My family begins at the end of a puppet's string
Hanging from giant hands.
Controlled movements make for misconceptions
And dangerous contemplations.
The puppeteer's whimsical remedies
Play on the years we've spent standing in quick sand.

My family begins at the bottom of the ocean,
Fed potions by mystical sea creatures.
This show features fallacies lost in forgotten tragedies.

My family ends in the Earth's atmosphere,
Gearing up for outer space we begin to face our worst fears.
Growing older, we've either put the show on hold or
It's weighing on our shoulders like heavy boulders.
The Earth quakes as we take off to places with no names.
And yet... we're still attached at the hands and feet with puppet strings.

(Written 6/10)

Poetry is dumb, like my thumb in your

Ear — I could have said ‘rear.’

Or my tongue

In your eye,

See, signifying

Blindness. I’m waxing poetic here.

Ink impressions

On paper,

That can’t be touched,

Or felt. Or smelt. And don’t get me started about the taste,

And how long it takes to eat a poem.

So, conclusion, thumb, ear, tongue, eye, eat a poem,

It’s ineffable.

"That's life.
Sinatra said it best."

My uncle always told me
"You should make a movie
and call it That's Life."
And he'd smile
And look down
Spit on the ground
Then his smile
Would fade

"That's life."

You said your daddy named you
But you forgot his name
He picked up his briefcase
Hit and run was the name of his game
Said you hold no grudge's
But you taste the bitterness

Said your momma worked hard
Broke her back for bills
She raised you just right
After daddy headed for hills
Abandonment creates certain skills
You're so resilient, it gives me chills

Raised in a barn
Covered in chipping paint
Or brought up in a city
By well-off saints
Sometimes it sounds like ill-conceived complaints
But for you, you know that it's never too late

To find yourself
Amongst rotting ambitions and decisions
Armed with will and knowledge
And that trademark precision
You peel off layers of old abrasions
You know you're right when you get the sensation

People take ownership
of your words
your memories
and make them
theirs
  
Subtle shifts
in intonation
detail and substance
Not untrue
not really a lie
but not yours
Not anything that
has your essence in it
And they weave you
into them
through those fond
‘remembered’ words
and false
fabricated moments

Taking something
from you
labelling it
in their own hand
blotting the ink
dry with integrity
absent or not
they parade
that part of you
appropriated
Like a head on a stick
a scalp on a belt
or a heart on a sleeve
depending on their need

And you can’t reclaim
something stolen as softly
and stealthily as that
it would be churlish
it would be cruel
Perhaps their desire
to have you
as a jigsaw piece
of their making
in their sky
is the greatest compliment
and is worth
becoming part fiction
condoning a myth

She models
With nothing but her earrings on.
Gold tendrils
Dancing across her shoulders
Lost in a sea of black curls.
Her beauty
Is that of an angel.
A halo
Of sheer radiance
Glistening around her wings.
Her body
Is that of a woman.
Lost
In unmarked territory along open winding passageways that
God
Didn't even create a roadmap for.
She can fly,
He said.
The only eyes to witness were her's and God's
And the eyes gazing back at her through the mirror
Watching her model
With nothing but her earrings on.
Gold tendrils
Dancing across her shoulders
Lost in a sea of black curls.