two-sided things,
not monovalent states of being.

The second half of guilt is blame,
and anger’s naked backside, shame.

Embarrassment reveals defiance
while hope decays to troubled silence.

Sadness bleeds from pure elation,
sorrow’s core is resignation,

and love conceals a womb of grief
(though grief may someday bear relief).

Our hearts, with time, are torn asunder,
but mended, hold more space for wonder.

I wish I might’ve known before
the years lay shattered on the floor.

I wish I would've told you so,
but oceans ebb and rivers flow.

I wish I could've shown us how—
for that was this, and then is now.

Would that I wave my hand
and gift the blooming of
spring flowers to you.
Or pray at the altar of winter’s slow fire
to melt away this frozen heart.
But a flurry of whiteout feelings  
blind me from such a pompous display
of naive romanticism.
Yet love is blind and love blinds.
Love binds and love breaks.
If you’ve lost the trail, you are the trail.
No one said this journey would be easy.
Actually, I don’t remember anyone telling me anything about this journey.
Rubber wood for legs and pursed lips
at the sound of a secret
taunting my ensemble soul from the wings.
Space enough to relay a message.
Distance enough to lose it.
The gathering at this point is a drift of tumbleweeds and the only thing
to read on the signs is rust.
So I reach down and grab a handful of dirt,
put it in my mouth, and whistle dixie
past this graveyard of doubt.
Just in time to see the last elephant
becoming the horizon
and the sun setting through the fog of memory.
That star burns in our mother tonight,
the mystery growing in the womb
of tomorrow.
“Come,” she says,
“the dawn breaks…for you.”

I hear things
that I can never quite discern.
I know there is a life beyond this
but is it better,
or worse?

What is that life like?
I wonder and marvel
at the things
my forming mind
conjures up.

I know I will see her face,
she has already told them about me.
I think she loves him-
but sometimes, late at night
I feel her tremble and sob…

I don’t know why
she does everything she does-
but she will be wonderful
because she is mine.
Although she cannot protect me from all.

So still I fear,
the coldness of the world
she shivers within-
that I know I shall fear,
so I lie still
and count my days.

a hot summer night.
the world was a kiln
and we were clay,
hardening, sweating,
baking in it.

I walked by his door
and saw him—
left wide open like an invitation.
he was sleeping.
my father.

curled up in the fetal position,
no blankets,
just underwear.
the room dark
except for the faint
glow of his iphone
lighting the back of his head
like a halo with low battery.
his iPad in front of him,
casting a pale blue wash
across his gut.
he looked like he was
plugged in.
dreams streaming through
a USB cord.

he looked so tired.
vulnerable.
like a deadweight puppet
left on stage
after the curtain’s dropped.

like he wouldn’t survive
whatever was coming next.

like he was still
just a kid
from small-town North Dakota
who wanted to fall in love
and did
but that mother left
years ago—
quiet as a predator
cutting his strings on the way out.  

and now he doesn’t
know how to move
without someone
controlling him.

so he just lies there—
the man
after the werewolf’s gone,
sleeping off the transformation.

breathing hard
in the electric glow
of a humming digital womb.

As a flower blooming gently
Opens up to greet the sun
The soul that feels His warmth
Opens up to God's own Son

As a spring river runneth over
Pregnant with melted snow
Filled with seed of love and life
Our lives burst forth and overflow

As a bird so sweet rejoicing
Sings forth in joyful chorus
The spirit sings divine melody
In the gifts that He has for us

As love is expressed and given flesh
As new life comes from the womb
So is His life, now born within us
We: the bride, and He: the groom

I try to pinpoint when my childlike rage started, but it never started. It was passed through my blood, out of the womb. my mother and father gave me this poison, fire in my blood, that is slowly burning me from the inside out.

Red, and it's my best colour
My favourite mood
Smooth with lust and passion
But remember to take time
Recluse and resign
In crimson divine
Rest your body
And your mind
Teach your soul new things

Retreat to your sweet tooth
With sister shades of beetroot
Magic promotions of your moon-tide
Emotion hurling joyride
Relax as your muscles un-hide
Find your knots and dots
And plot as you breathe the outside

Paint yourself in feelings of taboo
Slip sleepy into daydreams
Ego embrace as you create
A silhouette that forgets she is you

When I think of life,
I see an empty canvas ready to be painted upon,
or open blank pages that are waiting to be written on.
A baby is born, their first words in a book say;
"where am I?"
"what is this world"
"this is so cool"
or some babies have an anxiety
"bring me back into mothers womb?"
"I' am scared, what is this?"
But as you say, they do not know how to speak our language, maybe not by tongue but in their little cubicle minds...they have a language we once understood then only time could tell....
When I think of life,
I see empty pages and canvases waiting to be spilled onto,
but some art dusty and rusty, gone through 0-100 and have no space left but to die and leave it to the rest, because all those pages have been fulfilled.
Life carries on, into the next barrier of a woman's womb...and that is truly where the first page starts, or the first speck of paint draws...into the ****** of a fruitful woman most babies will call their mother.

Unmoved everything is leaden
My thoughts are dry
Striving like a ship in a bladderwrack sea
My vanity is death to creativity

Give me lonesome insanity
And the truth in delirium dreams

Give me  truth that hammers in torrents
At the warped deck

Give me truth that seeps and runs
To the lowest point

Truth that  opens clouds
Rolls back seas
Revealing slime-rock ****-whipped  me

Give me the humming in the womb
The beating in the drum
That settled in my ancestor’s ear

Distant sounds, drawing near