full of knots
that have tied themselves.
ropes of lies and ideas
crossing over one another.
they tighten every breath
and they become tangled.

why must we try to untie
these cords
that fasten us down
so we don’t float away?

we obsess over detangling
and untying
while we refuse to see
the tapestry
our bodies have made.

Brain in the freeway.
Synaptic processes.
Love and care.
Swindles and cheapskates.
A quick review of the perception of your existence.

And....
here comes the cadence as the chant of defeat comes again.

The Game…by Jessie 4/06


Jessie was a quick draw; Learned when he was young
Swore he’d never fear a man, first he’d touched a gun
Made his name, by the age of twelve
After shooting two old men
One of them his father
The other just for grins
Every time he shot a man
Another notch, was on his belt
Swift and deadly vengeance
The quick draw Jessie dealt
At sixteen, his gun for hire
Money did he make
Town to town he traveled
Dead bodies in his wake
At twenty two his name, was on every gunmen’s lips
They tracked down Jessie, relentlessly
Guns tied low on all their hips
Knowing if they killed him
His reputation theirs
Jessie faced them one by one
Come and **** me if you dare
By thirty-three, he grew weary
Of all the blood he shed
Seeing all the faces that ****
Crowed in his head
He swore he’d never **** again
Hanging up his guns
South across the Rio Grand
To the land of the setting sun
Life had changed for Jessie
A farmer he became
Getting marred, having kids
Peace was now the game
But just because you run
Doesn’t mean that you can hide
A sixteen year old came into town
A gun hanging on his side
Are you Jessie? The boy asked
It’s time for you to die
Boy…do yourself a favor
Get on your horse and ride
I’m the fastest gun around
The boy made the claim
You killed my father years ago
To you I’ll do the same
Jessie put down his little boy
And pushed away his wife
Stepped out into the street
Then said…go ahead and take my life
I have no gun, so take your shot
You’re sure to have your ****
Seventeen years from now
You too will lose your will
Jessie words just fell
Then, an echo from a shot was heard
Time had stopped, no one had blinked
Nothing even stirred
Jessie’s son had found his gun
Soon, came running back
Stood behind the sixteen year old
And shot him in the back
A thud was heard as the boy fell
His face lay in the sand
Blood was pouring out of his mouth
Twitching from his hands
Jessie looked right at his son
He didn’t look the same
Holding out that smoking gun
Now, he too was in the game.

Mike Bee
Likes a fast read.
The End.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\2\2018 (2).

Why waste time dwelling on stuff?
I mean really think about it.
It's time we enjoy the little things
in life.
Wake up and appreciate everything
and everyone.
Even if it's the simple drinking of
magnificent water.

I want to be like Mount Saint Helens,
Strong and firm, quaking every couple years in the faces of the helpless.
I want to make newspaper headlines and magazine articles for being fearless and tall,
Sputtering and spewing at those who've wronged me.
I want to be the conquest men dare try,
Out of fear of being swallowed whole.
The deadly concoction of pure beauty and viciousness,
Threatening those who taunt from below.
Unpredictable and dangerously violent,
They still will want my picture and tell their children of me,
Mount Saint Helens glory will never fade,
For her might is much to strong for the common man.
But I,
I will keep on,
I will conquer and cast my plight willingly
And when they see me, they will tremble because they will know of my unpredictability and daunting grace.
A deadly concoction,
That Mount Saint Helens might find idyllic.

You can't love a poet.
Even though, you feel flattered by my witty one liners,
And my charming stanzas, you can't love a poet.
I will write the good and the bad and you won't like it.
You won't like my version of the fight
And you'll like my metaphors even less.
It will drive you crazy and you will tell your friends,
"She's obsessed".
I can't help the memories that stick like glue, imprinted on my brain
And I can't stop feeling the words exchanged 3 Sunday's ago that you forgot as soon as they left your mouth.
I will relive and reread until the end of my days and inevitably you will leave,
because you can't love a poet.
You can't love someone who will publish your intimacy and print your passion.

snow babies wait amongst the white of december,
cradling their iced-over hearts between cold glass panes;
two dozen of us with eyes glued on the outside,
just counting snowflakes and how many shivers run down our spines.
cold bones shatter the way we wait beneath icicles to drop from the roof,
and we know it's roulette,
but we take our chances and bets on the weather,
odds and ends of inches of snow.
to pass the time after angels dressed in white,
and searing cast iron tattoos,
we wait.
you all prefer the other seasons;
not the quiet that comes with ours,
but you too,
will wait to see;
will watch white fall from the sky
because our storm is just beginning.

I wish I could write things with meaning
With piercing words and breathtaking diction.
I wish that I could give all that I was thinking through words and art,
But everything I want to express is cut short
Broken down or unclean.
I want people to feel things when they read,
When they live I want my thoughts
In the back of their heads
Influencing their own ideas.
I want those feelings to inspire others
To express themselves through my words.
It's always been a dream.
And a far-fetched one at that.

i wear glasses
but i cannot see.

the world is filtered
beyond our windows
showing us the false
and hiding the truth.

look further
past the news
past the people
and truly look at
what has happened
to our world.

and then come back.
look deep inside
and find out
what has happened
to you.