Your family home
has been sold
to the cultured,
the old vultures
feeding on the garden
thick with rabbits
and your father's dead
daughters, you sleep
in a pickup, tired
of work near the water,
fond of the instant,
you travel through
the country you know,
farm long forgotten,
the word free written
in red ******* your arm.

All of life,
everything we shall ever know
is found within the gardens

Pulling weeds and the cover crop
*** them under or pulling them up
I never remember

The soil crumbling between my fingers
Perfect for planting
All is hope and promises

The gardens are a cycle
You've have to add excrement to begin again

The seeds are sewn, the starts transplanted
Water slightly pooled, dripping down into
the rich dark soil
A red worm winds its way down
Life begins again
Vulnerable

The  light of the sun, so warming
Cosmic love radiated our way
Life is an urge, it finds its way

The lettuce, the tomatoes, the zucchini, the artichoke, the cauliflower, the raspberries,
a blue berry or two
Medicinal herbs, oregano, cilantro, too

Fruitful youth
A flower is a plant with a hardon
The juices running right down my face
Taste
Nourishment

It feels like total summer forever
But football and school come every September

The days get shorter
The plants turn yellow and brown
Outgrow themselves
Wither and die

Purgatory lives,
along come the cover crops and weeds
In winter all just try to survive

The garden know its limits
It knows what being is all about
All of life, everything we shall ever know
Is found within the gardens.

this is for those girls whose hearts are shattered
like window glass and broken mirrors,
whose spirit has twinkled only to a whisper of contempt.
this is for the girls whose mind are lost,
whose minds are warped into some fantasy of what they really need,
the love they’ve needed all along.
this is for the girls who’s lost their way in the world,
who knows not the path that was destined for them so
takes them all in due time.
this is for the girls who hears the words, “it's not your fault, it's going to be okay. You just need some time to yourself for a while.” countless and countless of times,
over and over again because it's a “need to a troubled soul” .
this is for the girls who have been let down and
have been told to just move on and deal with it for your countless years.
this is for the girls who have been judged, persecuted and called out of character
for years because of appearance and different mind thinking,
for being the female that go over boundaries and takes risks.
this is for the girls whose mother cares more about appearance and titles,
then feelings and real emotion and love,
who only cares how your actions reflect her and her family,
who only sees you as what she sees or what her friends have told her
When in reality, you've never done what she thinks you're doing,
you are just being you.

this is for the girls who need someone, someone who can understand them and love them,
someone who wont look back at their past and judge them heavily for something that cant be changed and hasnt changed a thing in that girl’s life.
this love letter is for the girls like me, and you, and you,
for every lonely girl that has a broken heart and more,
for the girls who has no one and no one wants her,
for the girls who give more love to one than they’ve ever gotten in there lifetime.
broken hearted girls.

our breath is numbered.
take it deeply, count to three
one less we can hold.

it's nothing glamorous.
there's nothing pretty here.
when you're a poet words
pour from your pores and your belly
turns hard.
muscles tighten, bones chip
(and you often get mad instances
of carpal tunnel)
pounding syllable upon syllable
at the punching bag before you.
an empty screen.
a yellow notepad.
you pound and pound until there's nothing
left.  nothing for fanfare
nothing for friends
or publishing
or shares or notes.
the words cake on your skin
and wash away
but you sweat them out again.
you've taken up the task of
solving the world's problems
when you first set out just to write
something nice for your girlfriend.
trust me, man,
this is a loser's game.
there's nothing pretty here.

looking at the lessons I've learned
chasing dragonflies, collecting mud between toes
like the mushed crust of the earth,
falling in and out of love like rivers
there was no definite answer.
there was the spirit of wisdom
without wisdom
and a cyclical flow of endings
where buds never blossomed.
but still they're here with me
being and not being
in the back of my mind
and the tips of my toes.

blank.
inviting intimidating
I've neglected poetry,
left it in a cat-**** basement.
it hasn't eaten in weeks.
dehydrated
dessicated
burrowing thru
gossamer and cerebellum
with a wooden spoon.
it escaped thru my mouth today
getting back into phosphorescent
sunlight.  
malnourished, weak
but fighting.
of all the things I've learned
from poetry
it's how to fight back.