Spent all day.
looking for the perfect
thing to say.
but I guess these words,
will have to do.

None the less,
if a heart can ever
speak in jest;
This joke is for you.

It's all I need do.
Gather all the words
I could say.
They're less than perfect,
but so's any day.

Sum of the less,
if a mouth can ever
hide in jest;
a punchline for you.

Here I sit, in my sorry cell
Waiting to face the gallows
A scapegoat for all their sins
Those devils with their polished halos.

Blasphemy and hurt sentiments
Such accusations I took in sport
I couldn’t help, but grin, and think
'Man, what a kangaroo court!'

The priests, the politicians and the vox populi
Allied, for once, in taking offence
Demand my blood (and worse, my tongue)!
To force my kin into silence.

I take the stand; I’m ordered to take an oath
'The truth is all that I’ve been telling', I say in my defence
'Guilty', decides that jury of parrots
As the judge signs the papers for my death sentence

The gaolers arrive at my cell
The executioner offers me a dying wish
I ask for a chance to tell one last joke
Before they put me to bed with the fish.

So, the world tunes in to hear
This joker’s dying farce
With that, I begin my end
'A priest, a politician and a jester walk into a bar...'

Dear god,

Can you hear me?
And if you can, do you take me seriously?
Why do you allow the world to be
Full of hate, war, and disease?

Why do the good die young?
Is this a joke?
Are you having fun?
Hello?

Is anyone there?
Am I all alone?
You just watch and stare
From your lofty throne.

Scribble scribble on the wall
Make me pretty that is all
Love me dearly what I hope
Everything was all a joke

Vision goes dark and blurry
Inhaling smoke and party
You're all I want, oh baby
Why can't you see me clearly

Love me just a little bit more
Don't let me get out of the door
Bloodshot eyes filled with **** regrets
Remember the day we first met

Black scar of earth shears bow out of sherbet sky
Brown forking river prongs swishing through dead underbrush
Glow of center console in twilight fields
Time steps carefully through this moment

The east sets in pale Earth shadow
Horizon sparkles with waking man-light
Starless sky fades imperceptibly to night
with tectonic indefinance.

There is fire in the west every sunset
And many days I did not look
Eyes hung heavy stone orbs
Articulated via earthen roots

All those roads led endless towards Rome
Where leather seats sweat sweet in steaming summer heat
And Late moon hemorrhaged pure silverlight in the desert stillness
Still my tallow hands flake against the looking glass

Alone in the dark...
Hearing the dogs bark...
Searching for my fone...
Just remembered now you own...
Looked up the sky, no moon was in sight...
Aaah! its gona be a long night...
Light was gone, power was out...
Wondering when someones gonna come about...
Its almost midnight, and all is silent outside...
Creepy flashbacks seem to droop from inside...
Trying to focus on yesterday's drama...
Of what really put me through such a trauma...
Gathering the moments, I realized we broke...
Yes, we did! you blundered with your filthy joke...
Assuming it sounded cool within your friend group...
But what a **** you are now unrespected dupe...

©sim

The Artless Artist …by Jessie 12/05

Art historians, Art Critics, Art Brokers and Dealers
Pompous bags of wind, inflating the sails of a ship that will never sail
Full of hype, full of themselves, full of crap
Turning nothing into something
Spewing toxic dribble from their mouths
Talking to hear themselves talk
Who is listening?
Impressing no one but themselves with their circular talk that leads no where
Believing they are on the cutting edge of creative thoughts
If you understand what they are saying, then you can’t possibly comprehend
If nothing they say makes sense, you are lifted to a higher plain of consciousness
Noses in the air, Merlot in a glass, and masks  
Standing around; everyone stroking each other’s egos
Pretending to see into the artists mind
Hoping no one will figure them out
Afraid to question the other
Exposing the scam they have all created
Bold, brush strokes, color, composition, genius
Buzz words to throw around in crowed, snobbish circles
None are artists, but submerge themselves in art
Thinking they can create… if not the art…the artist
Misguided, and too blind to know it
Take away their ignorance and what do they have left?
The false façade of empty creativity

Throwing silk sheets over a worn mattress
I cannot fathom the idea of you sleeping here
you accidentally pulling a corner off and seeing the stains beneath.
This hotel has been vacant for months.
But that doesn’t mean the guests before you
Were kind to it.
They said ‘**** it’
Left the mess for house keeping,
Blood stained walls
Feathers from ripped pillows
A maid sighs and shakes her head
Ten dollar tip for wasted effort
Have to put the pieces back together again
Vacancy sign illuminated again.
Do not do this to me again.
Cleaning supplies are expensive.
And this business has made me so poor

I am a pariah. Some see me as a joke, some see me as a mystery, some see me as a hot mess. But they all see me and refuse to stop seeing me. They unforgivingly gape and gawk at me.

Everyone has their own version of the story, and I cannot tell you how many times I have been told that my version is wrong. They seem to forget that after all, it is my story, but then they remember, and then they stare.

The few people that I have left continue to attempt to explain that this will all blow over with time. It has been three months since the incident occurred. Three months of staring, stories, and acting as if I’m not hearing their versions. As if I’m not hearing them call me a ****. As if I’m not hearing them say that I liked what he did to me. As if I’m supposed to sit there and act like their condolences are genuine and fake a smile, just for them.

At this point, I am unsure if they are even staring anymore. I am uncertain if it is all in my head, or if this is what my life will be now. I am unsure if I will ever be able to be just looked over again. I am unsure of myself and my choices and my thoughts. I don’t even know if they are mine anymore.  

Sometimes I wish that I could implode and make a colossal scene, but then I remember that it would just make the stares last longer. So I sit there, stuck, having to take the stares and hear their stories and listen to my uncertainty. Because after all I am just another one of their stories, and subsequently I will eventually disappear again.

if love is a Flower
I want to be buried  meadow

if love is a sound
I want to sing it for the rest of my days

if love is an aroma,
I want to float upon it

if love is art
I want to live in museums

if love is pain
I never want to be numbed
                                                   If Love Is...
if love is a trap,
I'm willingly defenseless

if love is a mystery
I'm on the case

if love is a joke
I'm a jester

if Love is Supposedly Real then Why is it that You Live in My Dreams?