Magic tears, any time,
anytime an old man can share, some
subtle sense that the kids are alright,

life makes sense, over a span,
of three generations, over lapping,
-mindtimespace pre-excavated
bubbles of happy old men
center the evolving sequence
sheltering open minds and soft hearts
being there, inbetween what's coming down
stirring quantum foam
into active magic surficant

applied with sticky gnosisnot
as hot tar on a roof, or thatching,
all in steady ready peace,
occurrence-easy, expanding
at will, becoming as aha at once
as all zeitgeist guests do,
pop
a grand parent bubble, winking
at each,
defined as one of a kind,
no two alike, and, as a matter of fact,
making your heaven
on earth like mine

would cost you the hell I paid, and
there's no need, things, we agree,

you, dear reader, and I, a we, of some
notion once given thought to float on,

after taking a famous great notion,
to jump in the ocean and drown, done

and proceeding to drown, down, down
I lived
to tell, I decided
climbing out from
depths of angst, actual wrong thinking,
twisted proverbs, and jokes with no story.

Nuns or skunks… what's black and
white, and black and white, and
black, and white…. rolling down a hill,

or it could be cop suvs, too.
Right,
Or a yen yank thang. right.
- the route from the bus stop
- blind milk horse, what did you say?

I was paying no attention,
then smallest, though not youngest,
granddaughter finishes,

Magic tears, are when you see
another person cry, and you cry, too.

Grandpa said, yeah, that's a gift,
like a subtle super power.

She said, yes, she knows.

Before:
Popping pills, crying over repulsing choices, murdering any feelings of remorse. Despising the conditions of living, conditionally adoring whatever roommate existed at the time. Breaking the vows I took with myself. Listening to the echos of my demons in the walls and windows. My curtains cover all responsibility to world and allow me to be miserable, which I’m impeccably grateful for. Terrified, of what will happen next. Whether it be death, overdose, or psychiatric institutionalization, I don’t want it to happen.
During:
I gave my friend $40 worth of ****, for 10, 25mg Adderall XR pills. I got home and started breaking them apart. I was separating the casing from the stimulant part (small beads to snort.) I then smoked 2 blunts and downed 8 key-sized scoops of Adderall. Which totaled to 6 pills. And then I started to not feel good, like I overdosed. So I messaged a friend hoping she’d know what to do. Well, she called the police. Once I heard the sirens, I ran to the bathroom and snorted the rest of whatever was left. I went to the E.R, was hospitalized for an overdose, and was evicted the morning I came back.
After:
Green grass, gray kitten, millions on millions of art supplies and a dreamy relationship with livelihood. A place of my own exists downstairs and I coexist with others. I cry less often that I need to, and I’m learning to see the beauty in absolutely everything. Coffee tastes best with a 1/2 teaspoon of sugar, some whole milk, and a bit of pumpkin spice seasoning. It tastes like fall in a cup and in the spring, it’s the best thing ever. I look outdoors while my eyes glaze upon the curious chickens, demented ducks, and beautiful Bella the German Shepard. I drive to places every now and then, and it always sparks joy. I’m no longer eating whole pizzas and 2 liter’s of soda. I’m running after toddlers and building fires, I’m playing with cats and eating Nutella on graham crackers. I’m okay. Things aren’t perfect. But it’s new. It’s a fresh start.

and thus, the bleeding ceases.
i've since dislodged the knives
entangled in my chest,
embedded in my spine.
i've rid myself of poison
that once fogged up my mind.
the parts of me that held me back
are all that's left behind.
the blades are sharp and like my head
are due for some refining
but even blades,
sharp as they be,
all have a silver lining.
the wounds inflicted by such knives
have struck me at my core.
bring on the rain, this little flower
thirsts to grow some more.

I get her, she writes me,
so eloquently,
”the nub of me; gist, manifested poetic”

one of the many poets I have never met,
one of the many poets, by whom,
I have been suchly, justly, richly and correctly
accused

this mesmerizing judgement,
her-over-easy, mini-essay so succinctly
assaying an accidental ability mine

explodes
a happy passageway to my brain,
a new aperture, the neurons firing at will,
the tormented inquisitor’s unasked question,
how did this happen to me?

rocking the Sunday morn cradle’s calm,
ok, ok, write me, write me,
demands my no longer free will,
utilize the free wi-fi of we fidelty

the bay, surgically barely treading water,
its surface of multitude of small waves
but now an entire ****** expression bidding welcome

the breezeways genteel,
smilingly
invites and push us into its
directionless & tideless soothful embrace,
to the shoreline we goeth,
to watch the occasional crossing vessel intruder,
woking the waters gentle

its white path residual wake foam-formed,
then almost instantaneously absorbed, bubbly bursting,
a history of a million moments awakened,
then, instantly returned to restful sleep,
akin to a newborn’s gurgling happy dreaming,
wiped clean away off to
Peter Pan’s it-never-happened-land

this carnival trick sideline of deep tissue knowingness,
sensing the essence of the who and the whom within,
with no data to go on other than their poetic collection,
the hidden meanings of the spaces and places between
the gene sequencing of their wondrous word-fullness
DNA poetic children, freely given,
and well taken
by me

I cannot explain it well enough, but then
a strayer thought breakaway,
a prehensile comprehension insertion
proffers itself as an explanation
intruded,
and here,
extruded

the perfect world exterior before me observable
thrusts itself through picture windows onto my demeanor,
a ****** addiction of mine, my soul enslaved,
cannot bear to be taken away from

this vista,

which begs me,
bring all those you know!
here, to share, this precious precise nook
where eye insightful incisions elicit poems-by-command

but I cannot, bring you here,

so I see~imagine it better through
your eyes, then
your
gist
is in my stubbed pencil nub, it is
your
poem’s destiny manifesting,
penciled through my scruff edged fingertips,
which-when-then transcribed to paper, to history,
‘tis all you
who writes,
not I

for now
you
are the solitary vessel waterborne,
you,
you
are the captain and I

but a
Samson-nite, burdened, baggaged and blinded stowaway,
hopeless, yet still see-worthy,
with your guiding eyes,  
keeping me to keep
your copyright righted,
onto its course true


7-14-19 9:43am
in shelter, on the isle