He arises in the morning
with nothing to say
He arises in the evening
after being quiet all day

His thoughts they are a dancing  -
The future is dark
The past is bleak
with nothing to dream

The dawn it arises,
At night, the sun
it heads down
Time it stands still
when you have nothing to say  -
You've tried your best in
your own way
Nothing seems to come
but
despair and dismay.

A lover she comes
A lover she goes
Your creations,
they all grow trite
and old

Playing cat's cradle
with a line of string
at the tear line
not knowing
whether to cry
or go numb

Like our lives,
a spider web
on a tree
blowing and shimmering
in the sun light winds.

He arises and dresses
Heads out for his day
With nothing to say.
“Standing In Line” a production  at Kegworth Village Hall)
image from film shown


A single image haunts
One dead soldier lying
Just as a child when a child lies asleep
But never to wake
Yet somehow at peace
Were I able to turn him
His face, I feel, would be featureless
Something gone
An impenetrable veil concealing
The vestiges of eyes, lips, and chin
A featureless terrain of face
Life’s lustre could no longer enter in
Prologue

casual glance at my notifications while driving even though
I’m all ready a bad bad boy, cruising at a sedate,
cruise-controlled 70 mph  vs. the bureaucrat bifocals 55,
a remnant regulation of the Eighties,
all the while humming with Gilligan
“a 3 hour tour,
2 passengers set sail that day”

then execute a four lane 180,
gotta get highway sideway grassed ,
cause i’m gassed...
by a Poem Breach

of the poems promised by me,
to write of thee,
you, my best inspiration,
the list grows longer, faster
than the hours provided

pull over fast emergency for my composure breached,
my vision wetted, my eyes hit by an unplanned unexpected,
sudden summer thunderstorm

<•>

The Poem Breach

once more into the breach thy words breeze through my chest,
like on a flamed stick, night roasting, toasting beach summer marshmallows,
that cut direct to the ineffable sadness that resides resists within,
that sticky, white mess,
a human heart melting

a thank you message that I’ve read before,
many times more than once,
how my unasked poem, a sun unique,
arrived at the
precise time and place,
to lift and even save,
how could I’ve know?

I did not know

but these messages collect on my chest,
unsought words of purple ribbon metal that make a
less burdened cowardly lion,
grown man cry,
do crazy things for it is a possible solution to his
age old quest

Why do I exist, is this my purposed plan, don’t understand, all
but the answer peaked and peaceful accepted in the breach unreasoned,
my port of entry, a gateway to the scales, a bridge it is, over a time-life river styx and unstuck, yet certainly always confused...



“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”


thank you so insufficient
i pull the cord
a sputter and a spit

he
she
it
tells me,
let the grass grow under
your feet
pick no
weeds
let the leaves lie where
they fall
put a lounge chair
on the front lawn
sunbathe naked
(screw the neighbors)
throw the empty
beer cans
into the street
and when the cops come.
laugh.

pick a mountain
any mountain

climb up through
the ice and snow
and when
you get to the top
of the mountain

keep climbing
I wonder if I should have used commas?
Everything I write is too passionate in the wrong direction
My words don't flow like I want them to
Breaking apart over rapids instead of floating into the ocean

The dictionary doesn't help
And all elegance is coincidence
Because they always said I was a tom boy
And I would never fit in
And so the words they sprayed at me
Are all the ones in my mind

So,
I'm sorry I can't express myself right.

(They still look at me oddly whenever I dress up)

(I wish I could change myself without their derision)

(This dress was my decision)

And once again I'm veering directly off track
Talking about where my sleep addled mind always leads
-
Narcissism?
Definitely.
-
It always circles around to me

Can I be blamed when the nightmares tug at my hands
And pull me
Screaming silently
With tears on my face
Back to wakefulness every few hours?

But I'm sorry
Again
Writing a poem like the page will listen
Because my salary can't afford therapy
And my friends think I'm okay.

Words and jumbled thoughts after a fumbled night in the dark like I won't regret it in the morning

Maybe this is what is meant
By 'it's just a desperate plea for attention'
(I didn't talk to you for fame)
(I just want to know I'm not the one to blame)

-(I'm not alone?)-

But this blank canvas
Had no form of degree
So I'll cease
Desist
And just let these hollow words
Be.
https://www.cnn.com/2018/07/18/opinions/mark-zuckerberg-facebook-holocaust-denial-lipstadt-opinion/index.html
wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen.

she is sweet but sad. super sad.

a good poet who wants to guide me.

but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting,
the pus of corruption behind the curtains,
the Wizard-ess of Oz's
special blackout curtains.

seen how easy, how her illusions,
my medium rare rejections,
morph into her delusions,

and her delusions devolve into
her conspiracy theories.

"SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!"

my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game.

my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly,

how I do not want
to be skinned alive.

for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past
the point of being fooled, the point of no return.

and see no point,
have no intention,
of returning to either valley

no more conning my mind into letting my body be-fused.^  

that ain't me babe.
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