MY build to suit mind is designed for disappointing,
a warehouse space of dim lights, taunted by an l.e.d. retrofit,
TREPIDATIOUS, unable to sign my life's lease to own,
YEARS spoiled like produce, a dumpster gratefully digests.
I was 7, a little league southpaw, my arm, accurate on the mound.
PRACTICE of carelessly skipping stones over invulnerable ponds.
that day, the equation was misaligned, numbers squared roots and
CAUSED the answer to spawn seismic ripples of infinite affects.
it was the split second that was carelessly skipped and
THIS boy's vulnerable retina, the invulnerable pond.
although I was the expert marksman, I begged William not to Tell,
SO he blindly obliged my apple-shot withdraw request,
NOW spoiled produce my dumpster won't gratefully digest.
WHAT i regret most is not saying, William. Tell.

Prior to our divorce, the echo chamber,
a blazed path of scorched earth where a mistletoe once grew;
I will admit, my mate was a sheep in wolf's clothing and I the opposite, an inside out porcupine.
We use to joke about it over a couple glasses of wine,
until our second therapy session, the grapes smelled sullen
and the joke was pronounced dead on arrival.  

I am one to never quit: a job, a duty, yet the car was totaled,
having just installed our toddler's seat, my hand was forced.
Holidays apart, a decade of predetermined calendars,
"every others", now omnipresent words
scrolled into our patchwork speech patterns.

It was a Thursday morning, extra early, for me at least,
when I discovered my wife's "extramarital affair".
Something the lawyers like to call it, doesn't soften the blow though,
it's not like say, taking steroids, counting cards or
drinking vinegar to pass a **** test.

Merely thinking back renders my breath useless, vision impaired,
while that car wrecks at the same high speed as my heart thumps.
Allstate, just write the entire ******* check out to cash, I'm bare,
this fate was All my fault; apparently I lost her along the way.

Easier to do nowadays with what, say everything nowadays.
Haven't gotten to the part where I,
"allegedly attempted assault", on her new lover.
I must wait for two inks to dry before divulging that burnt dirt:
one on our old divorce decree, but more importantly,
the other on her new marriage license.
FIN to be CONTINUED.

Narrow escapes never mind this week of infamy,
emotions boiled over and evaporated,
their singe screeching over ousted flames,
the kettle screams in B flat, desperate for attention,
cattle calls draw the milk in.

Smoking brush strokes of painted crowds,
overlooking a landscape's higher regime,
spider silk webs inhaled by lungs of teens,
coughing cotton cumulus clouds.

You're so much cooler, yet softer,
green apple e-liquids versus melancholy,
my antique lighter, your boutigue battery,
kills just the same, don't take after your father.

Embrace your scars,
the off hue,
pigment tattoos we all wear,
innies sunken, outies protrude,
their presence sings folklore.

Traumatic verses,
a melancholy chorus,
accidental riffs,
or a funny fishing hook,
stabbing your storybook.

Embrace your scars,
don't erase their very nature,
line up tall in posture,
when the detective illustrates your picture.

Seventeen years, our lives were spent,
cleaning *** stains to pay your rent,
hiking miles as humid summer sweats,
held you in my arms, till last breath.

The soil grows doggy bones,
heaven knows what earth has sewn,
eleven A.M. I had to let you go,
now pushing daisies, you're not alone.

Hush puppy, for now  
I'll join you someday, somehow
In the morning, I'll have a grin
 Tonight these tears trace down my chin

As a canine Abby, your years were long,
one-one-nine, till we rang the gong,
enduring length is now a sad sad song,
but you're strength helps me carry on.

Puppy grub, dark walks in the rain,
lucky love doesn't die in vane,
as I pulled up to scratched window panes,
my bad day turned alone to fame.

Hush puppy, for now
I'll join you someday, somehow
 In the morning, I'll have a grin
 Tonight these tears trace down my chin

R ippling waves of righteous reality
E mbrace the lighthouse's illuminated illusion
M orse code to remorseful fallacies
O bscured by the damp, dreaded delusions
R ealization smashes the rocks like a migraine
S uppressing the surrogate contusion
E vading one's self who is always to blame

C onjecture overwhelms the tickling tendencies
O mnipresent overtures sing their symphonies
D edicated to torturing us caged free
E ven scores scour minds endlessly

There's just no easy way to say
Packed a bag and I left the house today

I let you in and trusted you like therapy
Now my rear view reads you appear too close to me

I've just got no more time to spend
Check engine lights and I gotta pay the rent

Been putting this off like an overdue oil change
Speeding from a reflection in our window pane

I'm done with aching
And the Summer's bout to break
You'll be forgiven
But right now I must escape
This All.

I am not the master of my writing

-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;

the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional

so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;

I offer the she-muse two choices:

give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,

bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance

my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant

muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services

weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad

the muse-***** cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh

there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost