Life’s just a riddle that none of us can answer
we’ve got some leads, we’ve got some clues.
Still the answer eats alive like a cancer,
and the treatment is something I’m like to refuse.

It was raining
as always in September.
They were complaining
about what; I don’t remember.
Reputation staining,
or maybe full dismember.
In need of some training
or my tempers need to be tempered.

It’s true you can never go back home,
being on your own doesn’t need to mean being alone.
You can gift the people silver, gold and chrome
and they’ll still ask you how to skin a bone.

Life’s just a puzzle that’s missing a piece;
you can try your hardest to fit in another,
or you can accept it and leave the picture incomplete,
and spend the rest of your time left to be frustrated and suffer.

It was a cold December,
some would say you could smell the ice.
I only seem to remember,
the nerve of those celebrating, bleedin’ Christ.
Start a fire but end up with embers
I think a spark or light would be nice.
So I go in search of vendors
but they’re charging far too high of a price.

The nightmare had a nightmare of its own
never learned to share even though it’s full grown.
You can gift people blankets and tapestries that you’ve sewn,
and they’ll still ask you how to skin a bone.

Life is like a flower
it blooms out until it drops.
Each day hour after hour,
until time’s ticking then stops.
For treasure I still scour
moving so fast my steps are hops,
and the floors filthy; needs a shower
but I think I’ve broken the brooms and mops.

It’s true you can never go back home,
the path is covered by weeds and stone,
and to each town and city you roam
there will be those who ask how to skin a bone.

Who needs a Tatoo Artist
When I can do it all myself
Every time I've found I turn around
Bumping into something else

No need to arrange appointments
On any given afternoon
I take my toll like a Whack-A-Mole
Adding on another bruise

In many different shapes and sizes
Colored Purple, Red, and Blue
One of a kind, personalized
Old man, thin skin, tattoo

It was late fall
Almost time for the holidays
The heart of the city was full
People running to and fro
Taking care of business
The air was cool
Crisp to the feel
The sky painted a light gray
Could mean snow
The piano bar was full
In a well known hotel in midtown
The Hilton
People sitting, waiting and relaxing
The music was familiar jazz
Pleasant to the ear
Slowly one by one snowflakes
Started falling
They were beautiful like lace
Some on the street stopped
To watch the snow transfixed
On the beauty of nature
Eventually the pace picked up
Leaving a beautiful white blanket
Along the sidewalks and streets
For just a moment the city slowed
To admire the handiwork
Of Mother Nature
Once again

On the bus, on the plane,
a child kicks the seat,
Loudly sings a half-song
on repeat.

Watch the adults wince,
the parents hiss under their breath,
their patience thinned to wire.

They stare harder at their safety cards,
at crossword clues,
at the blue glow of movies
they won’t remember.

This is the invitation-
Not the kind printed on cardstock,
but the kind that comes with grape jelly fingerprints,
with questions about the clouds,
with shoelaces that won’t stay tied.

Tell me more about that dragon.
That’s not a shadow, it’s a mountain.
What would you name the ocean
if “ocean” was taken?

When they cry,
que the jokes,
make a peanut packet talk-
and the aisle is lighter for it.

How could this not be better
than folding yourself into a seat,
guarding your stiff silence?

Soon they’re gone,
dragging backpacks like spare limbs,
wet-cheeked or grinning.

I sit in the quiet,
watching the passengers
already back to their closed faces.
The question stays:
how could that human response
not be better
when the world hands us
small, loud,
unrepeatable gifts-
and we hand them back unopened?

The simpler the attraction,
The more luring the suggestion,
The last thing we have in mind is peace.

Now, who believes there is a final ritual,
A priest, a confession, a blessing never taken
For granted as included in grace for grace, eh, nada

ventured, nada gained, what price peace,
Price to me, personally, I might lie and say
I payed the goddammendest price imaginable,

I gave my very soul. I sacrificed my own spirit,
eh today they call that the shadow, maybe even

the shadow ego, Mister Hyde, inside us all, wishing,
To escape Victorian Edwardian standards that lead
eventually to Prohibition of deadly spirits, and lying

Devils, ah, but on my side, the winning side, we got
lying spirits Micaiah has been saying he saw, we got
word, authorized version, memory verses for years,
We got the cards, we got the idea, the seed, no fruit,

keep your mind stayed on the Lord, full on monk
experience, twelve years and more, for a few
who seemingly could not unbelieve lies all
knew, that can't be true,

that some law allows war, crime on mob-level power holders,

Who imagined revolution, well, here's telling us now,
we paradigm builders are new in the business, now
we comprehend worth, so we know worth ship, now

As seen on television, seen into unreal appeals to senses,
TRIX are for kids, silly wabbit, Elmer,
elmer fudd, that man was gay.
Queer we called such, I knew sailors
Who bragged in 1964 about rolling queers
On Ronsencrantz down by the beach, back then

Times change, people change, lies stay lies,
In stories or in realized this is us living now lives,

Not on tv, but online, thinking, if two or more agree,

No positive or negative effort past ag, ag me on, if I gain y'an inch
Yonder no wise matters, Mobius looping in peace and tranquility,

As when one accepts ones answers as such, we make peace, we inherit the earth.