Running out of pages,
these words—
they turn into
a jumble of thoughts
no one can understand.
A work of art,
running out of ink,
that never came to be.

Roots—
they never blossomed,
they withered away,
drying up
under a pile of soil.

I'm ripping out pages
in anger,
clinging
to words
I might not even believe in.
One by one,
just to leave them
crumbled,
dust,
turning—
into sand.

The wind picks it up,
flipping to the next page,
that’s already starting to crumble.
My pen
starts to write
on its own.

The house smells wonderful,
Golden and buttery as this morning’s delicious sunrise on our front porch,
And your eyes twinkle as I venture a first bite.
“Pretty good, right?”
It’s a quesadilla and it’s perfect,
exactly to my preference.
Warmly brown and crisp on the outside,
Cold sour cream mingling with too much hot melty cheese and chicken and all the fixins.
A real knock out as far as quesadillas go.

I smile with my eyes and happily munch,
not especially hungry but I know you are.
You spoke this into existence,
A master of your own love language.
In many ways, I am fed.

.

Ingratitude does not become us;
I eat of your hand and rejoice the offering
As my brain whispers:
“My love, please leave me to myself.”

These days I am as two ships passing,
So rare an hour is it to shake my own hand,
Cull my own thoughts,
Breathe my silent breath unaccompanied.

Spinning sugar and spinning wheels are my god-given gifts.
I use the first to coat my tongue.
The second hangs in the air between us.

“Better than good,” I say,
Moving to rest,
To dream my silly dreams,
To paint my silly heart across the mercurial landscape of shared memory.

I am my best when I end my days like a spoiled Pomeranian:
Seated on a cushion
Worrying a bone.

.

The mysterious clicking and clacking of the HVAC tip taps merrily to the rush and whir of the electric heat.
The impression of a kiss still lingers on my cheek
In the quiet.

The house smells wonderful,
Golden and buttery as this morning’s delicious sunrise on our front porch.
It is a miracle to build a structure with your bare hands that bends without breaking,
and supports your weight without shaking.

School? Tsk...Tsk...Tsk. What a spectacle.
I hear the bell chiming already- ding...ding...ding
Then sick and scowled, we'd walk right to were we were meant to be. "Meant to be". Heart pounding 'cos if we were late!? Or in the wrong place or mixed up the wrong dates!? No...no...no that was trouble. "The bell is the voice of God"  The priest(s) would say, each day, "and when it rings you must obey" A bell? I thought, the voice of God? I chuckled.

I remember the shadows of the seminarians watching.
The irate stare and feign smile. Weren't these men of God!?  They came in new and good, but give them a day or two and...and my God!!!
There were rumors of bizarre things that happened behind closed doors, no one "saw", but walls. I know someone was there. Had to be! When the last bell rang, and the lights faded out. People became monsters. It changes people. And it would, you too because real monsters are in the light and you too are one of them.

The mass either left you hungry and empty, guilty and filthy or just feeling good about yourself for no good reason because some preacher said: "Hark, all worries will be left behind, and all disappoint too, will be gone forever..."  It was the same thing, day in and day out. One man's crime was all mens'. And our tongue just clung to our mouth because who would dare raise a finger in anger to a priest? God's delegate.  There were rumors.  

There were rumors no one would admit they saw until dusk when the light-out hour came and we streaked together muffle and scoffled about everything. It was either that or we tried, however, we could to get food. Some even looted goods, black and white was the code and we hid it safe as gold. You won't get it. Sometimes people would go as far as...sign  

****...****...****
Heavy eyed and tired. The bell snaped you from your dream back to this hellfire. And before you blinked you were in class
Then smell of dry papers and ink, sound of pens screeching and then you see.
Students hastily walking to where they are meant to be? "Meant to be!?"
Teachers, few, pretty as rose and others old and cold. All claiming they had gold to impact on us. Most times, the men, well tucked, some tall and maybe bit lanky.

The priests were like ghosts. Some went as far as saying Godly. Their bellowing white-blue cassock whipped by, and while some would sigh, others would hush and some would rush to where they were meant to be. Meant to be. Now ghost quiet, staring from somewhere was the priest ghost silent...



.