from dirt I come
whipped and cracked from the sun
rain flows and heals my wounds
when my fruit grows
I'll forget my troubles soon
still I love, still I rise,
giving blessings
to the the grass
I dry my own tears
and hide in my own fears.

nature is my mother
the moon is my brother
my father inhabits the sky
and he takes pleasure
in his little flower
that is me...
a brown rosebud
a baby from nothing
more than mud.

Went to the grave
this past Memorial Day
and saw it was covered
with mud.

With but a dish rag,
maintenance
didn't exactly leave a shine
behind them, walking
away as they massaged
their own aching backs.
Otherwise they could,
I don't know,
massage the backs that
are already broken.

"Don't graveyards have
maintenance-people for that?"

They are humble.
They like not to be known.

Fill your heart, fill it as full as you can.
Fill it with memories most warmly hued
and remember them well
in all their glorious, sweaty,
kindly brutal
minutiae.

Remember each drop,
each bite,
each individual dust
mote dancing
the still, hot, sunlit
February
Thursday.
Remember how different
places all have their own
unique elusive
smell and how
it is impossible to describe this to anyone
who has never lived
anywhere else.

Fill your heart with all those memories
of the best kind
of home grown hell.

Fill it until its tears are forced out.
Fill it against the long, cold dark of parking lost.
Fill it against mysterious hate.
Fill it against misery and mud and hard
frozen
bottle
glass
lies.

Fill it so full it can't ever sink far down.
Burden it with buoyant stories
and weigh it with
hypnotic winter flame.
These are the things of which
the cold terror to
victory apocalyptic will be born.
There are no second prizes here.

Fill it with the certainty of the worn places
where the chairs met
the table
each night.

Fill it with the truth of
the gnarled and sun-warm roots and
the indisputability of a Beetle motor accelerating and
the violent pirouette of each spring
and the ozone smell and
the way wet wood screams at the sky and
the way the sound
hits all ears the same
regardless of
their color or
what side of Line Avenue they’re from.

Remember what line you’re from
and to hell with the rest.
You must mind your own.
There’ll be water
if God wills it.

You are never too far lost if you still know
your father’s face and can still remember
getting milk from the tubes
in the
silver metal cooler
and the red cookie jar
lid as the
adults smoked at the green kids’ table
and everyone mostly had blue eyes
and red hair and there was always a phantom killer
lurking  
right beyond the only hope door
before you were ****** into the mirror
world and
*******, but
kids sure do have to make some
rough choices
before nine o’clock.

Keep remembering and when you remember,
remember even deeper
remember in yet greater detail and
practice that remembering until
you
ARE
the dust motes
the milk tube
Thursday
roots
sun
until you ARE each drop of sweat
until you ARE the phantom killer
and the red cookie jar lid
the straight line of smoke rising out
of the ashtray and
the motor and the
scream and the
ears and
you ARE all these things
and you ARE
and you can’t really say where these things begin or where
you end because you’re not sure that
anything really does end or
begin
anymore.

Beginnings and endings
haven’t much meaning after
everyone has
shown their cards and the worn places on the chairs have
met the table
one
last
time.

My mother always kept a supply of chocolate and rain boots close.  

I never questioned her morals because mother knew best.

I realised down the line , after many attepmts to work it out , she showed me her love in many different ways.

There was no problem chocolate couldn't fix , sometimes chocolate wasn't enough so she would hand me my rain boots and tell me to go stand in the rain .

She would join me and  hold her hands out , palms facing upwards towards the sky that was crying, I would copy her stance and hope I understood.

I never quite liked the feel of wet hair draped against my neck , wrapping around my face , it always resembled a tangled mess.

But my mother always looked content with the rain pouring down , beating off her chest.

She often told me life had a peculiar way of showing you what needed to be done.

So with her hair wrapped around her face, getting caught in her mouth, the water dripping off her chin a smile would appear.

She told me good things come in three but so dose the bad, she told me don't hold your nose up in the air unless you plan on smelling the rain .

She looked at me and said " rain is good, it washes away everything , i hope you learn from this "

We would go in and hang up our coats , make sure to wipe our  boots , she really did love that wooden floor.

Years on I released something that I'm sure she knows herself, rain can cause a mess , but like she always said " wipe your feet on the mat darling , the past is in the past"

If you give a wishing stone,
she'll travel out all on her own.
She'll  leave behind the fear and pain,
and keep herself from going insane.
While her friends are getting diagnosed,
she'll be somewhere in her boat.
Maybe she'll have tea for two,
but at least she'll know what to do.
And they may ask, and plead, and beg to be in her world,
but she'll certainly say,
"Be gone, be gone, or off with your head."
Which should be said, since they cursed her be dead.
If you give a girl a wishing stone,
she'll truly feel all alone,
and for those who never cared "be gone!"
The queen has finally sang her song.
She was never a fool, just a withered small bud,
and those pigs would throw her around in the mud.
So sure she dreams and dazes off,
but she can do whatever she wants.
She earned a bit of recognition,
for all antagonize and inhibition.
Give that girl some cheer,
she fought a war for all those years.
Stop the hate for her being crushed,
unlike some, she had no love!
The glass shattered hard,
it's no surprised it became shards.
Giving time and yells,
doesn't heal, it kills.
If you give a girl a wishing stone,
you've given her one happiness finally of her own.

Laying in a puddle of mud-
*****.
Now Thirty,
Paying for it at a spa.