Hello old friend.
It’s been so long.
You look good.
How have you been?
Your family? Sister? Brother?
You look so good.
Your voice sounds so lovely.
It’s lower than I remember,
and your face,
though still handsome as I remember,
your face is longer
than I remember.
It’s only been a few short years but,
you seem older.
I know that sounds redundant.
Has corporate life gotten the best of you?
I love you too dear friend.
Your skin used to be so golden.
Radiant.
Go outside more.
Remember the countless hours we spent on the lake?
I do. You glowed then.
Where have you been?
I’ve missed our talks,
our time spent simply being young.
We were so young. Do you remember?
I’m still so young.
Responsibility has made you forget.
Have another beer!
It will help you remember.
My dear friend, you look so good but
I’m afraid you’re not.
What are you hiding behind those eyes?
I can hardly hold your stare.
Smile for me. Let me know that you’re good.
You don’t seem as happy as I remember.
My dear friend, what happened to your light?
Where has it gone?
Where have you gone?
Come back to me.
Come back to you.

There's this thing you do when I'm sad.

It can turn a winter storm into a summer rain.

There is nothing like the feeling I get when you look me in the eye through a crowded room.
Does your heart flutter like mine?

That's the thing,
we did it to be free.
We wanted to be liberated,
to not have to take no
for an answer.
We did it
so that we could taste the fruit
without fear.
It was easy.

I can show you.

Others may think it wrong,
but to us they were movers and
shakers.
The precedents setting standards.
And we wanted to be like them.
We did it for the Innocent and the ******.
We did it for the young and dying.
We did it for the ones who think they're king
and for the rebellion.
We did it in honor of the sinners and the righteous ones.

I did it for you and me.


So call us guilty and we'll face judgment,
but that's why we did it.
We just wanted to be free.

The clock in my ear
is a constant reminder
of the dying fire
that is this life.

With time comes age.
Flames turn young wood
into embers and ash.

When time runs out
what will be left of my fire?
Will it leave a burning trail
or will the trail burn me?

Photographs of my family hang on the wall.
Some I know.
Some would recognize me.
Others I know only from the stories
that immortalize them.

There is a family portrait in the hall
it tells tales that great legends envy.
For the stories left by these faces
will never be forgotten,
retold at bedtime for generations
to come.

The portrait speaks of a time
before cancer and old age.
Back when Linda and Debbie ran the house
and Jorge still went by Georgie.
Kathy was falling in love with dirt bikes,
Joey had to take Jimmy everywhere
and Nena made everyone save food
for when Silvia got home from school.
All the while Papo sipped his scotch
and watched his legacy leave their footprint
in the sand.

Truth is I’ve always known
he’d live forever.
Long before he began his walk home
Papo was already immortalized
in our memories and spirits.

Now that you rest
I find comfort knowing that I
carry your story with me,
and have the honor of calling you
Grandfather.
For us, you will always be
the legendary
Vincent Joseph Schement.

Bye bye Mr. Blueberry pie
Checked the fridge for some milk
But the milk jug was dry.
The tears welled up
And I wanted to cry.
"Back into the fridge," I sighed.
"Back into the fridge," I sighed.

Time was moving like rolling thunder
across an endless sky.
Tick, tick. Ticking.
The clocks ran on.
Minutes became days.  
Weeks became years.
Years. Years. Years.
Time made it feel like years.
I heard three words from you,
with a blink the seasons vanished.
We came home.

Ours is one that
crosses lifetimes
and knows no bounds.

The hanging star
falls to the west,
the heavens and earth
become one
and cue our travels.

Hazy smears of pink and orange
spilt the horizon
from the approaching darkness.

The road melts into shadows.
The celestial bodies awaken.
The sky goes black.

The past is put further
and further behind us
and can be seen in the
mirrors that watch our back.
We simply aviate between
two collided worlds.

Our eyes can only pick up
the yellow lights
rushing by port side
and red lights
that we pursue.
Vehicles of other travelers
searching for rest.  

In the distance the lights
of a small city
are speckled
strategically in the black.
They tell us
where the earth ends
and the sky begins.
White and yellow lines
draw our course.

We fly through the black.
Faster now.
The illuminated city peeks
in and out
of flint covered silhouettes.
It comes closer
with every intercepted minute.

Our compass points north
and we chase the arrow
until we find our final stop.

Your love is the dance in my heart
that keeps my blood moving.
It is the fluttering of a thousand
excited butterflies in my stomach.
The sparkle on the water at sunset
which rests in my eyes
when they fall on you.

While I'm with you
I could never be too hot or too cold.
Nothing is more just right.

It is a love even cinema envies.
The song you play for my soul
is the one that I could never
sing alone.

Touch me there.
Put me in the mood,
caress my body.
Make it bare.

Dance your lips on my skin.
Be rough or gentle.
Engulf me in sin.

Do what you please.
Run you hands up and down,
Give my body a squeeze.

Get us going. Turn me on.
Lift me up. Flip me over.
No boundaries are drawn.

What is this? Simply lust.
No love involve,
But oh, it's a must!

Pull my golden hair.
Scratch me here,
Or bite me there.

Send my body into ecstasy,
and let me ****** to your energy!

Touch me here.
Touch me there.

The white ceiling has been in my sight
for so long that my open eyes
have turned black.
My skull has lain motionless on the carpeted floor
since the dawn rose bloomed in my window.
The walls have no ideas hanging on hooks,
similar to the walls of my mind.
There are times when my eyes are open
but they cannot tell if they are awake or living
in a monotone daydream.
Drums are present to the ear,
but there is no beating rhythm to be felt.
As the light now slowly drifts off to sleep
the dull ache creeps into my unused brain,
and the black in my eyes becomes real.
So bored that every sense of reality has gone numb.

Strum stronger
so that I may listen
a bit longer.

Take up your baton.
Warm up the orchestra
Make ready for
the sweetness to come.

Strum up the violins my maestro.
I want to hear the song
that awakens the senses
just once more.
It is my favorite one.
It never grows old.
It has been played for me
time and time again
but the notes still vibrate
through my soul.

Tune our instruments
to the purest note.
Make sure they resonate in sync.
The drumming will not keep time
but the beat stays
rhythmic and steady.
Our instruments perform
harmoniously.

Slow it down maestro
I wish to hear
The notes
One
At
A
Time…

Perfection.
Beauty.
Soul.
The theme of our melody.

Prepare me for the crescendo.
Let the beat transfer
from the rhythmic drumming
to the excitement
of my chaotic heart.

End our song with a
down tempo
from the wind instruments.
Allow it to drift
softly
to the final
rest.

I look out the window at the empty
acres that spread across
the Missouri plains.
My mind wanders through the fields
of memories that house you.
Nothing is empty there.
That's when I realize
I'm almost home.
Finally.

I woke this morning
to the nightmare being real.
You had been gone so long.
My heart was aching
and I had dreamt of you
night after night,
and you were gone.

But this morning
when I woke
the nightmare was alive.
You had been gone so long
and my heart had been aching,
so as I sat up in tears,
you wrapped me up and said,
“I’m never leaving you again my love.”

That was a dream.
It was the best kind of dream.
The kind that is so vivid,
so bright.
I could smell the sent of your skin.
Touch the scruff on your chin.
Kiss those lips which held that grin.

It was my favorite dream,
but that's all it was.
Just a dream,
and when I awoke
you were still gone.
Unlike in my dream.

Outside this window the air
bites the faces of pedestrians
in the streets below.

Despite the argument
between the bitter cold
and the approaching nightfall
the people seem happy
to ignore the tussle
that has begun to shake
the leaves from the trees.

The glass panes sweat
with nervous hot flashes.
The brightly lit coffee shop
is a sanctuary amidst
the concrete tundra.
People scurry to the red hue
that melodically flickers
like a rising fire.

Warm mochas and foaming milk
calm the chills and frighten
the geese from our skin.
While the sauna in their bellies
heat their core; for a short time
the grey skies are forgotten.
The substance numbs the cold.

But if the awareness of this chilly solstice
is put aside completely and preparation
for the snipping wind is side stepped,
then where would we be?

Happy to ignore our surroundings,
Content with freezing.

Multicolored streamers and confetti
decorate the room.
They hang from the wineglass rack
and family members alike.
Frank Sinatra sings with all his might,
but the orchestra of noise makers and laughter
plays a more beautiful tune.

Eyes wide open and observant
I soak in la fiesta.
Poppa twirls Nenita
around the kitchen,
Uncle plays a tune on la guitara,
some sing along,
primos play Mother May I
in the hall,
and everyone drinks
to health,
to love,
to money,
and to time.

Papo cracks the champagne.
Las tias gather the troops
to prepare for the toast!
Los ninos lift empty glasses
“We want some too!”
receiving the un-intoxicating
alternative instead.
Wishing to be older.
Wanting the real thing.

A toast is said in unison,
for it is one we all know.
It is one that I am old enough for.
“Salud, amor, pesetas, y
tiempo para gastalo”
then we all drink
to health
to love
to money
and time to enjoy it all.

Dean Martin sings with all his might,
But the laughter and merriment
play a more memorable tune.
The morning sun
will take us our separate ways,
so for now we drink
to what matters most.

Salud, amor, pesetas,
y tiempo para gastalo.

Your lights could illuminate stories
Until confetti filled the room
And the New Year rose.

Windows are like a gateway to the future
But gaze inward, for the past
Is so very present in
Our views.

Corridors echo whispers
Of thousands of voices
That have long since ceased
To walk this earth,
Yet we make new whispers
For only the walls to hear.

So many stories are written
On the air that is trapped
Inside your doors,
But none are sweeter
Than the one we are
Drafting right
Now.

My mind runs through a maze,
But the exit contains
neither freedom nor
escape.
Rising to new confusion.
Falling into delusion.
What else could come
of solving this riddle?

My exit is awaiting,
but I don’t want to move.
I curse the dawn.
Forcing me to choose
a path.

Let time stand still.
Left or right?
Up or down?
The clock has no power here.

For now I sit,
content, inside the walls
neither rising or falling.
This maze need not be solved
today.

I knew what he was saying as he said it,
because his words painted the walls
of my ears.
When he painted my drums
Bob Marley’s voice became my
world.
And in that moment,
the moment of friction,
my world was at peace.

Dazed yet frantic.
My utensil scratched
and shaded and
molded.

The outside world
dead
to my ears and eyes.

Only the white and lead
colored my mind.

When finally the lead ceased
to run along the page
he said,
“What are you writing?”

Writing?
“I thought I was drawing shapes?”

I left so long ago that home
is no longer the hill country of my youth,
or the house on Misty Glen.
The flint covered plains hardened
my heart some time ago,
and the North Eastern shores are too cold
to keep it warm.

If I tried to call a place home
I wouldn’t know what to say.
No house or city or state
could call me back to stay.
Home is where the heart is,
but where does mine truly lay?

“You can be happy in your own sadness.”
She tried to explain this concept to me.
“Every morning I wake up sad, for everyday
we are changing. It is a bittersweet feeling.
With the rising sun comes a new you.
We leave our pasts for a new future.
It is kind of scary. It takes a lot
to accept the day.”
It wasn’t until she spoke these words
that I understood this beauty.

“Your words are my guitar.
They play the sweetest sounds
into my soul,” was my only response.
And in that moment
my world had changed.

I am an artist
i paint brilliant pictures for you to see.
i sketch out curves and shade
the world as i see it.
i do this to please and entertain.
you. me. anyone who is willing to
take a step into my mind

I am a life drawing artist.
Through techniques of rendering and
cross hatching, i authenticate the
skin of beauty mind and soul.
my **** canvas in front of me sits perfectly
still, yet is always moving.
it blinks and slowly breathes with each passing minute.

I am a 3D sculpter.
No 2D for me.
i want what is there for me to touch.
i want to grab it. turn it. inspect
every angle and then proceed with
my decision.

I am an abstract artist.
i see things differently.
I dont want to follow the norm.
no conformity for the strong and independent.
i will choose my color, my stroke, my paper, my pen.
i will choose my own pathway.

I am an artist.
i do not use a brush.
i dont like pastel, or paint, or charcoal.
my medium is my voice.
i use my words to describe the bitter sting
of love, life, and wonder.

I can paint any picture in your mind.
I can shade any thought into your head.
I can sketch any emotion so vividly into your heart,
that it will melt into the sweetest pool
of crimson.

I am an artist,
through my words, description, and mind.
i need no colors or paint
only my pen and paper.
i need no history of Van Gogh
only my imagination and creativity.
I need only what makes sense to me.

Through my writing,
I am an artist.

Let’s do something illegal.
Close your eyes and make
believe we are 15.
Bills and rent. The law.
What is all that anyway?
Can we get so lost
on the beaten path
that there is nothing left
to do but find ourselves?

Let’s sneak into the stadium
with our shwag and make shift
pipe in hand. Then
make love
like we even know
what that means.

Baby make me feel
young and reckless.
Teach me how to be
punk rock, and
flip the bird to
our oppressors.

Remember when
the whole world was against us
and didn’t pretend to be with us?
Remember when
we used to know everything?
Remember when
we were young and reckless,
and had a love that only
the innocent can posses?
Remember when
we were 15?

Baby, let’s do something illegal.

My soul aches to be free
as the wind that plays in my hair.
The envy inside grows greener
than the grass, for the breeze
that swims across the sea.

With every breath adventure arises;
making the sights of the ages seem
so young to the ever running wind.  
Let the sounds of the unknown west
sing in my ears too.
My soul aches to be free.

Dedicate this poem to my precious babe
Please let my hidden sorrow eventually pass.  
This short-lived memory of you will never fade
From this delicate coffin made of white glass.

Please let my hidden sorrow eventually pass
For I continue to wonder if you would look like me.
From this delicate coffin made of white glass
I see your face, his and mine is what it would be.  

For I continue to wonder if you would look like me
Would you have my eyes or would it be his you wear?
I see your face his and mine is what it would be
I am so sorry that I never gave you air.

Would you have my eyes or would it be his you wear?
This short-lived memory of you will never fade.
I am so sorry that I never gave you air.
Dedicate this poem to my precious babe.

Looking at photographs
of you and I
it all seems so long ago.
Like our life together,
was just a perfect dream in a made up place.
But we both know it was real
That it happened
and now our time
together has passed.

The real question:
is it really gone forever?

I do not know how your heart
has molded since that day of demise,
But for me, I feel like it will never beat
the same;
let alone beat for another living thing
the way it beats for you.

The pictures
that catalogue our life
only bring sorrow
and yet I still wish to look upon them,
For they bring me to a happier place.
The water wells in my eyes and
I know that it was real,
and if that love is the only thing I can account for
then I can say with full confidence
that I have lived a prosperous life.

I know the love that we shared
was a gift that can only be unwrapped
by a special few.
And even in this time of remorse
I sadly still
believe that it was
me and you.

White wall, glass window, white wall.
She stares blankly into the blue of the sky,
Though she is trapped her freedom calls.
Her eyes turn green for the birds who fly.

But the outside world is chaotic and cold.
So she sits motionless within the wall.
She will be here while she grows old.
Her mind is corrupt, thus forcing her to stall.

Her freedom will never come.
She will never hear the chipper bird call.
Sitting in solitude till her day is done.
Trapped with fear, held within the bright white wall.

2:35am. You say,
“Lets go for a drive
through the galaxy.”
Your car turns into a spacecraft
as we fly through the blackness.
You take me on a journey among the stars.
The streetlamps and stoplights
become colorful particles of our galaxy,
and the cars around us
transform into the UFO’s
we can only read about.
You show me the best-kept secrets
that our vast ocean in the sky holds,
from the eyes in envy.
Your kiss
sends me into the mysteries of black holes
and the awe of a supernova.
3:12am I whisper,
“Can we sleep upon the radiance of the moon?”
and you respond,
“Yes, and tomorrow after breakfast
I will take you to swim in the turquoise blue of the sea.”
You take me everywhere
and back again with the simplest of actions.
You do this to me…

Granny gave me moccasins
To run and play in.
She got them from the pow-wow.
They made me swift
And light on my feet.
She told me
“Remember who you are”

Granny gave me a dream catcher
For my good dreams to fly through
And the bad ones to get caught in.
She got it at the pow-wow.
It made my nightmares go away
And gave me dreams about my ancestors.
She told me
“Remember who you are”

Granny gave me a totem pole
So that I would know our seven clans.
She got it from her father.
The Ani-gatagewi keepers of our land
Ani-gilahi and Ani-waya the peace and war chiefs  
The Ani-kawi and Ani-tsiskwa earthly and spirited messengers
Ani-wodi and Ani-sahoni the creators of medicine
She told me
“Remember who you are”

Granny gave me a book
With the words of my people
And their stories.
She got it from the pow-wow.
I learned about our earth mother
And how we grew from her *****.
She told me
“Remember who you are”

Granny gave me a day
To wear my moccasins.
She took me to the pow-wow.
I saw the people from my stories
And dreams.
My people and clans.
She told me
“You are ᏣᎳᎩᎯ ᎠᏰᎵ (Cherokee)”

*The seven clans of the Cherokee tribe: Ani-gatagewi translates to Wild Potato Clan (keepers of our land), Ani-gilahi are the Long Hair Clan (peace chiefs), Ani-kawi is the Deer Clan (earthly messengers), Ani-sahoni or Blue Paint Clan (medicine for children), Ani-tsiskwa or Bird Clan (spirited messengers), Ani-waya is the Wolf Clan (war chief) , Ani-wodi Red Paint Clan (medicine).

People and bodies
Lay, stand, sit, walk
Some run.
Clamor makes
the room silent.
Chattering voices.
Muffled, scratchy intercoms.
The phones
ring, ring, bleep, bleep.
Children laugh
they cry
they scream.
Impatiently angry faces
wait for departure
from their lives at
hand.

But who are they?
Mothers, fathers, and children
of course.
Perhaps the obscurely famous,
Agents or senators,
artists and daredevils.
A solider on a two-day leave.
Models, maybe more.

And where will they go?
Some go to more stress.
Some go to say goodbye.
Some go to places unseen.
Others to love.
Others to home.
No matter where
they just want to
leave here.

Forgotten words
float in my head.
They drive me crazy
with the secrets they carry.
Back tracking in time
only makes them slip
further and further
into the farthest corner
of my memory,
where the purest  
flame cannot
light the walls
while I squint at
their enigma.  

I wish to tell you.
I want to tell you.
I want you to know
the words that shift
in my mind as I stir
in the folds of these sheets.
I wish to tell you.
Maybe then I will
understand their
troubling voices.
This bothers me so.
It bothers me to know
that they are forgotten.

Forgotten words
and lost time
is all that
tickles the tip of my tongue.
As hard as I search
as much as I worry
and wonder
and wait
all that I find
are those
forgotten words
that I want so badly
to remember
and lost time
that could have
been spared.

Something happened this morning
when I awoke to you lightly breathing.
It was sublime.
My chin rested on your shoulder
the skin so soft on my cheek.
I couldn’t help but kiss the sweetness.

On nights when I sleep alone
it does not matter how many blankets
wrap my restless body.
I wake cold.
Nothing is as warm as your arms.
Like that of a Texas breeze
on an August night.

I can only think to kiss
your unshaven face.  
The kisses are planted gently,
first your cheek,
then your temple,
and your forehead,
when I come to the tip of your nose
you stir slightly,
but I cannot stop.
I want it more then
the ocean waves need
the shoreline to crash upon.

Looking at your face
I smile at the odd way we met.
With a breath of *** and an intoxicated
grin we spoke.
“I don’t like you”
“Yea? Well I don’t like you first!”
Like children picking
on their first crush.
Tying to fight back the giggles.
Our childish ways still
run strong.

In your absence I sit
and watch the ticking minutes
laugh at my uneasiness.
Hours with others
are mere minutes with you.
The clocks envy
our cherished time
and tick-tock more rapidly
when we are alone.
All our time
would never be
enough.

When we get lost in each other,
the way the lonely roadrunner
looses himself as he runs
up and down
the oak covered hills,
it is love at its best.

This morning
when the soft breathes
you took woke me
and my chin rested upon
your shoulder,
something happened.
As the kisses fell
and your eyes continued to sleep;
I realized that this
is where I belong.
Drifting slowly  
into love with you.

My journey through the smoke
Led me to the other side of the mirror.
Instead of looking in
I was looking out
At all the distorted shapes
Of my mind.

Willingly I walked into the fog
That rose like ghosts from the fire.
The clouds spun me
Until I was lost in the disease.
Puffs of pleasure were past
Engulfing the ever wanting.
I drown in an ocean of haze
Stuck in the daze.
Never wanting to be found.

Gone from the world
Of reality
Brought to the world
Of enlightenment

Deeper and deeper
The fog lured me in.
I wanted to know more.
Mislead to a garden built
Of smoke and mirrors.
The forbidden fruit tastes
As sweet as they say.
Until it rots.

A walkway of pure powder
Drew a line
To the house of mirrors.
Purity never smelled so sweet.
So forgotten in the fog
I emerged in an ash like snow.

Trying to escape the haunting
images in the mirrors.
One illusion lead
to yet another.
Dead end into
the mirror
again,
again,
again .

My journey through the smoke
Led me to the other side of the mirror.
Running from my distorted mind
I found the backdoor
To my escape.

Intoxication from another’s love
is how I forget your face.
Pushing the boundaries of poisoning
day and night.
Eyes rolling back,
stomach pumping,
dizzy and spinning,
pleasure achieved.
Satisfaction?
Never.

I get drunk off of shallow love.
I crave it.
I want it.
I need it.
To forget you.
I crave the taste that numbs my senses.
I want the nausea to burn the pain.
I need the hazy feeling that throws
me into a sense of nonexistence.
I need it to forget you.

Sobriety grabs me every few days.
Anxiety finds it’s way into my mind.
I’d rather be under the influence.  
Facing reality means facing regret.
Ignore the past the way you ignore me.
Drunken state is better for forgetting.

I get intoxicated on fake love.
It makes me feel wanted
but the lump in my throat,
the loss that churns in my belly,
the swollen eyes staring from the mirror;
they **** the buzz.
Reality.
You’re gone.
Time to start forgetting.

The world constantly stirs.
Organs pump
blood and oxygen
to and from homes
streets and buildings.
Cars run by on busy roads
Construction crews destroy foundation
The people in this coffee shop
Make noise,
Drink espresso,
And taptaptaptap
On keyboards
And ticktickticktick
On smarter synapses
Than those of brains.
Twitter,
Facebook,
Pinterest,
Instagram
Wake up our phones
Propelling the world forward.
Absorbed in the pixels
Of tiny screens
We live to visit
Our loved ones
Through electronic particles
Floating on air.
The outside air is damp
Clouds dark.
The wind shakes the trees
to their bones.
The foundation of life as is now
Is about to be destroyed,
But no one notices.
Social pandemonium
Silences their voices.