read consistently,
learn diligently,
and write profusely

so that beyond lifetimes
of persistent practice
produced from painful,
arthritis-stricken fingers
may you birth a humble book

in its eternal years,
as many mute manuscripts,
it shall collect continents of dust
until it finally bares relevance
due by your unfortunate
final, unheard breaths.

but near such justly demise,
you will rage and reach forth,
to hope an innocent youth
may learn the many mistakes
collected and condensed
from one life to years to weeks,
summarized by your trembling hands.

yet I fear, as you may too,
that as we fade from existence,
our voice echoes lost;
our words unread forever,
to exist untouched
as a decorative piece
on a pretentious bookshelf.

If I were to ask
"who are you"
would you take the time
to have a conversation
with me and share your:
likes and dislikes,
loves and fears,
dreams and worries,
and strengths and insecurities,
becoming closer
as we had set out to be?
Or would you remain
my anonymous acquaintance
and simply share
only your name?

Through sweat-filled labor
and unrelenting love,
my patient parents
meticulously molded
strong shoes to fit,
making each effort efficient
and all materials durable
so that if I were to walk
the path full of broken glass,
my skin would not tear,
my spirit not diminish,
and through their sacrifices,
prevent my blood
from staining the street.

Call me the butterfly maker,
for I the distracted crafter
often carves irregular squares
from changing planes of vision
into visual planes, flying
as monarchs migrating home.

Call me the snowflake cloud,
for I the cold observer
often molds objective droplets
from forgotten formalities
into memorable figures, coveting
as blankets embracing dirt.

Call me the stone sculptor,
for I the traveling poet
often lifts stone castings
from feeble footprints
into familiar portraits, beckoning
as mothers procuring peace.

A dear friend once asked
For memory's sake
That we share a picture.
Upon such request,
Camera in hand,
I intentionally left the cap on the lens,
And took the blank image
Remarking,
"Now you'll just have to remember."

I, the humble poet,
who counsels anonymously,
is cursed with complexity:
seeking endlessly
for structured simplicity,
trekking tirelessly
through modern mediocrity,
and examining closely
at psychological obscurity
and sociological hypocrisy---
aiming to teach attentively
to those who read closely.

Why is it easy
to casually disregard
the kind consequences
produced by
innate goodness,
that if a day may come
when a simple act
of honest, good will
would befall you,
that you would
so graciously accept.
Yet if provided
the opposite spectrum,
the few moments
of pain and betrayal,
would you assign
accountability to
the innocent majority?
Why is it that
when a good deed
is often performed, it is:
"Faith restored in humanity"?
As if we cynically
presume and accept
that the world is dark,
that all fathers abuse their sons,
that all mothers **** their daughters,
that all must fear at every second
as if good nature does not exist.
Do we take for granted
order and morality
up until misfortunate
consumes our souls?
Would it not be more appropriate
that amongst the immense
majority of good nature,
that a single occurrence
of negative circumstance
be dutifully deemed
a "Stain marked in humanity"?
I worry for those
whose perspectives
pervert and distort
the personal worlds
that there is a need
for faith to be restored.

The material was stretched tight
deep furrows in the red and black
pulled across your shoulder blades so severely
but you were all soft edges.
The blunt edge of a 2B pencil
gently shadowing in the crease
where stomach met hip bones
and warm.
It was lovingly done.

Because there is nothing
worth the saying


talk-- talk


nearly everyone that talks--


Talks. About. Nothing