flip through the empty pages
ringing commotion of the phone
in my mind, a war still rages


(this will only hurt for a minute)

this isn't home
the couch seems so *****
from the sifting comb
from words not worthy


(doctor do little will see you now)

have a seat, lay back, and relax
tell me about your panic attacks
I know you better than you know yourself
and my money even comes in stacks

(analyze but do not treat)

what does this ink blotch look like?
...a ****** ink blotch!

how does this make you feel?
how does that make you feel?
...inadequate!


(anger management)

when you get angry
just scream into a pillow
or talk to this puppet...

(and I'm the one who is crazy?)

please see cashier on your way out

Tracing the patterns
                       of the stars
          Onto the peaks
    and ridges
                      of your spine
Seeing
        the galaxies
                    and universes
       Of all those
                   trillions,
          I only want
              YOU
      to be *mine

I got a taste
Of your absence
From my life
When I woke up
With my eyes wet
And hands clenched
Visions of your leaving
Swirling in my head
I became stone
And not one part of me
Wanted to move
Afraid I may crack
But only after
I fought through the
Haze of last night
I realize I was only dreaming
My heart is removed
From the guillotine
And relief washes
Over my stiff body
Oh deary, this isn't
The first time
My dreams have
Pained me like this

i still straddle the fence on this
immigration reform manifesto

i see both sides of the story

it's good to have the grandfather clause
for the immigrants in my bloodstream

- the scrappy scots-irish-ingles-welsh
in me - but too late for the cherokee

behind the old fences of history.

r ~ 11/9/14

2am. Swollen eyes. Sober hearts.

“I think I might be in love with you” said a boy with fire in his lungs

“You shouldn’t be” I said with disgust in my tongue

3am. Bloodshot eyes. Drunken hearts.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

“Why not?” is all he could ask

“I don’t what to get burned every time my eyes meet yours,“ and I finally wore my mask