It is private,
inviolate.
Yet, I intrude,
dress up and abuse,
take their suffering
as my perfect muse,
take dark interludes,
and use them as cues,
as tiny clues
that lead the way
to make poems great.

Sorrowful inflections
become wordy reflections
worked to perfection
for my ego’s elevation,
for the ecstasy of creation,
and this drug I imbibe
gets me super freaking high.

Tears and stress,
bodies undressed,
hearts exposed
and in taking those
I become criminal.

Liminal moments,
seconds stolen
for the sake
of verses swollen
with emotional clarity.

I claim sincerity;
That I write these lines
to help closed mind
break the barriers
between truth
and what emotions mean.

But as these words meander on,
I wonder is it right or wrong
to write the painful songs
that do not belong to me.

I love rainstorms,
for their percussive
rhythm
that is relaxing,
and freeing
in hearing
and seeing
the soft trickles
these full clouds
are releasing.

I loved rainstorms
when I was younger
with a vengeful glee
cause I got to see
the children
who picked on me
disappointed.
While I was free
to sit and read
anywhere,
they could not go
outside
cause it was
wet out there.

I love a storm
cause my grandpa
would sit
and watch it
for a bit
while I watched him
draw circles on
the pavement
and see raindrops
painting
dark wet shading.

I love rainstorms
because I can
easily fall asleep,
but if I go deep,
they also keep
me safe
by keeping
others at a distance,
making it so
I don’t have to visit
anyone.

As a first-born son
of a terribly angry woman,
a lady of violent outbursts
and verbal degradation,
I love the rain
cause I feel safer
when the lightning
fractures the night sky
than I ever felt
when my mother
was nearby.

It’s been years
since I lived on the road,
a gas station *****
searching for something
delicious and caffeinated,
to get me to the next place
I was scheduled to work in,
or be a last-minute replacement.

Spending a lot of time
with vending machines,
and gas station attendants,
making jokes and wishing
to do a little more sleeping,
and a lot less driving.

I was just surviving,
check to check,
barely one step
from being so broke
that I couldn’t even make it
to the hotel where I was staying.

Complimentary breakfasts,
per diem late evening
hamburger breaks,
adding to the weight
of my already exploding gut.

It wasn’t much,
but enough
to get me here,
to a steady job
and regular sleep schedule.

The room is pale in light
Quivering as dawn after night
Prickles run down my cold bare skin
Turn to throbs when she walks in

She is the most beautiful woman
I have ever seen and I can
feel my heart beat like hummingbird
wings as her lips sing I grasp every word

“You are too young to worry about chest pain,
take care of your heart and I’ll see you again
in seven months, you carry so much weight
Lose some of that and you’d feel great”

Her expert hands are strong yet soft
Like dove down on my chest as I cough
“Keep positive and love will find you
Go out even if you don’t want to.”

She leaves me to dress myself
Pick my coverings off the shelf
The room is as blinding bright
As when night gives way to daylight.
~
NM
02/04/20

Tis a fear,
elegantly etched
in the sketch
played in
my dreams,

chaotic scene
that came
unbidden
to unlock
the hidden.

At first it was
slightly amusing
viewing
an old time
tv crush of mine
Samantha from Bewitch
who with a twitch
of her cute nose
could cast a spell.

But then it shifted
as I tucked a sheet in
an old brown couch
with my dearly departed grandma.

***** trick to play you see,
I awoke mournfully,
aching with the memory
of a loss that happened
less than six years ago,

whilst fearing
losses nearing
and yet to come.

Sick sweetness taking beatings, and still shoulders rumble.
Meek teeth passed lips, and words so soft to avoid being trouble.
You can't help but be who you are, and were modeled.
A clay beauty, ****** through air, for those hunters and shot all.

To pieces, my missus, you must lift and stand and shake.
The rest of the day, and must portray, tween dawn and dusk at best.
You're a profound expression, eureka not lessened, and you heave to and fro.

The ocean ebbs, and sadness flow, inundated even at rest.
But chin does bob, and body does buoy, as you float and kick feet in dark mess.
Above all water, you pretend not the bother, and laugh smile with all feigned jest.

He’s been on the road
coming home
from
Arizona flagstaff
wearing his
jury rigged knapsack
with plastic
and cloth bags
strapped together
by an orange cord.

Sixty something,
tan skinned,
and missing teeth,
I find him
on the off ramp
as I head out
to work.

Sign says Springfield
but he is trying to
get back to
Chicago.
I almost pass him by,
but I remember
a younger guy,
the good man
I used to be.
He asks me to be
kind again.

I tell him
I’ll drop him
halfway there,
but he offers
a traveler’s perspective
and excellent conversation
so, I take him as far as I am going.

We roll in
just in time
for him to miss
the storm coming,
and part with
a handshake
and goodwill,
I forgot how good
that feels.