How can I love you,
Say so little,
But mean so much,

How can a punch and kick,
mean I love you,
but it does and it did.

How can music move you in a good way,
then tear your soul apart,
but it will and it does.

How can a child be unruly,
They are what you made them,
But they're individual,
They are you.

Stare into the gray.

Watch as I grow, billow, and loom over all.
Drown in the depths of me,
for I am an ocean pregnant with precipitation.
See the stark contrast between the green of the world
and the enormity of my existence.

Stare into the gray, for I am he.


Stare into the red.

See how I do not demand,
do not obscure, though I once reigned.
Follow the streamline of my form
splayed on the horizon,
for I am waning in my brilliance.
Feel the warmth I still exude
even as darker hues force me aside.

Stare into the red, for I am she.

Five years or more
Or perhaps less,
Does it matter to you
Or me?
Isn't time a relative measure
To make sense of other conducts.

I was here, this city
My idea of the west
That still can and will
See me as of this land.
People were bright,
Were too busy in their lives
To yell at you about the dent
In the car's bumper,
People would narrate so.
That was to me, a declaration
Of our true values.
Probably that's simply a story now.
But either my mind grew
Or the things,
Who will attest to it?

In my car, the fan on full blow,
The heat musty though,
The sun burning with a new found motive.
In this city of people with hearts,
I looked out my window,
Rarely looking ahead,
Maybe this is why I fail
To memorize roads,
Or streets in my own place.
But the car halted and
The driver mumbled,
The accent a lovely northern,
One that sounds too polite
To instill any fear,
To pass as a slur.

My eyes darted ahead,
So calmly the man in the driver's seat
Sat, his both palms griping
The wheel a little too loose to turn,
His heavy chin on the back of his hands,
His back arched forward,
So calm and serene.
The man on the bus,
Sat same, his back though
Stretched way too forward
From his seat,
The distance greater,
He, struggled to keep that pose.

Both man on the wheel stared
Through the double windshields at each other,
If I didn't know better
I would say they were friends
Playing games.
If I didn't know about the traffic,
Blaring horns louder more by the second
I would say it was a new game
Likes of the bull and the matador,
Tad bit less dramatic,
And less action and work.

But my mind grew,
And I could tell this was a fight,
Raging between the eyes,
The victims of the peaceful blows,
-Everyone behind them,
Beside them.
Other people screamed at both,
None flinched,
Them, as sturdy as their vehicles,
The elders grew despondent,
I couldn't stop looking at them.

This was a quiet revolution
Of the new age,
The calm, polite age
And I wanted to watch it bloom,
Like a sunrise,
I wanted to clap to it
And yet not disturb it.
This was on a busy street,
Two men on their thirties,
Fighting for what they believed in,
In their own way,
It was funny
But it was also beautiful.
(I knew both of them were wrong.)

The driver curved around them
And my view was a passing glance
Again.

I watch sky darken
As I relax in garden
Big trees look like hills

Wind is whispering my name,
calling me back to the depths of the dark.
I'll be there all the same,
looking to play the part and make my mark.
With all pain I've felt,
it's time to finally set the stage.
Live with the cards that are dealt,
start a new chapter and turn the page.

My life is loneliness at best,
even when surrounded by another soul,
and that feeling crushes my chest,
I forgot the price but I paid the toll.
You're here, and I'm there, when close there's still distance,
feeling fear, it's only fair, at least it is in this instance.

My skin, my skin is cold as ice.
I'll jump in, and make the same mistake twice.
It's a sin, but the sin feels so nice.
Who will clip our wings?

The dark and ***** street,
the one I used to see as home,
they still greet my feet,
but different paths I seem to roam.
With all the pain I've seen,
it's time to now roll the credits.
But I ignored the picture on the screen,
or maybe I just wanted to forget it.

Your lips, your lips are paradise,
I'll jump in, and make the same mistake twice.
It's a sin, but I've never claimed to be Christ.
Who will clip our wings?

When children play house
They are rehearsing
For real life, where their
Parents get to watch
And to correct their
‘mistakes’;
Not the children’s but
Their own!

             *Children imitate!

Some lack the intelligence to question.
Successfully saturated in meaningless pleasure.
Content with the everyday.
Is the answer found in ignorance?
In Bliss?
No, it is only constant escape.
A blindfold of euphoria.
The alpha enjoys life but never feels the need to understand fully.

In this new age there are those.
Those who bestow false titles on themselves.
Titles to distract for what they deem is personal happiness.

Happiness is a chemical distraction.
The avoidance of happiness lays bare the foundations of life.
Depression broadens the mind but overwhelms the individual.
Substance expands the mind.
New thoughts, new processes.
The key is not found in fungi.
Through it, the introduction to the question is bestowed.

I took some time out today
To look at my mother-
Not the usual half-hearted gaze
When she's saying something
And I am drawn to the two unread
Notifications on that dizzying screen.
Or the stare that's marked by question or retort.

A real look, at the constellations
in the pupils of her eyes as they light up
With a story of her childhood.
Or a map of the lines on her face
As she smiles down at the coffee
I have bought for her, sipping with reverence,
Like ambrosia.

I stopped to take pictures of her,
Instead of seemingly interesting sights
Everywhere else. I paused to drink it in-
Her little frown as she reads silently,
The furrowed brow I've seen in pictures
Of me that have been surreptitiously captured
In a bookstore. I walked with her today,
instead of ahead or behind or even beside,
But somewhere else.

I took some time out today,
For all this time is worth
To really look,
At my mother.

The trees outside my neighbor's house
cover shame like my neighbor's blouse.
And the yard, oh my god, so perfect;
so, so, so suburban you could
stay safe, forever or however long it feels.

Her porch encloses her dying husband,
breathing out of a tank, or with a tank,
as if living with assistance is anything new.
And I think, well, I know she was once
married to a semi-famous musician;
some guy responsible for some important
'new sound' during the fifties'.

As the sun begins to sit, on this Virginia
horizon, I swear I am as lost as my neighbor,
digging around in her yard, trying to fix up
the place before darkness falls. I guess we all
are trying to fix stuff up before darkness falls.

The birds are chirping or screaming -- you decide --
under the coal dust sky, searching for something
but, probably, wandering around and around,
hoping that something makes sense or
presents itself. I don't know how birds work,
but this is where I say something; something
that we can all relate to. Something that really
hits the nail on the head. But life, like poetry
or teenage boys, or bloodied noses, or nonsensical
stares from that girl in 8th grade you regret being afraid of,
is unstable, meandering, even pointless. Oh so, disarmingly
  pointless.