On the bus, on the plane,
a child kicks the seat,
Loudly sings a half-song
on repeat.

Watch the adults wince,
the parents hiss under their breath,
their patience thinned to wire.

They stare harder at their safety cards,
at crossword clues,
at the blue glow of movies
they won’t remember.

This is the invitation-
Not the kind printed on cardstock,
but the kind that comes with grape jelly fingerprints,
with questions about the clouds,
with shoelaces that won’t stay tied.

Tell me more about that dragon.
That’s not a shadow, it’s a mountain.
What would you name the ocean
if “ocean” was taken?

When they cry,
que the jokes,
make a peanut packet talk-
and the aisle is lighter for it.

How could this not be better
than folding yourself into a seat,
guarding your stiff silence?

Soon they’re gone,
dragging backpacks like spare limbs,
wet-cheeked or grinning.

I sit in the quiet,
watching the passengers
already back to their closed faces.
The question stays:
how could that human response
not be better
when the world hands us
small, loud,
unrepeatable gifts-
and we hand them back unopened?

Talking at public tables
and parties mixed up
with the music

seeing a yellow thought
turn orange
frankly and flushed

in the nest of fuss
blending warmly
into welcoming comfort

hanging out in each other
untwisted
wet from living

and then coated again
going outside into the music
of the rain

dog days
a murdered child's
        spoiled remains
   muddy the reservoir
soiled
the tap water  must be filtered
    for years to come
                in memoriam

Come hear, come pride
Come near, go hide

The drums that beat
The thud of the street

No fear, no course
Make ready your horse
Wearing black and red
Well drank, well fed

Drum - near
Drum  - fear
His heels slam deep
A soul will sleep

He’s - here
He’s - near
A whisper, don’t shout!
Now pass it about

Drum
Drum
Drum
Drum

Girls dance, we jeer
Face dry, no tear
Chains clang, wheels turn
Your pitty, we’ll earn

Fire
Straw
Blood on the floor

One blow, one try
Don’t miss! you’ll die!

Pray for me
Pray for me
Pray for me
Please

Confess of my sin
God's glory to win

Oh lord - oh god!
The tongues!
Hot rods!

Flesh burns and fries
Man weeps, not cries

We wanted this
Wanted this
Wanted this
gore

We can’t watch no more!
feet stuck to the floor

don’t turn away
It’s theirs to pay

Breath - in

grieve - sin

Hold fast, hold steady
His sword is ready
Take comfort, take pride
Heavens gates open wide



time to die
time to die

A cheer, a scream
One faints, red dream
He takes up the head
Gods justice you said


Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Sir

This is gods way
The devil will say
Now turn away
For your soul - we’ll pray

Franz *******

Franz *******

Franz 

*******



Franz



*******

Butterflies are flying around—on a bright sunny day.

Butterflies that are a honey brown— as the crust of the sun.

Flying around because the sun is out.

Not to hide or hibernate in their cocoons.

Concealing themselves from the outside world—not doing that today.

They can't inherit the trait of being anti-social, because they are not human.

At least not in this season, because it is bright outside.

Not being contrary to anyone’s belief.

Not worrying about the input or the output.———
These butterflies are free, scavenging around for places to hide.

Although the night had ceased, the Sun.

They—> Butterflies,
ran around like elephants encountering mice—
or humans encountering roaches.

Looking for a tree to settle on, as if there were not numerous amounts outside.

Out of all the figures outside—
It chose to stand by me?

The spot on my skin that is the most rough.

The spot on my skin textured like trees.

The spot on my skin that looked like the trees.

“Oh.”

Realization then dawned on me, just like that the sun woke up like a new idea—
and the Moon left to attend a party on the other side.

Like the Moon, the butterfly flew away, back onto the tree with a newfound realization.

A shatter of glitter
Breaks over her eyes
When she looks in the mirror:

Swathes of pink
Speckled by silver circles
Matched by the anxious glittering
Of the waterfall
That is her earrings.

It's her last glance
To hold the spectre
Of herself
Until she explodes
With the other girls;
Prim and dainty.

When nature's inhalation
whips up storms,
  We are set in stone monoliths.

Carefully carved intricate marks
decorate our walls; unfinished
since we must finish etching them
   Together.

Heed lightning cracks its
own violent tremor into
   Our stone walls.

Still! Winds will tear and maul
rains will erupt and slaughter
then give way to bright sky
   and deadly clear horizons;

reflecting back to us
our own trailing ripple
   of increasingly clear syllables.

Each etched now in our walls.
Mother printed the first
symbol, a delicate addition
first of many, now forming
sprawling racing lines.
Strung together, from the
    inside.

And the monoliths stand tall
and we bare storm
   and choose together.

I am good at being alone.
The dishes get done
when I feel like doing them.
Silence hangs like a painting
I chose myself.
The hours bend gently around me,
and I call it peace.

I laugh out loud
at my own jokes,
call it self-love,
call it growth.
The plants don’t mind
if I forget to water them,
and neither do I.
This is thriving, I tell myself.

Then I spend three days
with people I love.
Not performing.
Not planning.
Just existing
side by side-
a meal shared
without occasion,
laughter that erupts
without needing a reason.

I remember something
older than language:
that warmth isn’t just a temperature.
That joy has a different flavour
when someone else tastes it too.
I remember that solitude
was never meant to be
a permanent home-
only a resting place.

There is a part of me
that longs for gardens
we plant together,
for walls we build
with laughter baked in.
For shoes at the door
that aren’t all mine.

Maybe the soul remembers
what modern life unlearned-
that we were made
to brush shoulders
to pass bread
to belong.

And maybe
what I called thriving
was just surviving
with the lights on.

what's the most important thing you've learned In life