someone will be tired
one before the
other
that's just the way
it is

I wait for impatience
in my lighthouse of uncertainty
& doubt is diverted
through sunlight-kissed waves
nearly the precise hue
of his eyes

someone will be tired

how could you love anyone
with such a hidden
temper?
the kind who stalks herself
through the night
never fully satisfied with
destination or
decision

she wakes, inadequate
& improperly
rested
the day is a haze of
unpaid bills
empty cabinets
& her rebellious toddler

don't be her

don't be tired

don't say a word

the imaginary harbor of hurt
shall subside with the
rush of
tomorrow's tide

& she'll still wonder when he'll tire

Social graces are--
becoming overrated
far away from our minds.

We're finding vines
of thorns in the gardens
of our blooming lotus thoughts.

There's an echo of drums and primal screams
and we feel lower than dirt
disconnected beneath the earth
our cosmic tongue severed
and waiting to grow
out from the ground.

We shout out--
silently hoping
for meaning in the greening
grass smoking
choking up
& burning down
old rickety clown cars
we thought were sound ideas for living.

What-does this matter?

Courtesies bug splattered
against our windshield--
a metaphor representing
plowing through the ****
to find the truth
of us.